By late afternoon we've gained enough altitude that we're hiking through a rocky, subalpine terrain of low grasses. There are still trees, but they're not as big as the ones lower down. Amy starts asking, "How much farther?" and Dad answers, "We're almost there."

Then we reach a place where the trail runs directly below the mountain's highest point, and another twenty minutes of climbing up a narrow, branching path takes us to the rock-strewn top of Stuart Beak. A chain of blue-green lakes stretches off in one direction, and the Missoula valley lies in the other And on all sides, mountains, layers on layers of them, stretch into the distance.

"Wow!" Amy exclaims, and Meg murmurs, "Oh, my."

It's so lovely it brings tears to my eyes, the way unexpected music sometimes does! In fact, it doesn't take much effort to imagine music in the wind's sound as it blows across the exposed peak. We pass around binoculars and take pictures until the wind picks up strong enough to make us want our sweatshirts, which we've left with our gear down on the trail.

"It's time we were making camp, anyway," Dad says without lowering his binoculars. He's looking in the direction where we'll be hiking tomorrow. "Jake Randall and his wife are coming this way. I'd know his neon yellow backpack anywhere."

"Who's Jake Randall?" I ask.

"A bird guy—ornithologist—from the university. They left a few days ago to hike the loop we're doing but in the opposite direction." Dad turns to Meg. "I told Jake about the gulch where you hope to locate that old homestead. His wife's a history buff."

Amy, tagging on my heels as we head down off the peak, says, "I hope those people go someplace else. It's supposed to be just us camping."

Surprised, I realize I was thinking the same thing.

WE SET UP on a gentle slope below the ridgeline. Dad takes our water-filter and empty water bottles down to the nearest lake, Meg starts dinner and Amy and I haul out the tents.

The ground is lumpy with stones and clump grass, but we eventually find two fairly flat spots. And aside from Amy almost poking my eye out before she gets the hang of snapping poles together the tent setup goes pretty smoothly.

"Done!" I say, admiring Dad and Meg's blue tunnel tent and Amy's and my new green dome.

Amy, though, gets paper and a pencil from her mom's pack to make a sign for ours: TESS AND AMY'S TENT, PRIVATE! STAY OUT!!

Laughing, I tell her "That's probably not necessary."

"We don't want any boys coming in."

"What boys?"

"In case," she says, placing the page at the tent door like an unwelcome mat and anchoring it with a stone. "Or anybody. Do you have a boyfriend?"

"You're not too curious!" I tell her.

"Well, do you?"

"Kind of." I don't know, not anymore. "A guy named Ben."

"Ben that's in the magazine picture?"

"That's him, the cello player."

I expect Amy to ask what I meant by "kind o£" but instead she says, "I'm glad he's not a total boyfriend, or else you'd miss him."

"I do miss him," I tell her.

WE HAVE SPAGHETTI, all of us eating like we're starved. Then the Randalls walk in and Dad introduces us. When Dad gets to me, Dr Randall says, "The famous violinist."

After they set up their tents, the Randalls join us again, bringing along marshmallows for the hot chocolate Meg makes.

We drink it watching the sky change colors where the sun has set. It's going on ten o'clock. That's something I'd forgotten, how long daylight lasts in a Montana summer.

When the talk turns to Meg's project, Myrna Randall says, "We spent some time exploring the gulch you're interested in. We wanted to surprise you with something helpful, but we didn't see so much as a piece of old barbed wire."

"I'd be surprised if you had," Meg tells her "The forest covers things up pretty well."

"I know, but we had hopes. We even climbed up to a rock ledge thinking it would give us a vantage point from where we might spot the outline of something."

"But you didn't?"

"The only straight lines we saw were tree trunks."

Dr. Randall puts his cup down. "I hate to be the one to break this up, but we need to turn in. Myrna and I have to hit the trail early." He pauses before adding, "Stephen, I meant to say that I'm sorry about your owl. Tough news."

I'm sitting near enough to Dad that I'm aware of him bracing himself as he asks, "What news was that?"

"Didn't Fish and Wildlife call? Someone found that great horned owl you took care of—"

"Midnight."

"—by the side of the highway last week. He apparently got into some poison that killed him."

"I don't believe you," Amy cries.

Meg asks, "Are you sure it was Midnight?"

"They'd have known," Dad says, his voice flat. "His leg band would have ID'd him. Poison..." He shakes his head once, quickly.

Amy jumps up. "I hate you," she yells at Dt Randall. Then she runs to our tent, and after a moment Meg goes after her.