Edward stopped. He pointed his hiking stick to a large boulder just off the path.

“Look at the curvature of that rock.”

We had seen a lot of rocks in the last six hours, but this one was special. A symmetrical depression was hollowed on its face as if it sculptured.

More remarkable than the rock, was that Edward was now stopping to admire it.

I was grateful for the pause. We had been pushing for the last 45 minutes. My 35-pound pack felt heavier than it was and my feet were squishing in what surely any accomplished hiker would distain – a pair of Sperry Top-Sider sneakers. I was glad to have them and their anti-skid soles.

The trail through pine forest, across gurgling streams and over boulder fields was well defined. There was little chance we would lose our way, but there was a sense of urgency.

That hadn’t been the case for most of the morning and afternoon. Edward and I left from the others to climb to Fresno Lake at about 9,000 feet. Initially, the trail was well defined. It mounted steeply through the pines, however, after an hour it disappeared. We came to a rockslide. Edward spotted a cairn; rocks piled atop one another as a guidepost. Then we saw another and felt reassured. But soon they weren’t to be found. We scrambled over fallen trees, around bogs and heavy brush all the time fighting off a cloud of mosquitoes. Then we reached the lake with snow still in the shadow of rocks. It was gray and cold, but we stayed to cast flies. The reward was golden cutthroat trout that shot from emerald depths to snatch the lure. The clouds broke. We were bathed in warmth.

But now we were on our way back, conditions had changed.

My brother-in-law and I were running behind schedule. We were still wet from a downpour followed by hail. The wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped into the 40s and we still had another couple of miles before arriving at our base camp.

The shadows were long and I figured we might have another hour of light before it would be too risky to cross the logjam that would put us on the trail to joining the others. Edward was right; a smooth huge rock with an egg-shaped cutout was worth a moment’s reflection.

What would life be without thinking of its wonders?

Earlier that morning we had separated from our fellow hikers, Rick Herr, his daughter Heather and her twin teenage sons, Aron and Sean. A seventh traveler was with us. It was Mocha. She’s an eight-year old border collie, the most agile and quickest of our team. We joined them two days earlier for a 6:30 breakfast at Hardee’s in Laurel, Montana, which is not far from Billings, before a 90-mile drive to the mountains.

Rick went for biscuits and gravy. I would have tried it, but his wife, Kathy had warned me the gravy was like eating straight grease. Edward and I opted for egg and sausage on a biscuit, a wise move my stomach told me.

This was my third hike into the Beartooth range with Rick, who over the years has made 40 to 50 camping trips into the wilderness area north of Yellowstone Park. He knows the turf intimately, from names of lakes, streams and mountains to just what point in the trail you will find a spring bubbling from the rocks that is so fresh and cold that it takes your breath away.

He also knows where to find some of the best fishing.

Edward had heard about my trips with Rick and seen the pictures of lakes ringed by snow-crested peaks. I had told him of the cutthroat and rainbow trout and he had questioned me about the flies that worked best – prince nymph, caddis, royal coachman and the always-popular grasshopper.

So when Rick called in February to see whether I planned to come west this year, I asked about Edward. His response was immediate and enthusiastic. Edward was in. On successive phone calls he talked about pack weight – he wanted to keep them less than 40 pounds – where we would set up the base camp and high mountain lakes we could hike to from there. He is also big on food, what we would need while on the trail and the evening meal. Noodles and potato mix were staples. Canned chicken, dried roast beef and, of course, fresh caught fish made for the variety. Then there was his piece de resistance, saved for the last night in the wilderness – cherry topped cheesecake.

The cheesecake, box mixed confection that could be made without an oven, was a topic as we started the first leg of our hike to Mystic Lake.

In addition to our own clothing and personal items, Rick had split up shared items we would need for our trip. I got the tent poles, coffee pot and some of the food in addition to dried fruit, trail mix and bags of oatmeal that Rick had packed individually for us. Edward got the cheesecake.

“I’ve got it,” Edward assured us as we set off.

Aron quickly took the lead. Long legged and lean, he hopes to be a linebacker on his school football team. There was no keeping up with his pace. But this wasn’t a race and he would stop to pick huckleberries or just wait along side the trail for the rest of us to catch up. His brother wore gloves and strapped to his chest was a can of bear spray that resembled a small fire extinguisher. He was a guardsman, at the ready.

For Heather, this trip was a throwback and bonding with her father. This would be her first hike into Mystic Lake in 17 years.

After two hours, first following the gushing West Rosebud that cascaded over boulders providing a symphony of splashing waters and then crossing rock slides with canyon walls casting long shadows in the morning light and views of the valley and distant buttes, we stepped on to a ridge. We were gifted with a spectacular view. The lake, water spilling from the U-shaped dam that is all part of the hydroelectric plant at the trailhead, was 400 feet below us. Mountains, some with their peaks obscured by clouds, stretched beyond the lake’s end and to both sides of it.

Rick pointed to a distant peninsula.

“That’s Huckleberry. We’ll stop there for lunch.”

The thought of food, or perhaps that it was pretty much downhill had a reviving effect from the arduous climb. But Rick knows the value of a short-term goal, too.

“We’ll stop at the overhang for a break,” he announced.

Heather and the boys knew exactly what he was talking about, a rock overhang that they had used as shelter from thunder showers on previous hikes, which was not far from the lake. It is a meeting spot for hikers either on their way in and out of the back country, not that there were a lot of people or that they lingered there long. We shed our packs and dug out a Trio Bar, a marvelous mix of nuts and seeds coalesced by a sugary coating. Heather reached into her pack, pulling out a plastic bag filled with rippled brown strips.

“Venison jerky,” she said passing it around. It was jerky she had made. She described the process. Edward and I accepted her offering, biting off chunks of the wafer thin salty flavored meat.

The venison had come from their freezer, packed away from the game shot by her husband and Aron and Sean.

As we all gathered the energy for the next leg, two young men approached on their way out. They were descending from Montana’s highest mountain, Granite Peak.

“I’m not doing that again anytime soon,” one announced. He briefly described a night of thunderstorms and heavy rain. It sounded miserable and dangerous.

We thought we might face similar conditions although not at the extremes of a mountaintop. In fact, barely an hour later, with darkening skies, Rick led our band to a cluster of pole pines on the lakeshore. The sky was dark; thunder echoed, heavy drops fell.

In no time he had one of two blue tarps strung between the trees. We huddled under the protective coating as the skies opened.

“Mocha, git,” Rick yelled. In fear, the dog had shot deeper into the woods. Rick found her quaking under a fallen log. He brought her into the shelter and put her under a poncho. She welcomed her yellow plastic refuge as we waited for the storm to pass.

In another half hour, as soon as the thunder ceased, she was out and resumed her role of herding our straggling line, racing back and forth between those in the lead and the rear guard, with an occasional diversion to chase a chattering squirrel up a tree.

We headed deeper into the outback. The goal was the far end of a second lake – Island Lake. Rick estimated the day’s hike at eight miles. In a straight line that is easily doable. No telling how many more miles we walked as the trail switched back and forth up and down and to cut around fallen trees, boulders and rock fields.

By 5 p.m., wet and weary, our band was showing signs of fatigue.

Every forest clearing looked like a tempting spot to stop and pitch a tent, crawl into a sleeping bag.

But Rick knew not to succumb to temptation. He held out for a spot with nearby running water, dry and, most important for a comfortable sleep, relatively level ground free of rocks.

“We’re almost there,” he said more than once. I doubt the boys believed him, but we trudged on.

“There,” he declared shortly after we slogged through a section of trail that had turned into a muddy bog.

It was nirvana, an opening in the trees. Logs formed seats around a ring of blacked stones. Others had been here. We were home. Packs were shed. Tarps went up. Tents were pitched. A smoky fire finally crackled after a search for tinder and paper plates, the only thing dry and burnable in camp.

Rick made hot tea, the best ever. He and Heather moved on to a sumptuous meal of canned chicken and noodles. A soupy chocolate pudding that we drank from our cups was dessert. What a meal.

It got better from there. Not only did the rain cease, but the following day the sun shone, things dried out and we explored a section of stream between the string of three lakes where the trout were all 14 inches or bigger. The fish were cooperative and that evening Rick cooked filets of their pink meat, beaded in “Kick Ass Fish Meal” on a grill laid over a bed of glowing campfire coals. The crusty coating was spicy and soon even Sean, who vowed he didn’t care for fish, was asking for seconds.

We didn’t see any bears although Rick and Heather told us tales of encounters. A deer wandered through our campsite until Mocha gave chase and on our way out Heather photographed a bull moose. We met some interesting fellow hikers including a day hiker who let us know he brought his glasses in Shanghai for $12, hiked the Great Wall of China, has taught at the Kennedy School of Government, owned an estate in the Carolinas and advised us if we wanted to learn more, “just Google me.”

Another, a farmer from Detroit Lakes, Minnesota who was camping with his two sons, is someone I would have enjoyed spending more time with. (See today’s Side Up column.)

Our group was special. We bonded. Aron was there with an extended staff to steady us as we crossed streams on fallen logs. Sean offered insights on school and life as a teenager in Montana. Rick had a story with almost every turn in the trail. Heather was sparkling and bright. Edward got us to stop and take in God’s wondrous creations – even those rocks that at first seemed like impediments.

We parted ways with Heather and the boys at the Dew Drop in Absarokee. Stopping at the Dew Drop after a hike in the Bear Tooth is a Herr tradition not to be broken. There were shakes and hamburgers, things that could only be dreamed of while on the trail. We all indulged, sitting at real picnic tables and using hot water from a tap to wash our hands and unshaven faces.

An hour later we were back in Laurel. Kathy greeted us as the truck pulled to the curb. She took one look, got one whiff, announced she would be doing laundry and suggested we shower.

I can’t describe the feeling.

I found heaven. It is in Montana.