Spring fever has hit me… in early February. Somehow, with the severe lack of snow and bizarre warmth of this odd winter, it feels all wrong. After forty winters in Montana, I admit I have certain expectations about the season—lots of snow and cold, with a few thaws thrown in, followed by a very welcome and intoxicating spring. Of course, we generally see second, and even third winters before spring finally kicks in, reminding us of the unpredictability of the ficklest of seasons.

This “winter” of 2025-26 has fallen short of all expectations across the West, Montana included. Snowpack is nonexistent at lower elevations, and scarily thin in the mountains. Warmer winters with less snow are not exactly unexpected if you pay any attention to climate science. The Montana Climate Assessment, released in 2017 by Montana State University, predicts a rise of 4.5 to 6 degrees F across the state by 2050. Key impacts include reduced snowpack, earlier melt and larger wildfires. The extreme warmth and dryness of this season—and more rain than snow in Bozeman—should alarm anyone with eyes in their head.

This strange and arid season makes me nostalgic for real winters, with lots of snow and bone-deep cold, the kind that makes posers and greenhorns shiver in their moon boots. The Montana of old (like last year) was a howling, frozen wasteland full of drifting snow and vicious wild animals.

Spring, on the other hand, made Montanans swoon with joy and relief, as fish-belly-white skin finally got a dose of Vitamin D, going from pale to pink after an hour of sunbathing. Residential rooftop glaciers gave up the ghost, meltwater pouring off the roof into downspouts like glacial outwash floods, dirty torrents gurgling down the gutters into the storm drains. The rivers were set free of their bonds, ice floes seething in snaking lines down the Gallatin, triggering whitewater boaters to dig out their spray skirts and excavate their paddles from their hidey holes in the storage unit. Wasp nests were cleaned out of kayaks, and neoprene was aired out, releasing a sour sweat aroma that reeked of raging waves and cold fear. Skiers started swooning for the mythic corn snow, when an isothermic snowpack produced slushy, forgiving Hero Snow, and Bridger Bowl shredders streaked down Bronco, flashing breasts and buttocks at the sloshed beer drinkers noshing on burgers at the snow bar in front of Deer Park Chalet.

My first few Montana springs, I learned the joy and peril of thinking I could predict the onset of warmer weather and plan outings to soak up rays and tune up forgotten muscle groups. I conjured up images of backpacking through lush green valleys, sandhill cranes exalting in the melting snowpack. I’d grease the gears on the ten speed and hit the local road loops, scanning the ditch for treasures melting out of the snowpack as gophers peeked from their dens, blinking in astonishment at the blinding sunshine and waking world as horse colts frolicked in the muddy fields. Songbirds would chortle in the treetops, delirious with joy and bursting at the seams to score a mate and build a nest, with the promise of eggs.

Early in my Montana career, one spring found me temporarily (and happily) jobless and homeless. A week of glorious early May weather had banished the valley snowpack, and filled my veins with a longing to explore under the great blue Montana firmament. Since I’d never done a long-distance bicycle tour, I decided to spend my three weeks rolling on two wheels through the Northern Rockies. I’d head for the Big Wild in Idaho and pedal a grand loop through the back roads of the Sawtooths and the River of No Return country, camping along the way and ending back in the Bozone in time to move into a cheap bachelor pad.

I tuned up my 10 speed Schwinn Varsity—a tank at 45 pounds, but solid and dependable—and loaded up my panniers with camping gear, clothing and some food. I wore a daypack loaded with extra stuff on my back, with my sleeping bag, tent and pad bungied on behind the seat. Open road, here we came!

Day one saw me merrily cruising 43 miles to Norris Hot Springs—a reasonable start, though it left me saddle sore. The hot springs were the perfect cure. I set up camp and blissfully snored the night away, dreaming of exploring Idaho’s back roads.

Day two produced a wake-up call. As I slurped my instant coffee and oatmeal, brewed on my Svea stove, I watched grey clouds roll in and crowd out the rising sun. A chilly east wind kicked up dust in the parking lot. These days, I’d have recognized the evil East Wind and made a plan to hunker down or go home. But I had no home, so onward it was. I made it over the grind of Norris Hill to Ennis before the snow started.

If you’ve spent a few years here, you have probably experienced a Montana spring blizzard. This one was the real deal. It started with flurries as the temperature dropped thirty degrees and the wind asserted itself. I soon realized I’d better find shelter in Ennis, so I used some of my very meager funds to check into a motel and spent the afternoon hiding out, watching the storm get worse. Come morning, it was snowing hard, and sticking. Robins huddled in pitiful groups on the road; the snow blew down Main Street with a vengeance.

I realized that biking in this weather had been a terrible idea. I did not have money for more motel rooms, and knew I could find someone to stay with in Bozeman. So, I retreated—52 miles cycling in a headwind through wet, driving snow. Miserable does not even begin to describe it. I plugged along, getting colder and wetter, back over Ennis Hill, along the twisting road past Beartrap and the Madison, over the high hills west of Four Corners. I walked some of it, pushing the loaded bike, dripping and cursing, my face frozen and gloves soaked. I could barely feel my feet. I’d ride or walk with my thumb out when the occasional car would go by, but no one stopped for this poor, frozen pilgrim.

Finally, nearly starved and coated with snow and ice, I made it to a convenience store at Four Corners. I staggered in and bought a pile of junk food, coffee and hot dogs, and filled my craw as I thawed out. Using a pay phone, I called my friend Jessica, who lived along Huffine, and asked if I could crash with her. I made it a few more miles to her place, where she helped me into dry clothes and put me to bed for 16 hours. Next day, I moved in for three weeks with my friend Hugh.

Chastised, I never again ventured out for a bike tour, and kept a ‘weather eye’ out when planning Montana spring adventures. I was more cautious, but still got spanked during spring ski trips, backpacking adventures, canoe trips and rock-climbing outings.

Hopefully, winter will return, and Montana will not burn to the ground. Maybe winter will make a cameo in March or April. But with fake spring confusing me, I don’t expect that rush of Spring Fever that lures me out the door to surrender to the pull of the seasons, running wild through the Montana spring like a dervish set free.