The reward of completing Holland Peak's South Ridge Route isn't just summiting. It's everything in between.    

The hike features alpine lakes, jarring cliffs, abundant wildflowers and cascading waterfalls, but it's no walk in the park. What sounds like a measly 8-mile trip out and back actually requires 5,950 feet of elevation gain.    

But on that sunny August day, the strenuous hike hardly mattered. I was only eager to disappear into the wilderness for two days. I'd only skimmed the outskirts of the Swan Range while mountain biking, never gone so far as to reach its highest peak.    

By 11 a.m., nine of us departed the trailhead on Rumble Creek Road in Condon and entered a lush forest of western larch and Douglas fir. The first mile could not have been less representative of the rest of the trip. The flat, comfortably wide trail quickly converted to an unrelenting incline up the east- and west-facing ridge just south of Rumble Creek.    

The following mile felt like a never-ending stair-stepper, albeit a beautiful one. Every few dozen strides uphill, I stopped, filling my lungs with pine-scented air and washing the dust from my throat with a gulp of plastic-flavored water from my collapsible bottle.    

As we crawled higher, a gap in the trees opened to the gray silhouette of the Mission Mountains across the Seeley-Swan Valley. Smoke from a nearby wildfire shrouded its peaks in a ghostly haze.   

Our steady pace came to a halt when we accidentally wandered off the trail, which had nearly disappeared beneath overgrown shrubs. Getting back on course required a brief descent through slippery clumps of beargrass, providing plenty of entertainment as our feet occasionally flew out from under us.    

The thinly etched trail eventually dipped below the top of the ridge and into a sprawling valley that smelled of wild sage. Clusters of paintbrush, bull thistle and fireweed dotted the hillside, resembling fireworks frozen in time.   

Like a bear gorging itself before winter, I plucked huckleberries from auburn stems, rolling them between my fingers before popping them into my mouth without breaking stride.   

Conversations about pop culture and plans for the day were occasionally interrupted by the eerie whistle of wind gusts passing through the skeletal remains of trees left standing from an old wildfire.    

We arrived at Lower Rumble Lake around 2:30 in the afternoon. The alpine lake's water shifted from sparkling turquoise along the shoreline to a deep blue at its center. Talus slopes descended into its crystal-clear water from all sides.    

Without hesitation, I threw off my gear and paddled out to a flat boulder jutting out of the lake about 40 feet from the shore. My hands and feet were numb by the time I reached it, but I let the sun toast me while sprawled on the rock.    

The perch offered a perfect view of Rumble Lake Falls. The waterfall tumbles down a series of tiered cliffs before emptying into the lake below, its path draped in greenery. As I rested, the steady rush of water became a soothing backdrop.    

One of my hiking buddies began casting his fly-fishing rod into a small inlet while the rest enjoyed lunch. I hadn't thought about food until then but quickly joined them on a fallen log. I munched on sliced summer sausage and Wheat Thins while we all repeatedly exclaimed how beautiful the landscape was.    

After roughly an hour, we resumed the final stretch of our trek for the day: scrambling up the scree slide on the south side of Rumble Creek Falls.    

Every step up the loose shale felt like half a step backward. To keep my heavy pack from pulling me downhill, I dropped to all fours and crawled upward while the waterfall roared to my left.    

Around 5 p.m., the rugged ascent gave way to an alpine meadow bisected by a quiet stream flowing from Upper Rumble Creek Lake to the waterfall below. We all let out a sigh of relief knowing the day's climbing was behind us.   

Directly across Upper Rumble Creek Lake spanned an 8-mile-wide, 1,500-foot-tall cliff wall with Holland Peak standing proudly at its center. Even at the height of summer, snow patches sprawled across the glacial valley.    

In search of a place to pitch our tents, we trekked north down the lake's western side. The wildflower-strewn meadow was broken up by enormous rock slabs that jutted diagonally from the ground. It was unlike anything I'd seen in Montana. 

Five friends who started their journey later in the day eventually joined us, transforming our quiet hideaway into Mount Everest's base camp. Some nestled their tents against the stone slabs to escape the wind while others laid their sleeping bags directly under the stars.     

By 7:30 p.m., we designated a kitchen area a few hundred feet from camp, where I enjoyed ramen noodle soup with a side of canned tuna wrapped in a tortilla. The shared portable stoves made their rounds through the camp nearly as frequently as the bag of red wine.  

As the sun receded behind the Mission Mountains, we moseyed up the tallest rock slab to gawk at the alpenglow reflecting off the cliff face. Its jagged ridges glowed an intense orange like flames rising from a campfire.    

That's when Margot, whose birthday had brought us all here, announced that we'd be waking up at 4 a.m. to catch the sunrise from the summit of Holland Peak. The news was met with a mix of excitement and groans.    

Darkness soon settled over the mountains, and I crawled into my tent for a restless nap.     

It would start with the whistle of wind over the distant cliffs. Then, a few seconds later, the same gust would slam into my tent, rattling the fabric like a passing shockwave. The rhythm persisted throughout the night. It was far from soothing. 

Just as I was falling into deep sleep, 4:30 a.m. arrived and my alarm jolted me awake. Whether it was the lack of sleep, bagged wine or frigid air, I wasn't a happy camper.    

We slowly emerged from our warm cocoons. About a dozen of us (some understandably continued sleeping) ambled to the south side of the lake and started up a series of steep, exposed switchbacks. The unending chatter amongst us from the day before was replaced with silence.  

In the moonlight, two pairs of eyes glimmered a few dozen feet ahead. The mountain goats observed curiously as we reached Norms Big Peak, the first summit on our route.    

The relentless wind wore down the group. Only five of us pressed on along the saddle. By 5:30 a.m., a red glow had spread across the earth, and we realized we miscalculated how long it'd take to reach Holland Peak.    

The saddle abruptly narrowed into a knife-edge ridge, the trail weaving between either side. On the east face, my pulse quickened while balancing across slanted rock that fell away into a series of cliff bands. To the west, a sheer cliff dropped abruptly, though the trail remained level underfoot. Our tents looked like specks of color.    

Tension in my chest loosened as I hopped off the ridge and into the final push of loose shale.    

By 7 a.m., one by one we threw our arms up erratically in celebration upon reaching the tallest part of the Swan Range. Holland Peak cast a vast shadow over the Seeley-Swan Valley as the sun rose over the Bob Marshall Wilderness.  

After several victory dances, we jogged down the summit, excited to rest before the arduous trek back to the trailhead.    

Back at base camp, I made a warm bowl of oatmeal and dragged my sleeping bag up to a bed of wildflowers. There, I lay in the sunlight slowly spilling over Holland Peak, which now towered above me. It was the most peaceful nap of my life.    

I don't know how much time passed before a warm breeze stirred me awake. My friends lay scattered across the grass like a herd of sleeping bison.    

While trips into the wilderness offer only a fleeting escape from reality, it invites a level of awareness that slows down time. Whether lying in an alpine meadow or struggling up loose shale, one can truly feel present in the mountains.  

Reporter Jack Underhill can be reached at 406-758-4407 or [email protected]. If you value local journalism, pledge your support at dailyinterlake.com/support 

    Alpine meadow filled with wildflowers by Upper Rumble Creek Lake in the Swan Range on Aug. 2, 2026. (Jack Underhill/Daily Inter Lake)
  

    Tents assembled beside Upper Rumble Creek Lake underneath Holland Peak on Aug. 1, 2026. (Jack Underhill/Daily Inter Lake)
  

    Southward view from the summit of Holland Peak on Aug. 2, 2026. (Jack Underhill/Daily Inter Lake)
  

    Hikers ascend the valley leading to Lower Rumble Creek Lake on Aug. 1, 2026. (Jack Underhill/Daily Inter Lake)
  

    Rumble Creek Falls cascades into Lower Rumble Creek Lake on Aug. 1, 2026. (Jack Underhill/Daily Inter Lake)
  

    Alpenglow hits the ridge beside Holland Peak overlooking Upper Rumble Creek Lake. (Jack Underhill/Daily Inter Lake)
  

    Reporter Jack Underhill descends the knife-edge ridge from Holland Peak on Aug. 2, 2026. (Courtesy photo)
  

    Hikers set up camp beside Upper Rumble Creek Lake in the Swan Range at dusk. (Jack Underhill/Daily Inter Lake)