LOGAN PASS -- One need not be of literary turn or capacity to articulate the allure of Ray Day, an annual rite of summer skiing in Montana that was born in esoterica and remains known only to an initiated few.

But there is no substitute for the experience itself, and I was never more grateful for my induction to this guild of outlaws and misfits than last month, when Glacier National Park's Going-To-The-Sun Road finally opened and Ray Day 2009 began in earnest, eclipsing the solstice as our official seasonal index.

Summer had arrived, and it was time to ski.

I first boot-kicked a jack ladder of steps into the steep, radiant snow above Glacier National Park's Logan Pass in 2005, an exhilarating trek on any occasion, and particularly in early summer, when creamy bands of snow still adorn the rocky peaks like bay wreaths before vanishing into meltponds below. But to behold the park as a disciple of Ray Day is to rove into an arcane world populated mostly by Havre-ites -- that is, a closely integrated group of friends who hail from Havre -- and submit for several days to the interdisciplinary study of beer drinking, skiing and storytelling.

I came to know this group during my salad days in college, and even shared a house with a few of them near the University of Montana campus. Careers and spouses have since led to a fairly widespread geographic dispersal, and Ray Day serves as a kind of reunion tour.

When I'm among these people, in this express setting, everything feels right in the world, and all rational motive can be ascribed to the simple, collective impulse to climb a little higher, take in the most sprawling views, and crank out a few turns.

Although Ray Day's esprit de corps is built on familiarity and trust, the group's undiscerning standards for admission mean that practically anyone with a penchant for biting sarcasm and skiing can join; a keen knowledge of Montana history and park lore is a bonus, while additional points are awarded for Havre-related non sequiturs, which serve a higher utility here than most accepted versions of the English language.

Take Charlie Gallus, a Havre man who arrived at Ray Day several years ago with a tent, a set of decades-old K2 skis, a tube of mustard, a jar of coins, lyric sheets for Woody Guthrie's "Roll on Columbia," and enough complimentary park maps for everyone. By the time Charlie had hiked to the first boulder field above the visitor center, a group resting spot designated "the beach" and a point at which the skiable snow begins, he was sweating gobs of sunscreen and needed an hour to catch his breath. Just as Charlie began his descent, after re-tucking the cuffs of his jeans into his ski boots, he struck a Nixonesque pose and raised his hands high in the air in a gesture of peace. In doing so, he embodied the spirit of Ray Day.

But no one doubts that Big Dave Martens is the crowned head of Ray Day, having made the trip every year since its inception in the mid-1960s. A rural postmaster from Havre, Big Dave contrived Ray Day with his older brother, Roger, and whatever quorum of friends was interested in skiing the early summer snow. Big Dave once boasted that he missed the birth of his second son to attend Ray Day, an improbable tale. More believable is Big Dave's claim that he missed the Summer of Love working double shifts at the 4B's, but he's never missed a Ray Day.

Big Dave is the volunteer manager of Bear Paw Ski Bowl, working there on winter weekends, the only time the tiny ski area's single chairlift is open for business. Fortunately, when Bear Paw shuts down for the year it's only a few short months until the famed Going-to-the-Sun Road opens, providing the season's first access to Logan Pass.

On Ray Day, which can last anywhere from one to three days, the caravan to Logan Pass departs at the crack of noon from a designated group campsite, wending along the scenic Sun Road en route to the visitor center parking lot. Then the car doors spring open and a motley crew of puckish scamps spills out onto the hot pavement, a pile of aging ski gear in tow.

Questions about the origins of Ray Day are usually posed by looky-lous in the parking lot and are met with cryptic answers from Big Dave.

"We're members of the Yellowsnow Club, except we're not bankrupt," he deadpanned last month. "Well, morally bankrupt, maybe."

"We just like to ski in the sun," he clarifies. "I mean, look at this place."

Most of the crew this year is at least in their late-20s, but Big Dave still plays the role of adult chaperone, pushing sunscreen on our puffy, rubicund faces before assembling the group for a photograph, which occasionally appears on the cover of the Havre Daily News.

The rest of the day is about camaraderie and ceremony as much as it is about skiing; jaws and cheeks achy from laughter.

For me, Ray Day inevitably climaxes in some life-affirming moment, atop this saddle or that snow chute, surrounded by friends. The company of good friends is important in this setting, a means of keeping oneself grounded.

Because whether you're gazing at the formidable mountain peaks looming above the park, dwarfed by their power and incredible history, or staring down a steep chute of clunky summer snow, a shot of adrenaline rattling around in your chest, these friends serve as a ballast to the conventional world somewhere down below, and encourage me to suck the moisture out of every fleeting moment.