Clambering over the steep rock wall at the head of a small drainage, we find ourselves on open terrain. We’re about one hundred feet high on a rocky peninsula jutting out into the lake. Ahead of us is the glacier with jagged peaks beyond, behind us a beaver-dammed lake and forest. There is a thin drizzle in the air, which seems right. At our feet is scarred rock, the deep grooves parallel to one another and most running toward the glacier. In these grooves, moss and water collect and out of them little plants with ornate flowers and sticky leaves, common butterwort (Pinguicula vulgaris).