July 7, 2014 - The Great American Road Trip Part III

{Side note: I have to laugh a bit at just how long it's taken me to post these passages. Pretty much the story of my life. I've uploaded all my holiday photos, just waiting to write a brief note about the holly, jolly festivities, but I told myself I can't do that until I finish my summer musings.} 

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After I put my journal down last night, we encountered a couple visitors at our campsite--two deer, keen on snacking just feet from us. They must have loved that specific foliage, as our rustling around didn't scare them at all. My camera sat inside the car, and I didn't want to risk their running away to retrieve it. We hit the pillow after s'mores and a nightcap, just as the daylight finally fizzled out.

When we awoke in the morning, neither of us wanted to emerge from the tent. We were sure it was just dawn like it seems to be every time we wake camping. Taylor got out first and exuberantly exclaimed it was 8:30! We slept more than ten hours, which I attribute to the air mattress and the fortress of solitude in which we camped. We threw together oatmeal and a pot of coffee--another brilliant luxury of car camping--and we packed the car for our departure. 

We stopped twice along Fish Creek as we exited the winding road, I dove deeper into my book, soaked up some sun rays, while Taylor unfortunately couldn't prove the creek true to its name. We stopped to photograph the derailment disaster that made local headlines--a train carrying fuselages derailed and a few of the planes plummeted into the creek. We'd never seen anything like it.

Then, we hit the open road again, passing through Missoula en route to Hamilton, in the Bitterroot Valley. We pulled up to a campsite that could not have been any more the antithesis {questionable grammar there} of yesterday's experience, with bathrooms, SHOWERS, a store, and ... people. Luckily, there was a semi-tucked-away slot in the back of the campground, butting up to the river. I could easily do without the amenities, and I don't enjoy the additional people. Tomorrow we'll be headed elsewhere again, though, so for tonight it will do just fine. 

I posted up at the campsite, and Taylor tromped down the back of the river. Just as I was about the take off on a run (believe it or not there is a paved walkway from Lolo all the way through Hamilton), Taylor walked up and shared the good news. He caught a brown trout. {Collective sigh.} The only bit of this news that came with any despair was the fact that he was alone in his success. There was no one to enjoy it with him before he released the sucker back into the Bitterroot. Rather than running, I packed up my camp chair and accompanied Taylor back down the river, where I perched on the bank as he tried to recreate history. No fish this time, so we headed back to camp for dinner and perhaps some post-feast fishing. 

July 6, 2014 - The Great American Road Trip Part II

No alarm clock, please. I mean, what's the point? We are on vacation, regardless of the impending check-out time. We slept until about 8, and we slapped on some running clothes. A quick bite at the complementary continental breakfast, and we were off to the highly recommended fly shop, followed by a hearty run along the river and past the university. We made it back to our "motel" by 11:30--just enough time to shower and be out by noon.

I made Taylor and me sandwiches on the side of the road in downtown Missoula, out the tailgate of our SUV. I felt like my mom, pulling it all together right there in the car. We planned to strategize (is this even a word?) the next few days at a local coffee shop, maps in hand, but we walked into the local running store first, which also came highly recommended from our dear friends. Not only did we pick up some gear and an invitation to run the city marathon or beer run next weekend, but we received some great recommendations for fly-fishing and camping spots, some more remote and less-traveled than those suggested at the fly shop. We semi-changed our tentative plans and opted to embark on these leads.

We backtracked from Missoula and ended up at Fish Creek. After winding many, many miles off the highway, along a dirt road, we made it to the Hole in the Wall Lodge, part of the Hole in the Wall Ranch--honestly and easily the most remote oasis I was just not expecting. There were cabins for rent and a sweet 20-something who ran up to our car to greet us when we arrived. We'd been told there was camping, and she directed us up the road about a mile, where we found our new home for who knows how many nights. We're nestled in a camp slot--just one of three--along the creek. There's no cell service, which is idyllic. I turned my phone off before we left Missoula, but there is something extra freeing about the inability to connect or be reached. Who do we really need to talk to besides each other? We told our co-workers we were anticipating going off the grid, and our families know that, too.

The air is so crisp here, and the colors are vivid. It's like Central Oregon in a way, except more wild, if that even remotely makes sense. Right now, I'm sitting along the creek while Taylor fly-fishes. He's left my line of sight, but right now he's in his heaven, and his heart must be singing. He's never been to Montana, and this trip has always been on our radar, so it's pretty fun to be realizing this little dream together. I know he feels something spiritual when he's in, on the bank of, or in sight of a river. Different than a lake, it's always moving and changing. It's unpredictable and something to admire and also fear, in the sense of respect. It's Mother Nature, after all. No human created this beauty and splendor.

I'm not wearing a watch, but the sun's placement makes me think it's around 4 or 5. We've already set-up camp, and our only to-dos are cooking dinner and starting a campfire. Almost all of our previous camping trips have included the rain and cold, so I'm pretty thrilled to be writing in the mid-summer heat, with my roadtrip uniform on--cutoff jean shorts and a V-neck T-shirt, instead of shaking and pouting as the rain seeps through my slicker. This is the life. Right now. No place I'd rather be.