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.
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