When I signed off last night, my plan had been to get up early to fish. But shortly after I went to bed, it started to rain. And rain. And rain. When 6 AM arrived, instead of hopping out of the tent and running to the river, I pulled the down sleeping bag up over my head and tried to convince my bladder that I really didn’t have to get up to visit the latrine. I held out as long as I could, but the suggestion of the rushing rain pushed me from the tent into a deluge that we literally had not seen coming.
We tried to make the most of it. I rigged up a sheltering fly over the back doors of the van and we cooked French Toast for breakfast with plenty of hot coffee and hot cocoa. We pulled out our extra dry chairs and put them under the canopy of the tent. Since it was only 52 degrees, we spent some time in our sleeping bags reading. Kellan and I even made a trip to the river to see if we could entice any fish to sample our offerings. (Two took courtesy bites but neither purchased the entree.)
It wasn't pretty, but it did the job.
You know how they say a bad day fishing is better than a good day at work? Well this was a bad day of fishing.
By noon, we decided to cry uncle. We had managed to download the NOAA radar and it looked like the rain was going to continue through the day and night. Tomorrow would be nicer, but every minute between now and then was bound to be miserable. Despite having purchased a fishing license for two days in Idaho, we packed all of our wet stuff (in the rain) into the van and headed for the part of Montana where it wasn’t raining: Missoula.
I don’t know whether it was the rain, the lack of catching fish, or just the cumulative effect of spending 10 days together in the van, but the inevitable finally happened: the sibling explosion that resulted in a short walk along the roadside. We still haven’t seen the world’s largest ball of twine, but the check mark on the list next to “argue with sibling, make mom and dad mad enough to stop the van and make us walk” has been solidly filled in.
Two hundred yards later, attitudes were restored and we began the quest of finding a campsite in Missoula on a Saturday night in August. After two State Park swings and two misses, we got the call to bunt: Jellystone RV Park was the only place with a site, and it was the last one left. We pulled the Sprinter into the first space on Dazzalation Drive and proceeded to pull every sopping piece of camping equipment from the van. The Jellystoners were supremely amused.
Way to go, Boo Boo!
As far as memorable road-trip camping sites go, Jellystone Parks don’t usually rate high in my book. But I have to tell you, Yogi and friends came through for us and it’s been a much more enjoyable experience than I expected. Julia and Kellan were in the pool within 17 seconds. Our neighbors were friendly and gave us some advice about heading west. Kellan made quick friends with a kid from Calgary and took off with him for an evening of pogo-sticking, bike-riding and rip-sticking. The ice cream was $1 for a huge cone, and as the nice lady checking us in proudly told us: "Our showers are award-winning."
"Yes, I know I should have ordered the Huckleberry ice cream, but I wanted vanilla."
One thing you won't find at a USFS Campground: pavement.
Our site has power, internet, and even a hookup for cable tv. But the best part is the climate. Comfortable temperature, no bugs, and a lack of humidity that helped all of our stuff dry within minutes.
You know what? It actually was a pretty nice setting!
This is the camping version of junk food. Not a lot of nutritional value, but strangely satisfying.
In the morning we will explore Missoula and decide where to go next. All we know is that it will be either north or west of here.