Spontaneous adventures are my jam. The kind that are casually planned over a post-ski beer and then happen the following day. I am enlivened when I’m “unprepared” — when I get to dance about in the early morning hours fashioning road snacks out of back-of-the-pantry bits, feverishly gathering the pieces we will need and then leaving. As ready as I’ll ever need to be.

I let the kids sleep, aiming to get the car all packed up and then scoop them straight from bed into their seats. Part of this plan is practical: I have to get a lot done to meet our 8am departure and if it’s just me, hip hop and the to-dos it’ll be lightening fast. And part of this plan is magical: I remember being 6 and 8 years old and I decide it would feel thrilling and cozy to climb from bed to carseat where my blanket, doll, bagel and open road await. Mom at the wheel.

photo by Ruby

We meet our friends and begin the caravan north along the fierce, alive Mission Mountains, through the Salish & Kootenai Reservation and then west along the turquoise blue Flathead River. We drive to Quinn’s Hot Springs.

Ruby: How much longer?
Me: Ten minutes.
Ruby: How long is that?!
Margot: Not too long! Just count to 60, ten times.
Ruby: one two three four five six seven eight…
Margot: IN YOUR HEAD, PAL!

There are several hot springs around here and I’ve been to most more than once. Each has their own unique vibe and lore. Quinn’s vibe: tidy and strict.

We arrive in the pouring rain, change into suits and tip toe across the cold cement to the healing waters. We all slip into the pool, feeling that welcome pin prick of warmth seep into our winter-cold Montana bodies. Eventually the four kids don goggles and find the slightly cooler pool where they romp and squeal. Kara and I find the hot hot pool. The hot hot pool followed by icy cold pool followed by moderately hot pool is my favorite sequence. Oh the luxury in willingly taking your breath away at a temperature shock.

notice the rainbow!

Most places in Montana – especially remote places – are famously trusting and chill. At Quinn’s, there is a lot of “you can’t do that here.” Like, they approach all things with a noticeable skepticism. It’s a funny quirk, really, but I have been annoyed before. No personal water bottles, no keys to your room until your friend who made the reservation arrives, no babies in the karaoke bar, etc. On this trip, I am hollered at from the edge of the pool. “Ma’am I know that is fun but it is DANGEROUS to lift your daughter that high.” (#troublemaker) There is a positive side to all those rules: it’s clean and predictable.

We soak and luxuriate for almost three hours, moving around between the six pools of varying temperatures before we get out, dry off and head out. It is still pouring rain – harder now – so we huddle under our car hatch for a snack before deciding to explore up the hill. It’s wildly lush and green – feels more like the Oregon coast than Montana, feels more like April than February. Kara reminds me that this valley is kind of a banana belt; the farmers up here grow a fruitful bounty. The Dixon melons, the Forbidden Fruit Orchard peaches.

We planned to be heading back home by now but nobody is ready for this to end and us moms convince ourselves that work can wait. So we drive a bit further west to a roadside spring we adore. I’m not sure if the water is actually the best tasting water in the world or if it is just my history with stopping and filling water bottles here that makes it so. Either way, I love the abundance of water from this risky place.

We take our time on the road home, stopping for photos and running and snacking and staring at the river. I’ll forever be an amazed admirer of rivers. Tiny, inconsequential droplets of water join together to create a holy force that inscribes earth and supports life.

Margot: Mom how does the ocean move because of the moon? Is that kind of like technology or something?
Me: That’s nature, baby.
Margot: It’s nature’s very own technology!
Me: What is technology anyway?
Margot: When things connect to make other things happen.

I try to always stop by The Perma Store to see if there are things we might buy. But mostly, to talk with Harold.

He remembers me this time, notices the girls have grown since the last time we stopped. His store sells earrings, lukewarm sodapop, fishing tackle and other provisions. His chicken coop sits between the store and his small cabin; it’s all just a few feet off highway 200. Harold has a gentle, interested way I appreciate. We always start with small talk. I wait with restricted earnest for him to reveal what is on his mind. He seems to delight in sharing his wisdom and theory, earned from his many years on this planet and lots of time to think about stuff. On this day I notice he has fewer Native American handworks and he proclaims a dissatisfied acknowledgment of youth choosing iphones over making medicine bags. “It’s hard to find young people who care enough to keep making this stuff.” He tells us about his hunting lineage, how he was raised to hunt for meat and not for the rack. Last fall he stumbled into a pile of six decapitated deer bodies. Killed for their antlers, left to rot. It’s a thing, we learn: people want antlers to decorate their homes and so poachers are making a living off of it. His neighbor found 20 headless deer last year. With all the antler-shed around here, I have always assumed those antlers-for-sale were found in the mountains. Silly, naïve me. I deeply detest this reality and silently promise myself I will tell everyone I know about it, starting with you, here. Because I trust that people who admire antlers also like and respect the lives of all animals and want to be responsible about where their decor comes from.

We make a long day of it, stretching our 1 hour drive into 4 hours. Our last stop is for milkshakes at the Bison Café. My mom and dad used to stop here with us on our way up the Flathead Lake, I think. Or some place like it. Any which way, these old diners with milkshakes make me pause to smell that good memory. Of being on an adventure with my family and getting malted treats at foreign restaurants.

That night Andy and I lay in bed with our kids; I (mostly) successfully try to enjoy the last bits of the day without thinking of all that is now piled on tomorrow’s agenda. Ruby’s face is pressed into the curve of my neck. Margot is next to her and Andy on the far side of our queen bed. Mabel and Sam at the foot. George on the window sill waiting for a vacancy.

Ruby: Mama? Stay here until I fall asleep ok?
Me: OK.
Ruby: You’ll know when it happens because I’m hugging you so tight right now. When I loosen, that means I’m asleep.
Margot: You know that moose show when the mama moose kicked her calf out when she was just one? That made me sad. I wouldn’t like that. That won’t happen, right?
Andy: That won’t happen buddy. You can stay here as long as you want.
Margot: Like forever?
Andy: Yeah, forever.
{ pause }
Margot: What’s college like?

:: :: ::

Details, with links:

Our sturdy new adventure rig, a Honda CRV, c/o University Motors (please email Toby if you’re interested in a special deal for dig readers)
Quinn’s Hot Springs
Favorite road trip snack: honey balsamic almonds
Soundtrack: Modest Mouse, Taylor Swift, Bill Harley
Old Perma Store
Natural spring location: on hwy 200, just west of the hwy 135 turnoff to Quinn’s
Bison Café
Forbidden Fruit Orchard (where I get my peaches every year!)