“There are places I’ll remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and some remain”

“In My Life” – The Beatles

When we would go visit the river, I don’t ever remember asking my parents “Are we there yet?” It was obvious when you were there—because everything changed.

If you’ve never lived in Montana, or visited multiple parts of it, you probably think of it as all mountains, all trees, or both. But there are two distinct sides to Montana: the mountains, and the plains. The reality is that there’s actually more of Montana that is considered prairie than mountains.

I grew up in Great Falls, which is clearly prairie—but I often say it’s “mountain adjacent”. Growing up there, I can’t probably ever describe all the journeys we took – camping, hiking, skiing, fishing… well, I didn’t fish. I didn’t appreciate the meditative properties of fly fishing until adulthood; until I realized what a difference it had made in the lives of my family.

Some time in the early 1980’s, my parents bought what we always referred to as “the cabin site”. It was a lump of property located on a small river (<ahem/> “river” being used rather liberally) in the middle of Montana. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I can’t imagine, looking back, that the site was more than 60 miles away from our house. But the journey felt like forever, and honestly got slower the closer you got. Bear in mind as you’re taking this journey with me, that I haven’t been to the cabin site in at least 30 years, so we’re driving through my memory, not a trip I took recently.

Like most trips in Montana, it starts with a fair bit of two-lane highway – as I recall, all through prairie. The best part of this section of Montana is that Mountains are off in the distance for your viewing enjoyment—much like they are to the east and west in Seattle where I live today. But in this part of Montana, you’re more likely to see cattle (or seemingly empty ranch land set on gently rolling plains), and an antelope or three. Small, meandering rivers or creeks (“cricks”) cut through the prairie, often disappearing from sight into the ruts they’ve cut, many of them reduced to a trickle or bone dry in the heat of summer once the snow melt is gone. In general, the colors around you are limited to shades of tan and brown. Dried grass, with exposed rock here and there. Of course in the spring there’s more green – but I don’t remember ever going to the cabin site in winter (too hard to get to through unplowed snow, and nothing to do when you got there), or spring (when the river would be too high and angry for fishing or wading).

Once you’ve gotten through the section of highway, I recall what felt like a never-ending expanse of rutted dirt roads. But not just dirt roads – as is commonplace in this part of the country, you have to drive across other people’s land to get to yours, so you must go through multiple gates. I seem to remember three gates, but there may have been more. At each one, I seem to remember the same pattern being repeated. Dad would pull up near the gate, mom would get out, and she’d unlock the gate and open it. We’d drive through, the gate would be closed and locked, and we’d drive on. If you’ve never seen a gate like this, it’s something. Just a big steel gate that would swing open, but the interesting part for me was the chain. Since multiple parties needed to enter the gate on their own, the chain would be in numerous chunks, held together by one lock. More chunks of chain, and another lock… some of these could have 10 or more locks on them. Trying to find the right lock, then the right key, then put everything back together again when you were done—it wasn’t easy.

None of these roads (again, “roads” being used somewhat liberally) were well-established. I don’t remember how much of these were actual dirt road, and what, if any more closely resembled desire paths, with two distinct sections cut by tires over time, paring back the grass just enough year after year to indicate, “drive here”, but I do remember a split.

We owned two different trucks during our visits down to the site – and this may not sound relevant, but it is. Dad had purchased a Jeep Wagoneer in 1979. Not the fancy-schmancy “Grand Wagoneer”, no. No faux wood, no fancy wheels, not even a pinstripe. This homely artifact of the 1960’s was a single color (a light, powder blue), with full-time four wheel drive, horrific fuel mileage, and hubcaps – to help trap pebbles on gravel roads. The other was our 1986 Toyota LandCruiser. But I remember visiting the river in the Jeep for several reasons…

By this point in the drive, the road dust was apparent – particularly in the light blue interior of the Jeep. Even with the windows, vent windows, and everything shut, the dust crept in. And by the time we would begin phase three of the journey to the river, a dusting of road had been scattered all over the dash and interior. (The outside of the car was much, much worse.) My head will forever keep vivid images of the dusty interior of the Jeep, with my brother and I drawing in the dirt inside and outside the car after we’d arrived.

As we leave the open roads and head towards the third and final phase of the journey, trees become more prolific—conifers, of course. The last phase begins as the road heads into the trees, and we begin our descent. Like a plane landing, there’s preparation, and a path we must follow. I seem to recall seven switchbacks, but there may have been more or less than that. Regardless, even with these switchbacks, the descent down into the river valley was slow and careful. And once we’d arrived, without fail, the putrid smell of the Jeep’s brakes would fill the air. (The LandCruiser was a manual transmission – combined with much better brakes, arrival in the river valley was never as dramatic as the Jeep had made it.)

Once the road ended, a small oasis opened up in front of us. A good-sized treeless plateau off to the right, the semicircle of the plateau having been cut in by the river when it was higher. The river took a hard curve here, around the plateau, colliding against a massive cliff face on the other side, and heading on past the property down to the left. Turning back around to look up the hillside we’d descended into the river valley, it was trees ascending as far as the eye could see.

When they first acquired this property, there may have been one or two small cabins farther downhill past the plateau, and closer to the river. But the entire plateau, and a lower section of sand and gravel “beach” was completely open. At this point, there was no demarcation of whose “cabin site” was whose – the area seemed to be much more about getting access to the river for fishing than building cabins in the middle of nowhere. And so, we would put up tents, fire up the old Coleman stove, and camp. For years, I never even knew where the plot of land my parents owned was. Turns out, it was more or less at the cliff’s edge, on the right side of the plateau. Not an ideal spot to build a cabin.

The thing I remember most about this place was the solitude; the quiet. The extent of the noise is the river burbling as it comes past and hits the cliff facing, and perhaps another family chattering at their campsite down the way. The rightmost side of the river below our site, however, was quiet and still, as the river tended to flow very slowly and pool at that point.

While my parents and older brother went off and fished, I would stay by the car, usually with my springer spaniel and my old Hitachi boombox. I’d lay down on the tailgate of the Jeep, listen to the river, and watch the clouds move by overhead – disappearing past the clifftop, hundreds of feet up. When I got bored, as my anxious mind often tended (tends?) to do, I would take the dog for a walk into the forest. But I inevitably didn’t get very far, as I was always scared of bears or something else gobbling the dog and me up.

Dinner at the river would inevitably consist of trout, trout, and more trout. Whenever I go to a restaurant and they serve trout today, I always shudder a little bit. Trout isn’t bad at all. But when it’s the summer go-to for your family for years, well, you can get a little tired of it. You can also get a little fussy, like someone from Washington or Alaska being served farmed salmon.

I don’t perfectly remember the last time I went down to the river. But my mind retains enough of the scenery in a form that I can replay it, reminisce, and enjoy it the way it was.

Since that time, numerous cabins have been built, forever changing both the solitude and spirit of this magical place.

My dad plans to give the cabin site to my brother, who may well build something on it someday.

For me, whenever the property comes up, I tell my dad that I don’t ever want to see it again, but keep the preferable, magical memories of it in my head.

This place, like loved ones I’ve lost, is no longer with us. And the memories bring me more joy than ever seeing what has become of it would.

This place will always hold a place in my heart, and just thinking about it brings me peace, much like meandering through memories of Glacier National Park or Yellowstone.