By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
Floating the rivers is a time honored summer pastime in Montana. Since the days of Lewis and Clark, floating down the river in a vessel of your choice can be a great way to relax or a great adventure or both. A group of us headed out for a float along a different river; our typical route along the Madison River quickly vetoed. If we wanted to go on Spring Break, we would have gone to Cancun. The Jefferson River was tranquil, with chances of seeing more wildlife than other floaters. Bald eagles, raccoons, cows, sandhill cranes, moose and mountain lions have all been spotted along the banks and in the sky along the Jefferson. We set out that day with a lackadaisical approach. It was a bluebird day, with rising temperatures. A float requires at least two vehicles; one for the drop in location and one at the point where you get out and retrieve the first vehicle. We of course got lost, taking double the time to position our vehicles. We were fully immersed in “Montana time” where time is like the river sometimes moving you along at a steady clip and sometimes coming to a complete stand still. We came upon our pick up vehicle location far too quickly. After checking our beer rations, we decided to see where the river wanted to take us. A little further down the river the endless sky opened up in tumultuous darkness. Hail relentlessly pelted our bodies. Cans of unopened beer were flying back into the coolers, opened cans were guzzled. Most of us were peering out from the center of our tubes, if you kept your body submerged the hail had a much harder time reaching you. Up ahead we saw clouds of smoke. Our lead floater started swimming and steering our floatilla towards the bank where other floaters had started an inviting fire. We warmed up at the fire, while taking refuge under other people. As the storm passed, we continued on, shivering and even more detrimental to morale, our beer supply was quickly diminishing. Along the road next to the Madison River you can always find a ride, the only activity this lonely one lane bridge seemed to have was a few brave souls jumping down to the river below. Our situation started to seem dire when through a cloud of dust a rusty Oldsmobile with bald tires emerged and a guy named Buddy with a smile that whistled more than the breeze jumped out with an offer of a ride. Buddy was the epitome of “Welcome to Montana, the odds are good but the goods are odd.” Rounding the bend the imposing yellow building looked more like a house than the place that Buddy assured us had the best barbecue west of the Mississippi. Stained glass doors encased the glittering liquor bottles and our drinks slid efficiently down the cherry bar with intricate carvings. This was the type of place where we did not feel out of place guzzling hot coffee and beer in our Carhart jackets barely covering our bikinis and shorts. This was the sort of place where if you stayed long enough the owners would buy you a drink and pull out an ashtray and tell stories of the first year they were open. It felt like home and what a saloon used to be, the town’s meeting place, source of news, where you can get a cold drink and find out who drove their car in the ditch that week. Years later my husband and I purchased a hundred year old house in this tiny town and filled it with rescue animals, antiques and a baby. Buddy is still around, offering rides to anyone who needs one. Our baby was born in this town where neighbors still leave meals and baby clothes on your porch and fireflies flicker in the twilight. As I stare into my newborn’s face, I hope she appreciates this tiny little town where the only sounds she hears as she drifts off to sleep are the mooing cows, hooting owls and howling coyotes but she inevitably will want to live in a big city.