Reading Travels with Charley, John Steinbeck’s delightful memoir about discovering America in an RV with his dog, inspired me to road-trip through Montana. Even as a world-weary old man, the great American novelist gushed about Montana like a moonstruck teenager. He was enchanted by its vastness—its mountains, oceanic plains, and pristine forests—as much as by its salt-of-the-earth people. “For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection,” he wrote. “But with Montana, it is love.”
Worn out after a tough winter in New York City, I pulled the trigger on a Montana highway odyssey this past March. Early spring seemed like a sensible time to go—I’d skip both the arctic chill of winter and the crowds of summer. I set aside eight days for a loop from Bozeman to Glacier and back down, intent on taking my time along highways hailed as among the most beautiful in America, with plenty of lingering in small towns and national parks.
While Steinbeck had his French poodle, Charley, I had David, a pal from my days teaching English in New York. We complemented each other well as travel companions: my natural habitat is the saloon stool and the dining table, while David lives for the hiking trail and the campfire. I also had selfish reasons for roping him in—he’s a brilliant photographer. All the images in this article are his.
Our route was a roster of Montana’s greatest hits. Yellowstone and Glacier, crown jewels of the National Park System and enduring symbols of the American West. Bozeman, the Nantucket of the Rockies, with its fine dining, luxury boutiques, and cosmopolitan élan. Butte, a raffish mining town with proud Irish roots. And Missoula, a funky collegiate burg brimming with music venues, third-wave coffee shops, and nocturnal gaiety.
Rent a sturdy set of wheels at Bozeman Airport, stock up on huckleberry chocolates and local beef jerky for the longer stretches, and download the audiobook of Travels with Charley. Then hit the road and soak in “the embarrassment of riches that is Montana,” to steal a phrase from Steinbeck.
Bozeman and Yellowstone
One of the funniest scenes in Yellowstone is when Kayce Dutton, a rough-and-tumble cowboy, rails against the transplants in Bozeman while grudgingly conceding that they make some damn good ice cream. In recent years, the mountain town has drawn throngs of tourists and newcomers from the coasts. But the old cowboy soul remains alive and well, and for my money, Bozeman is better for the creative tension between hipster and rancher.
Our first breakfast in Montana was fittingly at The Western Cafe, a diner dating back to 1920. With camo-clad clientele, waitresses bubbling with small-town affability, and walls festooned with old maps, it feels like a relic of a bygone Bozeman. After breakfast, we wandered along Main Street, perusing fly-fishing shops, outdoor-apparel stores, and the Last Wind-Up, a vintage watch boutique.
The afternoon found us on a safari through Yellowstone National Park with Yellowstone Wonders. Our cicerone, Mike Skelton, was a wealth of knowledge about the park’s wildlife, history, and lore and seemed to possess a sixth sense for where wolves, bears, and eagles might appear. Best of all, his truck bed was like a Manhattan coffee cart—a mobile café of hot coffee, trail mix, and fresh snickerdoodles baked by his wife.
Post-safari, we hit the town to enjoy jesterly antics and cold draughts at Last Best Comedy. We soon repaired to the Field & Stream Lodge, sated from a full day of travel. With plaid couches, exposed wooden beams, and fishing tackle adorning the walls, it evoked a gentleman’s alpine retreat. We slept like the dead and rose early to hit the road for Livingston.
Livingston
The Montana episode of No Reservations plays like a bromance between Anthony Bourdain and Jim Harrison, a celebrated writer who spent his final years in Livingston. Founded as a railroad junction in one of the windiest pockets of America, Livingston grew into a Rocky Mountain refuge for anglers and writers. For both, the appeal is much the same: solitude, the raw beauty of the mountains, and the languid pace of a small town that seems conjured from a Norman Rockwell painting.
Upon arriving in Livingston, David and I chose separate adventures. He took our rented Hyundai Tucson, by now dubbed the Black Stallion, and drove into the mountains for hiking and photography. I made a lazy day of it, sending my girlfriend a postcard, admiring the watches at Montana Watch Co., and catching up on emails at Tru North Cafe.
At the café, a klatch of old-timers sat with their coffees discussing a semi truck that had blown over on the highway. Someone recalled ferocious gusts once knocking a train clean off its tracks. I silently wondered why anyone would build a town in a howling wind tunnel, but Montanans are a tough breed. I asked the leading graybeard if he had known Jim Harrison.
“Oh, Jim, sure. He was a dear friend. I went to his house after his last surgery. He greeted me at the door stark naked. We looked at each other, and he said, ‘Hey Bill, sorry about the outfit.’ Yep, that was Jim—a real card until the end.”
We chatted for a few minutes, and they asked about my line of work.
“A journalist writing about Montana, eh? Well, do us all a favor and leave out Livingston. We want to keep it a secret.”
I gave my solemn oath. Oh, wait—shit…
The Murray Hotel, founded in 1904, felt like an old boarding house left over from the Wild West. A sign at reception politely reminded us to check any firearms before receiving our keys. David, returned from his mountain seclusion like Moses from Sinai, clamored for whiskey at the lobby saloon. After a nightcap, we retired to a suite full of nooks and corridors that reminded me of my grandfather’s snug cottage on Cape Cod.
Butte
A Boston boy, I was fascinated to learn about the Irish diaspora in Montana, drawn chiefly by the mining industry in Butte. Come St. Paddy’s Day, Butte throws a citywide bacchanal in the same league as Mardi Gras in New Orleans or Derby weekend in Louisville. We decided to sojourn there for two days to really get a good, firm grip on Butte.
On the drive from Livingston, we made a refreshing detour at Norris Hot Springs. Montana is honeycombed with geothermal pools, and the mineral-rich waters have long been touted for their medicinal benefits. Norris had a large, steamy outdoor pool, a live music stage, and a snack bar stocked with wine and Montana craft beer—half health spa, half pool party.
Once in Butte, we grabbed lunch at M&M, a local institution dating to 1890 and immortalized in the pages of Jack Kerouac. As the cook fried onions and burger patties on the long griddle behind the lunch counter, I chatted with a flannel-clad man in a cowboy hat beside me. An engineer, he had lived on the East Coast and in Europe, but at forty, he was content to put down roots in Butte. When I told him I wrote about restaurants, he recommended Casagranda’s, a steakhouse inside a retrofitted warehouse built in 1900. We ventured over later that evening, snagged bar seats, and wolfed down steak frites and a round of martinis.
That evening, we embarked on Butte’s Spooks and Spirits Tour. Joining us was a wedding party, who took to the bus’s cooler of beer and hard seltzer with gusto. As we drove up hilly streets, our guide regaled us with tales about Butte’s colorful, occasionally turbulent history.
The last stop on the tour was the Dumas Brothel, a famous cathouse that operated well into the 20th century. Alongside little deaths by the hour, Dumas witnessed its share of actual death. Today, locals will tell you it’s ferociously haunted.
I fortified myself with a High Noon before entering to commune with the shades of fallen women. Perhaps to allay the spookiness, I thought up marketing slogans for Dumas. Step right up, cowboy, and see the most Butte-i-ful girls in the West! The best butts in Butte, my good sir! An establishment where the customer always comes first!
Boy, did the religious studies teacher in me find food for thought during the tour. A house of sex and death. Eros and Thanatos—those ancient companions whom Freud cast as the two great opposing forces of the psyche.
Staying on theme with ghostly buildings, we slept at the Finlen Hotel, a grand dame reminiscent of the Overlook Hotel in The Shining. That night, I dreamt of a flaxen-haired lass far from her home in County Kerry, adrift on the North American frontier with only her beauty to barter. She still roams the halls of Dumas.
Missoula
A childhood friend of mine went to college at the University of Montana in Missoula. With each passing semester, he grew crunchier. By graduation, he was selling his own tea blends and living off the grid along the Continental Divide Trail.
I stayed on the East Coast for college, but I would have adored Missoula during those youthful years. The city sits within a quick drive of some of the most dramatic trails in the Rockies. It’s a proper college town lined with raucous bars, late-night restaurants, and hip coffee houses. Charlottesville or Chapel Hill, but with more boots and neon cowboys.
I spent the morning writing at Basal, a coffee shop with large wooden tables, while David edited drone footage from a sunrise hike in the Anaconda Range. We had cheeseburgers for dinner at Wally & Buck before tying one on at Charly B’s, a dive our barista at Basal recommended.
By the time we exited the bar, Missoula’s streets were abuzz with young scholars thirsting for strong drink and illicit congress. Aye, those neon-lit sorority cowgirls beckoned like the Sirens. But David lashed me to the mast, so to speak. Behind those swinging saloon doors, he warned, there lay only ruin and misery for fellows pushing forty.
Glacier
On a road trip full of highlights, Glacier National Park was the crowning glory. And it was blessedly empty in March.
As we drove north from Missoula, the scenery assumed the majesty of a Western epic. Two lanes winding through ponderosa pine forests. Wooden train bridges spanning icy rivers. Soaring peaks piercing the clear-blue vault of the sky.
We parked on the edge of Lake McDonald, a shimmering mirror framed by snowcapped mountains. After the coldest swim of my life, we checked into Apgar Suites. Our suite, complete with sweeping views of the water, a high-end kitchen, and rain showers, was so sumptuous that I considered staying put until the local bailiff forced me to leave. To hell with my airfare.
We squeezed in a quick hike before sunset, then drove into the town of Hungry Horse for dinner. Tex and Jerry’s was the only restaurant open past 7 p.m. in the off-season, but that was just peachy. A mess of chicken tenders and beer-battered onion rings washed down with a Montana IPA was exactly what I wanted.
With flights out of Bozeman the following morning, we hit the road at first light. Eddie’s Mercantile, perhaps man’s greatest general store, was already open. We fueled up on coffee and huckleberry-peach pie before reluctantly bidding adieu to Glacier, the most sublime national park I have ever visited.
Helena and Homeward
With a Metallica soundtrack blasting, we roared southward across the prairie in the Black Stallion. We stopped for lunch in Augusta, a tiny railroad town wedged between the plains and the mountains. At Buckhorn, a honky-tonk with a surprisingly good kitchen, we had fried chicken sandwiches. After a quick espresso at Lightning Bug Coffee Shop, we were back on the road.
It had been a hell of a ride. We had wined, dined, and lodged like a pair of high-flyin’ cattle barons. We had encountered wolves, bison, jackrabbits, and buckle bunnies. Remarkably, after a week of living in each other’s pockets, David and I had not killed each other.
Helena, Montana’s quiet, handsome capital, was a suitable end for our trip. We spent the afternoon strolling Last Chance Gulch before dinner at Silver Star Steak Company and an early night before our morning flight. Tired but happy, I quickly fell asleep on the plane. When I awoke and looked out the window, the mountains had morphed into the canyons of Manhattan.
