Put a Spell on You
Road-trips, reunions, llamas, and laughter in Kalispell, Montana
words by Ashley Tomzik / images by Frankie Spontelli / video by Tommy Corey
I rub my eyes as we enter the final stretch of our 15-hour drive from Colorado to Kalispell. Frankie is nearly giddy; the mountains usually have this effect on him. We pull into Montana Basecamp, a new kind of RV Park re-imagined for van-lifers and modern nomads.
Everywhere we look we see the first signs of autumn: A vibrant, red-leafed tree adorns our campsite and is complemented by mountains fringed in yellow. A few minutes later Tommy, Tyler, and Nicole arrive, all big smiles and maximum stoke. The three met while completing the Pacific Crest Trail, and the joy of their first post-pandemic reunion is contagious.
Celebrations are in order, and we head to Kalispell Brewing. As we walk in, the smell of hops permeates the bar. Zach, the bartender, confirms that our plans for the next few days are solid. We take a seat in the corner along large glass windows that look out Main Street, and we offer cheers to our reunion.
For sunset we head to Lone Pine Park, just southwest of town. We wind up the road past a dense pine forest and massive log “cabins” with huge windows that look over the glacier-carved valley.
A short hike takes us up to a viewpoint and we pause to take in the scene before the last rays of sun settle on the mountains of the Swan Range and Glacier National Park to the east. The lenticular clouds slowly turn from white to cotton candy pink as the vast sky and landscape is set ablaze.
The next morning I open our van door to an overcast sky, and I look towards the mountains to see the golden glow of sunrise stretching out towards the town. We break camp and head back to Main Street and pick Ceres, a bakery, for breakfast.
The inside smells of fresh pastries, cinnamon rolls, croissants, and danishes. We order a variety along with coffee.
We set out to the north shore of Flathead Lake, which the Salish call Čɫq̓étk (meaning “Broad Water”). It’s the largest and clearest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi River. We meet Mike, our guide from Sea Me Paddle, who helps orient us to the sit-in kayaks.
In the last ice-age, some 12,000 years ago, this area was the southern end of a vast glacier that stretched north to the Yukon. And as we paddled around the juniper-covered islands of the Bay, I imagine enormous wooly mammoth feeding on its shores, hunted by giant saber-toothed tigers and humans alike.
As we approach Invitation Island, a bald eagle takes off, circling above, before heading towards the mountains. We pause briefly on the island, and as we paddle back towards the dock the sun breaks through the clouds as our little green flotilla bobs up and down in the waves. Frankie catches a wave with his kayak and rides it for a few seconds, before the wave continues onwards into shore.
For lunch, we visit DeSoto Grill, with a reputation for great BBQ. The restaurant is packed with people, and the smell of the meat smoker permeates the space.
We order nachos with pulled pork, and then a peanut butter pie to go, and when it arrives the waitress hands me a spoon with a knowing smile.
At sunset we rent stand up paddleboards from Rocky Mountain Outfitters, and Nicole and I set out on the Flathead River. The river is so clear that you can see brightly colored rocks at the bottom, polished by thousands of years of ice and water.
Once we get into a groove and build some confidence, we goofily attempt headstands on our paddleboards. Wobbling back and forth the world is turned upside down, and luckily neither of us falls into the freezing river. Back on dry land we meander up and down the shore, looking for rocks to skip. I find the perfect flat but heavy rock and launch it, watching it hop ten times before settling to the bottom of the river.
We head to Moose’s Saloon for dinner. After walking through the swinging saloon doors, it takes my eyes a minute to adjust to the dim lighting. An enormous stuffed moose on the wall stands sentinel over the bar patrons. The walls and wooden booths are carved with memories of past visitors, nooks tucked around the sawdust-covered floor.
As the night progresses the volume of the jukebox competes with the buzz of the crowd, and we laugh and cheers with chilled glasses of beer over thin-crust pizza.
The next morning we drive across the Valley to Swan Mountain Ranch. We meet our guides Gabe and Danielle, two nomads who live in their van and travel the world when not leading llama-packing trips into the Rocky Mountains.
They introduce us to four llamas - Raffi, Champ, Mayfly, and Boxcar - which are then loaded along with our gear into a trailer. We pile into the Suburban, feeling like kids on family vacation, bouncing up the dirt forest service road to the trailhead.
When we arrive at the start of the trail, Gabe guides the llamas out of the trailer to load their saddlebags. Raffi gives me a goofy smile, and I know he will be mine for this hike. We step into the forest and Tommy says: “We’re officially on llama time!”
Each of us guides, or is guided by, a llama on a rollicking seven-mile hike up through a dense forest, green with recent rain, and across a ridge.
As we reach the top of the ridge we break out of the forest and are treated to a panoramic view of the Swan Mountains. The trail is lined with a sea of deep autumnal reds, oranges, and yellows. The fields give way to a vast valley of pine trees set against jagged peaks towering thousands of feet above.
Danielle picks a fresh huckleberry off the many bushes lining the trail, smiles and says “Mmmm, that was a good one.” I pick one for myself and give one to Frankie. Mine is sweet. His is tart.
The trail eventually levels out and leads to a viewpoint overlooking an alpine lake where we will be making camp for the night. We guide the llamas down a steep descent to the lake, which is crystal clear, and secure the llamas who begin to graze on the soft early-fall grasses.
As the sun dips low the wind picks up sending one of our tents soaring and the rest of our group scrambling to properly anchor our other shelters.
As the temperature begins to drop we bundle up and collect wood for a campfire, and Gabe prepares a delicious meal of short-ribs, pasta salad, baked beans, and Cole slaw.
Soon any sense of time and pressure gives way to the fire, food, and friends, and warmth found in each. As we share stories a bag of marshmallows is passed around, and as the yawns begin to outnumber the laughs, we settle into our tents and sleeping bags for a long night’s sleep.
The next morning we exit our tents into the frigid, pre-dawn light, and as we make a fire the sun rises, bathing the valley in a warming glow.
Gabe makes delicious bagel breakfast sandwiches, and we devour them beside the fire before packing up camp.
As we hike out, the mountains reach up to a bright blue sky of towering clouds. We bid farewell to the llamas.
Back in town, we stop at the 100-year-old Kalispell Grand Hotel at the corner of First & Main. Rooms cost a bit more than the original $2 per night they charged in 1912, but the accommodations are well worth it, and it feels like you are traveling back in time.
For our farewell dinner we go to elegantly vintage Mercantile Steak. Much of the dining space is adorned with wood grain and exposed brick, and there are stained glass chandeliers, a tin ceiling painted gold, and a large sliding library ladder behind the bar.
The bartenders, like dancers in a silent ballet, move quietly and rapidly behind the bar, making cocktails, pouring wine, and casting glances out over the dining room.
In the corner, a musician plays bass and sings jazz standards. Bailey, our waitress, recommends perfectly paired cocktails for appetizers and main courses, and brilliantly insists on a dessert of banana pie and peanut butter chocolate mousse.
As we walk back to the hotel, we are completely entranced by this vibrant city and its surroundings. We say our bittersweet goodbyes, and slide into a deep, contented sleep.
