Ghost Airport to Hot Springs

With “Nomad Liberation Day” (aka Labor Day) behind us, it was time to get moving again. First stop: the basics. Groceries, laundry, showers — the trifecta of chores that remind us we’re still tethered to civilization. Kerri had bookmarked a couple of overnight options nearby, but neither of us loved the idea. Instead, we aimed Marcel toward something that promised more elbow room: an abandoned dirt airport I’d spotted while doomscrolling maps in the grocery store parking lot. It sounded perfect for a one-night layover. Easy access off the highway, plenty of flat ground, and probably quiet — except for ghosts of old crop dusters.

Sure enough, when we pulled in, the place was exactly as advertised: an overgrown runway surrounded by nothing but trees. A lone trailer had staked the north end, so we rumbled south, rooster-tailing dust in our wake. Then we saw it — a freshly mowed patch right in the middle of the runway. Marcel practically steered himself onto it, parking with a front-row view of the Rockies.

Mystery, though: why was this patch mowed? And what was with the concrete ring I stumbled across while wandering around? After a little sleuthing (with a begrudging assist from AI), I discovered the ring was a compass rose — a circle where planes once parked to calibrate instruments. The mowed patch? That one took longer, but eventually I unearthed the truth: a Facebook group of RC airplane hobbyists keeps it trimmed for their flying meetups. Mystery solved. I slept like a baby.

Ahead of us stretched a massive valley, Rockies towering to the east, Columbia Mountains to the west. On paper, the route looked simple: cruise north, cross the Rockies, then head back south into Montana to wrap up our Canadian chapter in 2025. But maps are liars, and the details were already complicating things.

Kerri had a pin dropped on a spot not far away — a road leading up to Whiteswan Lake. Specifically, Lussier Creek Hot Springs, tucked along a washboard road that rattled Marcel’s teeth for mile after mile. By the time we reached the parking lot at 4 p.m., it was nearly full. The springs were packed with campers from the provincial park nearby. No thanks. We bailed, vowing to come back in the morning.

On the way back down the road, my eyes snagged a faint two-track disappearing into the trees. We followed it in, and a couple hundred yards later, the forest opened into the kind of spot that makes you feel smug. Sunlight for the solar. Clear sky for Starlink. And not a soul around. Home for the night.

The next morning we were up and moving not long after sunrise. Back at the hot springs, we weren’t alone, but it wasn’t the zoo of the day before either. Five or six folks shared the one pool that was actually warm, and we all soaked shoulder to shoulder. Crowded or not, it was exactly what our road-weary bones needed.

After a long soak, we climbed back into Marcel, rattled our way down the washboard road again, and hit the highway. Ahead lie another mystery spot, another dirt road, another story in waiting.