Morrell Mountain
Back in the land of the free — or free-ish, if we’re being honest. The border crossing into Montana was uneventful in the best way: no line, no fuss, just a quick chat with the U.S. agent about what the heck we’d been doing for the past six weeks. A few nods later, we were waved through.
I’d planned ahead for this return. A few weeks earlier, I’d re-upped my membership with the Loyal Order of the Moose. I’d loved being a Moose back in my Big Blue days — the friendly bars, the sense of community, the occasional parking-lot campout. One of my best memories came from the Whitefish Lodge: first as a solo traveler in 2013, flipping burgers and helping with yard work while visiting Glacier National Park, and again in 2015 with Kerri before we tackled the Alaska Highway. So naturally, we swung by Whitefish for a nostalgic hello. Unfortunately, like so many Moose Lodges these days, the place was fading. Open only a few hours, two days a week — and, of course, we landed on one of the other five days. Timing is everything.
From Whitefish we continued south into Kalispell, which qualifies as “big city” in Montana. It was a full errand day: groceries, propane, laundry, fuel, and a much-needed oil change for Marcel. Before sundown we continued on and followed the Rockies down past Flathead Lake to its smaller sibling, Swan Lake. Across the road sat Swan Lake Campground, where we traded a few dollars for a legitimate campsite — no wild views, but water refills and a trash bin are luxuries on the road. The next morning, feeling dangerously civilized, we fled. South again, the Rockies standing guard to our left, until a sign at Seeley Lake tempted us west into the mountains.
Morrell Creek Road wound deep into the forest until we found a pair of tiny lakes that looked promising — except Marcel sat at a downhill angle better suited for sledding. Scanning the map, we spotted a road across the way climbing up Morrell Mountain to a fire lookout. That sounded like our kind of detour. We shifted into 4-low and started crawling. The forest showed heavy fire scars, all black trunks and silver snags. The road twisted endlessly, steering wheel never straight for more than a second. On the cliffside turns, I had the better view; on the next switchback, Kerri did — white-knuckled, gripping the armrest like it was a lifeline.
When we finally reached the top, the world had vanished into clouds. No sweeping vistas, just mist and mystery. But by the next day the clouds dropped below us, leaving us floating above a sea of white. At nearly 8,000 feet, the sky was ours. We spent three nights up there, heater humming, curtains open to the endless horizon. A handful of sightseers came and went, but mostly it was just us, the wind, and the occasional raven passing by at eye level.
A short hike past the gate brought us to the fire tower itself, where two rangers were stationed. They were kind enough to chat, explaining how one actually lands such a job. (Pro tip: there aren’t nearly enough people applying. Apparently solitude and lightning aren’t big selling points.)
When it was finally time to descend, Kerri braced herself for another round of cliffside exposure. I couldn’t help day-dreaming on the way down — picturing the two of us spending a whole summer in a lookout tower, just us, the forest, and a sky that never ends. Maybe one day.
