I have never had a bad day when I wake up in Montana. In the lovely landscape beneath the wide-open sky, something good always promises to happen. As an aspiring angler, I used to drive all the way from New York to fish in Big Sky country in my Saab (a car I ultimately traded for a fly rod, if you can believe it). Since the fishing was the thing, I didn’t mind staying in motels with the television chained to the wall. Once, I fished late and figured I could stay at the next place along the highway. Big mistake—it turned out that Evel Knievel’s son was dare-deviling his motorcycle in some crazy stunt. I ended up staying in a spare room behind a Mexican restaurant. That’s a mistake you only make once. But eventually, you grow older and graduate from motel life. I fell in love with two veritable Montana institutions that capture Montana’s sense of grandeur, but also its eccentricity and strong personality. Chico Hot Springs sits above the small town of Emigrant in Paradise Valley, where the Yellowstone River flows alongside cattle ranches and snow-covered mountains. This is home to some of the famous spring creeks, where you can fish year-round. Chico Hot Springs, a beloved hotel, is all things to most people—it’s almost always full.
The hotel has the welcome sleepiness of a large country house. When you arrive in the day, it might feel empty—everybody’s out on the trail or the water. It feels like it’s been around forever (it opened in 1900). There are simple rooms in the main lodge (the shower’s down the hall). I prefer the rustic wooden cabins—a few narrow beds, hooks in the wall, which is really all you need. It reminds me of other fishing lodges and my family’s cabin back in Wisconsin. The saloon is dark and not quite a dive; it’s a place you’d rather have a beer than an artfully stirred martini. I’ve met people there—we started talking about fishing—and the next thing I know, it’s after midnight and we were passing around a flask. The hot springs themselves are best when the temperature drops and you soak as the air cools and you can forget about the trout you lost that day. There’s a window where you order drinks without having to go back inside—and there’s usually a line, which gives you a sense of the celebratory feeling. At Chico, everybody’s in a good mood and feels like they’re in the right place.
I sat under the stars and listened to Rock Creek flow by in the darkness.
If you fall in love with a destination, then naturally enough, you want to graduate to the most extremely elegant experience. That brought me down the road and up the hill to The Ranch at Rock Creek, one of the great hotels anywhere. As soon as you pull into the handsome main lodge, you know you’ve arrived. The hotel’s land goes on and on (it’s spread across 6,600 acres) on both sides of the welcoming Rock Creek. The first time I went, I was just there for the fishing (I luckily intersected with the famous salmon fly hatch). But I couldn’t believe how great the hospitality was. The lobby is my dream room, with a stone fireplace, dark wooden bar, textiles draped over leather couches. I settled in with a cold glass of Riesling, and, what’s this, a tray of warm chocolate cookies (was that a pinch of sea salt?) laid out for guests. I stayed in a proper canvas tent with a wooden floor—you might call this gentlemanly rustic. I had my own hot tub and sat under the stars and listened to Rock Creek flow by in the darkness. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.
The Ranch at Rock Creek has everything you’d expect at a fancy hotel—spa, stone-lined pool, and hot tub. But I want to put in a word for the bowling alley. Images of cowboys hang over the lanes and they set the mood. You start bowling with friends, and the next thing you know, you’re talking to strangers (the open bar helps). It’s all shockingly enjoyable. I still owe a man from North Dakota $20 after he and his wife beat his mother-in-law and myself in a game. I tried to pay him, but he politely declined (he was wearing head-to-toe RL, as it happens).
It’s not bowling, but riding that attracts many people to the ranch. I don’t spend a lot of time on horseback myself. But the horses are so lovely that I try to watch them each day when they run through the field each morning into the wooden arena. Then I head down to the impressive tack room and marvel at all the leather saddles hanging on the wall. One year, we had lunch at a long table laid along the length of the wooden bridge over the creek. There were fiddle players at one end and vases of wildflowers everywhere. Suddenly the band started playing happy birthday to the chef, who appeared out of nowhere on a bicycle and, in perfect time, rolled across the bridge and blew out a candle on a cake that had just arrived. Now what else can you say about a place like that? Montana is a place where the dramas of the day unfold on a scale that feels larger than anywhere else. That’s why it’s bittersweet to leave and so thrilling to return.
DAVID COGGINS is the author of The Believer: A Year in the Fly Fishing Life and The New York Times best seller Men and Style. He also writes a newsletter titled, The Contender.
