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Five-Star Glamping
Into the wild of Montana
About five years ago, I randomly purchased a book called How to Stay Alive in the Woods by Bradford Angier. Given that I found it in a fancy home decor store, I think the green rubber-bound volume with safety orange print was meant to be ironic, aimed at a dedicated urban dweller, like me, whose absence of knowledge about the natural world is profound.
As a New Yorker, I can perfectly navigate the maze of Manhattan streets and bus routes, sizing up potential predators (hostile crackheads, speeding taxis, pitbulls) and prey (cafes with excellent lattes, sample sales, clean-ish public restrooms). But if Internet/cellphone/GPS civilization as I know it suddenly crumbled, it's doubtful I'd be able to last very long "living off the land".
Knowing this, however, has never been enough to prompt me to change (the aforementioned book remains unread). And though I'm not a mandatory high-heels and make-up wearing kind of gal, I would definitely put camping high on the list of "Not My Idea of Fun". Perhaps then, it was an over-abundance of city hotels and beach resorts that recently tempted me into the wilderness of Montana by the promise of five-star camping or "glamping".
Paws Up, "the last best place," was as pretty as its website pictures: lots of tall, spindly trees, rolling green plains, and the expected big sky (it really does seem bigger in Montana). Owned by a family who made some of their fortune via Fredericks of Hollywood and SuperCuts, it was a tad tedious to get to: a two-hour flight from New York to Chicago, followed by a three-hour flight to Missoula, one of the state's progressive hubs (as evidenced by the popularity of "Keep Missoula Weird" bumper stickers). From there, it was about a 30-minute drive to the resort's 60 square miles of adventure, where one could stay in River Camp or Tent City (a dozen 270-square-foot tents with real beds, electricity, and butlers); get rubbed down in Spa Town (10 treatment tents); or drive ATVs (this is apparently what the Rolling Stones did when they stayed here), fly-fish, repel, go tubing and white-water rafting (in summer), or go dog-sledding, skiing, snowshoeing, snowmobiling, and ice skating (in winter). The site of the resort is a working ranch that was once owned by the son of Charles Lindbergh.
As a New Yorker, I can perfectly navigate the maze of Manhattan streets and bus routes, sizing up potential predators (hostile crackheads, speeding taxis, pitbulls) and prey (cafes with excellent lattes, sample sales, clean-ish public restrooms). But if Internet/cellphone/GPS civilization as I know it suddenly crumbled, it's doubtful I'd be able to last very long "living off the land".
Knowing this, however, has never been enough to prompt me to change (the aforementioned book remains unread). And though I'm not a mandatory high-heels and make-up wearing kind of gal, I would definitely put camping high on the list of "Not My Idea of Fun". Perhaps then, it was an over-abundance of city hotels and beach resorts that recently tempted me into the wilderness of Montana by the promise of five-star camping or "glamping".
Paws Up, "the last best place," was as pretty as its website pictures: lots of tall, spindly trees, rolling green plains, and the expected big sky (it really does seem bigger in Montana). Owned by a family who made some of their fortune via Fredericks of Hollywood and SuperCuts, it was a tad tedious to get to: a two-hour flight from New York to Chicago, followed by a three-hour flight to Missoula, one of the state's progressive hubs (as evidenced by the popularity of "Keep Missoula Weird" bumper stickers). From there, it was about a 30-minute drive to the resort's 60 square miles of adventure, where one could stay in River Camp or Tent City (a dozen 270-square-foot tents with real beds, electricity, and butlers); get rubbed down in Spa Town (10 treatment tents); or drive ATVs (this is apparently what the Rolling Stones did when they stayed here), fly-fish, repel, go tubing and white-water rafting (in summer), or go dog-sledding, skiing, snowshoeing, snowmobiling, and ice skating (in winter). The site of the resort is a working ranch that was once owned by the son of Charles Lindbergh.
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