Water is very healing and this lake is one of my favorite Montana places. The steady rhythm of the waves colliding with the shore induce a calming mood. Buzzing around the lake, touristing the small artsy main street shops and sampling the local microbrews doesn't hurt either.
People watching as a full time sport includes the spectacle of thundering Harleys roaring down the quaint town center, projecting a "you may not care for us, but you will not ignore us" vibe. The leathered up ladies wearing their "don't fuck with me" scowls, perched up on their elevated thrones behind their men, each sporting an enlarged, jiggling middle section. I'm not sure the image in their heads matches the impressions of the onlookers.
Montana winters are long, and spring is a slow motion dance of fits and starts before summer finally arrives. By then you are faced with cramming the most you can into 10 or so weekends of travel, outdoor activities and the local music festivals. Packing the summer schedule is an art most Montanans hone out of necessity. Those of us who are transplants also learn the skill. Lest you approach the short, autumn days with a downtrodden, sinking feeling that you missed your chance and now face the long, dark winter before the sunshine warms your skin again.
