Day 23 - Great Falls to White Sulfur Springs, Montana - 99 Miles

Today was very nearly a perfect day on the road except for one aspect: I wanted to commit homicide on our GPS, who, it would seem, is intent on driving me over the edge. Once you tell her (the voice is female) that you intend to head in a certain direction, or take a certain route, she is like a boot-camp drill sergeant who intends for you to make it through THAT program come Hell or high water. No amount of pleading or cajoling -- or changing the directions you've given her -- seems to make any difference to her whatsoever. She just will not change her mind. You are simply going where you originally instructed her and you're going to like it.

When we wanted to leave Great Falls today and head south toward Yellowstone Park in Wyoming, we fed her the address of our camp last night, which we knew lay quite close to Route 89 that we hoped to take south out of town. So far so good. Ms. GPS took over, seemed to be on her game, and quite soon she successfully navigated us onto Route 89.

Only problem was, it was Route 89 in the opposite direction we wanted to go. I instructed Concetta to turn off Ms. GPS until I could reverse direction, which she did. In the meantime I stopped to fill up the gas tank in a station that just happened to be handy. That accomplished, we re-entered Route 89 going south instead of north, and I told Concetta to feed in a fictitious address of some town up ahead so that Ms. GPS could take over and guide us the rest of the way.

Well, that's when all Hell broke loose. Ms. GPS was having none of a change in plans, no sir! Immediately she began protesting that we were going in the wrong direction. Then, after a few seconds, when she sensed we were paying no attention, she began DEMANDING, "Make a U-turn....Make a U-turn.....Make a U-turn -- over and and over and over like it was some sort of countdown to Armageddon.

Had the b***h been a real woman I would have pulled over and strangled her to death without a single bit of remorse. Then I would have driven away, leaving her lifeless body on the sidewalk. As it was, Concetta kept trying to reason with her and feed in a new address, but Ms. GPS stubbornly held her ground. There would be no negotiation on this point. We were going back to Great Falls or ELSE!!! "Make a U-turn....Make a U-turn.....Make a U-turn."

Finally we just had to turn the darn woman off and fly by the seat of our pants. Thankfully, Route 89 signs seemed to be fairly plentiful and they all used the word "south" which sort of made us confident that we were actually traveling the direction we wanted to go. Once we arrived on the edge of town, and could see no more Great Falls on the horizon, we felt pretty confident that our solo flying had accomplished the job.

At this point in time I should tell you that it was past noon when we finally reached the outskirts of Great Falls. We had spent our morning navigating by map through the city and into the canyon location of the Falls of the Missouri that explorer Meriwether Lewis had discovered way back in 1805. We thought we knew where the falls could be found since the folks at the Lewis and Clark Interpretive Center on yesterday's visit drew us a map that seemed pretty foolproof.

Still, we were a bit uncertain at times, thought we were lost for awhile, but eventually we made it to the point on the map that corresponded to a tiny, narrow, undulating bit of tarmac that we thought should be the dam road -- no pun. I say "no pun" for the name of the road was in fact, the Marony Dam Road.

As we sat at the road entrance pondering whether it would be insane to try and squeeze our very large rig down this hopelessly slender bit of asphalt, a car drove up beside us, and the driver rolled down his window. Concetta rolled hers down as well. "You looking for the road to the dam?" the driver asked.

"Yes," we chorused together.

"Well this is it," the driver said. "You just go down here about 4 miles until you get to a turnoff beside a farm on the left. Take the right-hand fork at the turnoff and go down to the Ryan Dam. It's a couple of miles, but don't drive all the way to the dam parking lot. You'll have an easier time turning around if you stay up above where the white clubhouse is. Park it there, then walk down to the park and the falls overview. Watch for my car," he said. "The club house is just past my house."

We had recently being listening to a book on tape where the author related how he had spent some time in Montana. He said, "Montanans were famous for going out of their way to help someone." Now we had seen it for ourselves.

"Thanks so much helping us," Concetta told the driver out her window.

Happy to do it," the man said. We all waved and then off he went.

Now we were certain that we were on the right track. But when we started up the road I immediately began to have second thoughts on the trip to the dam. Not only was the road narrow and had almost no shoulders, but each side was obviously extremely soggy from the rain. Any false step, and we'd be up to our axles in mud. To make matters worse, at 50 miles per hour the rig swayed so violently with the undulations of the road, that it began to make me seasick.

"Okay," I told Concetta, "we're going to be making this trip at 40 miles an hour and I'm going to drive down the middle of this crazy road so as to stay as far as possible away from each shoulder." And that's what we did. The ride was a little longer, but we only had to move into our lane to let traffic by. Soon, we had arrived on the canyon bottom, found the heretofore mentioned club house, and parked the rig on a nice level spot.

Then Concetta and I got in our steps for the day by walking down the road to the normal parking lot, just a hundred yards or so, and took the suspension bridge over to the spit of land the brochures called "the Island." Foot traffic on the bridge emerges in a lovely park filled with pines, ash trees, and other greenery. From there you cross the park, climb up the sandstone steps, and eventually emerge onto a viewing platform that lies directly downstream from the dam and falls.

Once there, it's easy to see why so many people travel the skinny, bumpy road out to see the falls. To say the spectacle is magnificent is decidedly an understatement. You can't take your eyes off the flood of water as it sweeps powerfully over the top of the dam, cascades over the original "Great Falls" of Meriwether Lewis' time, then goes thundering away down the canyon toward the confluence of two of America's great rivers, the Missouri and the Mississippi. From there it's on it's way to the Gulf of Mexico and New Orleans.

There was a lot of spray in the air, and the camera isn't fond of spray, so we didn't stay too long on the overlook. But the whole experience of getting help from a stranger, navigating the tiny road, finding a great place to maneuver the rig, enjoying the beautiful park, and enjoying the awesomeness of one of nature's great gifts left a smile on our faces for the rest of the day. At this point we'd go back again in a heartbeat.

Now I've already related that we used Ms. GPS to navigate us through the city toward our intended exit route. When we pulled the plug on her we traveled down Route 89 until we reached the edge of town where, conveniently, we found not only a great side road on which to park and have lunch, but an adjacent Walmart where we hoped to pick up a prescription and do some shopping.

With these tasks out of the way, it was approaching 2:00 p.m. and we still had a long way to go before we hoped to find a camp. It was time to turn on Ms. GPS and ask her to find us a camp in the vicinity of any one of several towns through which we intended to travel.

As you might guess, she refused to find any camps no matter which town we entered. I think she was pouting and hoping to teach us a lesson. Never mind, we turned her off again and navigated solo through one of the most beautiful stretches of territory we'd seen since leaving Canada. For miles and miles we followed Belt Creek through Belt Canyon on Route 89, and just enjoyed every single mile of it. We did begin to realize that perhaps Ms. GPS had been right as the only camps we saw were for people staying in tents.

Finally, as it neared 4:00 p.m. -- long past the usual stopping time -- we found a camp in White Sulfur Springs that not only boasted room for RVs, but had full hookups, immaculate grounds, and a far off view of the mountains and coming sunset to die for. So far there has been a minimum of bugs and no noise from the neighbors. The place is a dream come true and one we'd recommend for anyone coming this way.

So there you are. Ms. GPS is still alive, though definitely in the dog house. Tomorrow we'll be headed south again, potentially into Wyoming where we hope to visit Yellowstone for the first time since Concetta was pregnant with Robbie, and that's a long, long time ago.

So when you hit the road and are crazy enough to trust your GPS, we wish you exciting destinations and memorable travels from the Davises, the Happy Wanderers.