Snafus, serenity, and slumber along the Missouri.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon and a warm breeze blew in from the west, I flopped down on a bench in front of the Beartooth tent, one of six canvas shelters set on a broad shoulder of prairie above the Missouri River. The golden slopes of the Horseshoe Hills sprawled out in all directions. Far to the north, the forested ridges of the Big Belt Mountains filled the horizon, while the wide green ribbon of river bottom meandered far below. With my phone dead in my pocket, I leaned back and closed my eyes, thankful for a quick repose after a long afternoon on the water.
After a few minutes, I peeked my head into the tent, blinking hard as my eyes adjusted. Inside were four beds, each made up neatly with sheepskins draped over the foot. With cowhides on the floor and weathered lanterns on the nightstands, the tent was rustic, clean, and charming. Not to mention inviting—as Anna, Megan, and I dropped our gear and familiarized ourselves with our new digs, we fought back the urge to crawl into bed and doze off.
Strolling the 4S campsite.
Soaking in the views around camp.
The tent set-up at 4S.
Looking toward the Big Belt Mountains.
At the soft crunch of tires on gravel, I left the tent to greet Sherri Saillor, one of the S's that gives 4S Glamping its name. She descended the driveway with a bag of charcoal in one arm and lighter fluid in the other—the final two components we needed to start our dinner. It was like she'd read our minds.
“You made it!” she exclaimed, a wide smile on her face.
“Yes, finally,” I said, my arms in the air. "Hallelujah!”
Our day had started some eight long hours earlier. We gathered at our workplace in downtown Bozeman at a leisurely 9:30, poised to leave at 10 and be on the river before noon. As we loaded our gear, we made the last-second decision to swap two of our paddleboards for innertubes and an inflatable cooler. With stacks of free beer abundant in the office, we had our priorities.
We left the office, Walmart-bound for snacks and caffeine to fuel us through the day. As Anna and I wandered through the store, drifting about like twigs floating lazily down a stream, Megan herded us toward the back of the store where the Holy Grail of our shopping trip lie: the child-sized snorkel. After an in-store unboxing and try-on, we threw the snorkel in the cart and headed for the register.
Between our extended grocery run and a missed exit, we kissed our 11:30 put-in goodbye.
“Shoot, did you guys get ice?” Anna asked. We had not. I headed back into the store, burning away the final minutes that transformed our pitstop into a 40-minute endeavor. Finally, with cars fully packed, we set off, merging onto I-90 and heading northwest toward Three Forks. Sun shining, AC blowing, and the cool waters of the Missouri calling, we were riding high.
Between our extended grocery run and a missed exit, we kissed our 11:30 put-in goodbye. By the time we dropped Anna’s 4Runner at the Fairweather take-out, bounced back to the Headwaters put-in, and pumped up our crafts, it was almost 2pm. Still, no matter—if everything went according to plan, we’d be off the water with plenty of time to grill our burgers & corn-on-the-cob, kick back with a few beers, and enjoy a long, relaxing evening in our wall tent at 4S.
After a couple hours on the water, soaking up the sun, swimming, and taking turns with the snorkel, Anna drifted over and asked if we had her paddle. We did not. No matter—with a consistent tailwind, we’d still be at Clarkston by 5.
As Megan and I snacked on Oreos, white-cheddar Cheetos—a crowd favorite—and cherries, Anna fished from her paddleboard, casting her line around us and occasionally swapping out flies, each time announcing, “This is the one.”
Leah and Anna settle in after a much-delayed launch.
Anna lounges and soaks in the sun on the slow-moving Missouri.
Exploring the Missouri sub-surface.
Another mile or two down the river, Anna called out, “I think I messed up.” I glanced at Megan, both of us bracing for the worst. Sure enough, it was the keys to our shuttle vehicle—they were sitting in Megan’s car at the put-in. At 5pm on a Thursday, it was unlikely we'd find someone else at the Fairweather take-out to give us a ride.
We weighed our options and decided to bail early. But where to leave the river? It was surrounded by private property, and we had no idea how far it was to the road.
“How fast do you think that train’s moving?” Anna asked, pointing to the chain of railcars chugging by. After flirting with the idea of jumping aboard, and contemplating the eventual exit of the moving train, Anna reluctantly abandoned her idea, leaving us to consider alternatives. We sent satellite texts to notify our coworkers of our predicament and briefly regained service long enough to load a map, allowing us to identify a spot about a mile downstream where the road, river, and railroad intersected. That was going to be our best bet.
Anna made small talk with our rescuer, offering him a river-dampened cigarette. Twenty minutes later, after effusive thanks and some beer money, we were back at the put-in—and boy, AC never felt so good.
Anna sprawled flat on her stomach and arm-paddled her board, while Megan and I performed the classic innertube backstroke, throwing in a few half-hearted kicks to speed things up. We arrived just in time, as the wind had shifted and began to push us back up the Missouri. After securing our vessels to the shore, bushwhacking through thistle up the riverbank, and crawling through barbed-wire fence, we emerged on the road. Bikinis on, thumbs out, we hoped it wouldn’t be long before we caught a hitch.
Ten minutes later, a tan SUV pulled to a stop, and a sun-weathered handyman emerged, pushing aside piles of tools and throwing up one of his rear seats to make room for us. With Anna in the passenger seat and Megan and I squished together in the rear, we looked around the vehicle at the weed pipe, empty Modelo cans, and disposable containers scattered around with levels, hammers, and a tool belt. Anna made small talk with our rescuer, offering him a river-dampened cigarette. Twenty minutes later, after effusive thanks and some beer money, we were back at Headwaters—and boy, AC never felt so good.
All we had left to do now was retrieve our abandoned crafts, and we’d be home-free to (finally) check into 4S. We parked at a pull-out in front of some mailboxes, threw on our hazards, trekked back across the tracks and down the bank, and hauled our gear up. As we crested the bank, a waggly-tailed, floppy-eared dog greeted us. “Raleigh!” We knew Mike must be close by.
“What in the hell did you get yourselves into?” he asked, half disappointed, half amused, as he reached to grab the floatie cooler. Finally, we were out of the woods.
And that’s how Sherri met us, sun-kissed, exhausted, and thankful to be guests at her rustic sanctuary. She explained that she and her husband bought the sprawling 320-acre parcel as a place to keep their daughter Jessica’s horses. The idea for a glamping operation didn’t arise until last year, when Jessica, sick on Sherri’s couch, stumbled upon an ad for canvas tents and hatched the business idea. “We kinda fly by the seat of our pants,” she explained.
Mike and Raleigh enjoy the views from the porch of the Beartooth tent.
Leah takes a moment to relax after a long day on the river.
No sound but the tents flapping in the breeze.
The long-awaited BBQ.
While 4S currently consists of six canvas tents, a fire pit, and an onsite bathroom, Sherri and her family have high hopes for the future, including converting an old schoolhouse into a small events venue—Jessica chose the spot for her wedding last summer—and one day creating an outdoor amphitheater, set into the nearby hillside.
As we exchanged river stories and admiration for the surrounding landscape, the sun dipped lower on the horizon, with a sleepy, relaxed cadence that mirrored our own. We said our goodbyes, and Sherri promised to be back in the morning to check in on us.
With the full moon peeking through the mesh windows, we drifted off to sleep—and sleep we did, hard, until morning, when we woke to the muffled chatter of Sherri and her mother.
With our new friends gone, we wheeled over the Weber, stomachs growling and eyelids growing heavier by the minute. We settled into camp chairs and waited for the coals to heat up. Six burgers, six ears of corn, far too many Oreos, and two small corn-husk flare-ups later, we were more than ready to turn in.
After dousing the coals, we made our way into the tent and crawled into bed. With the full moon peeking through the mesh windows, we drifted off to sleep—and sleep we did, hard, until morning, when we woke to the muffled chatter of Sherri and her mother, who had come to prepare another tent for some international guests and to bring us breakfast.
The spread was bountiful: coffee, cream & sugar, honey, sweet and savory pastries. Looking around at the seemingly endless landscape, counting fold after fold of unbroken country, I could imagine no better way to start my morning. And as the wind swept calmly over the prairie, it seemed to agree.
To book a visit or for more information about 4S, click here or email [email protected].
