This past weekend I decided to go solo car camping and hiking for the weekend. The forecast predicted rain. I remained optimistic. It could be my last chance for the year. After many hours of planning and packing I chose to go for it.

I drove into Montana’s Crazy Mountains with a simple plan: find a quiet place, set up camp, make something warm to eat, and spend the night surrounded by wilderness in my pick up bed.

The weather had other ideas.

When I arrived I noticed only one other spot was taken-out of 12.

I parked the car, shut off the engine, and listened. Silence from people. Roaring from Big Timber Creek and the wind rustling through the pines.

After 15 minutes it began to rain.

I crawled into the shelter of the back of my pick up truck where I was planning to use as my sleeping quarters. The sound of rain against the roof persisted.

It continued to tapped against the truck shell, the mountains disappeared behind layers of gray clouds and fog. Everything smelled like wet earth, pine, and cold air.

Car camping can be beautiful when the weather turns. The truck bed became a tiny shelter in the middle of a huge landscape. I rearranged my sleeping gear, pulled out a dry layer, and made a simple dinner while watching rain slide down the windows.

There was no campfire.

No sunset.

No comfortable chair outside.

And somehow, none of that mattered.

Once darkness settled in, the Crazy Mountains became almost completely invisible. I could hear the rain but couldn’t see where the mountains ended and the sky began. The isolation felt different from being alone at home. Out here, solitude wasn’t the absence of something. It was the whole experience.

I crawled into my sleeping bag and listened to the storm and attempted to read a few pages in a book I brought with my handy dandy headlamp.

Eventually I drifted off to sleep.

Every so often, I would wake up and check the windows.

Still raining.

When I awoke at 6 am the rain had stopped. I began dreaming of a breakfast campfire and morning hike then drifted back to sleep.

When I awoke again, the sound was pouring rain.

At about 10 am I called it.

I was done.

Not because the night had been terrible, it had actually been pretty incredible; but because the rain showed no signs of letting up, and sometimes the best part of an adventure is knowing when to change the plan.

So I packed up early.

Wet gear went wherever I could find room for it. Sleeping bag stuffed away. Coffee made. Muddy boots on. Tarps stashed away as the rain continued to fall.

Instead of spending another day hiding from the weather in the mountains, I decided to make the most of being in Montana.

I pointed the car toward Big Timber.

The plan changed from mountain solitude to small-town wandering, more coffee, and thrift stores. I felt so free and satisfyied while embracing the new adventure. Soon I was walking into a thrift store on a rainy day with absolutely no idea what I was going to find.

From Big Timber, I eventually made my way toward Livingston, stopping along the way and letting the day unfold without much of an itinerary.

By then, the camping trip had turned into something completely different.

And honestly, that’s what I love about this particular weekend.

The weekend started with a plan to spend hours surrounded by mountains, and later I’m digging through racks of vintage clothes, looking at old furniture, finding strange little treasures, and wondering how I’m possibly going to fit one more thing into the truck.

The Crazy Mountains gave me the solitude I was looking for.

Big Timber and Livingston gave me a rainy-day adventure I hadn’t planned on.

Sometimes the best trips aren’t the ones where everything goes according to plan.

Sometimes they’re the ones where you wake up early, pack up in the rain, turn the key, and see where the road takes you next.