After a glorious Seattle send-off (and maybe just one too many mushroom lat
tes), it was time to point Shevanigans southeast and head into the next leg of the journey—through wonderful Washington, into the incredible Idaho panhandle, across mountainous Montana, and finally, whimsical Wyoming’s Yellowstone National Park. You know me—if I can make an alliteration, I will.
Washington, I must say, completely won me over. It’s funny, I never really thought of Washington as a destination, you know? It always seemed more like a pass-through kind of place. But wow—does it deserve better PR! The scenery alone is like something out of a dream: towering trees, mountains that demand your attention, lakes that sparkle like sapphires, and winding roads that made my heart swoon. I could have happily lingered here for another month, hiking, camping, and
generally staring at nature like a lovestruck fool. But alas, a deadline called—Yellowstone was waiting.
A few months ago, I met Mathilda and Jonas, fellow VW travelers, at Busfusion in Ontario. They’re on the same epic mission to Argentina and were a few days ahead of me. They’d warned me: “Sheilagh, if you don’t book campsites ahead for Yellowstone, you’ll be sleeping under the stars… and probably in line for a site!” So, I followed their advice, snagged a spot, and also scheduled some TLC for Shevanigans in Colorado. The downside of booking ahead? Deadlines. And here I was, trying to escape deadlines! Ironic, right? But having a set route and destination for a change wasn’t all bad. It gave me a tiny bit of structure—which, believe me, I kinda needed after all my detours.
But structure or not, my journey through Washington was peppered with distractions; I was like Finn chasing squirrels—one scenic sidetrack after another. I can’t tell you how many times I thought, “Okay, just one more stop,” only to end up pulled over for the fifteenth time in an hour to stare at some new mountain vista or impossibly beautiful lake. The state should hire
me for their marketing team because I will scream from the mountaintops that Washington deserves to be on everyone’s bucket list.
Next up was Idaho’s amazing panhandle. I’d never heard much about this little slic
e of wilderness, but let me tell you—it’s an absolute gem. The national forests and lakes whispered my name at every turn, tempting me to abandon my plans and just set up camp there indefinitely. One particularly distracting gem was Flathead Lake in Montana, which I decided to casually circumnavigate. And by “casually,” I mean a full day of driving around its stunning shoreline, stopping every five minutes to soak in the views.
But then came Max’s—oh, Max’s in Big Fork, Montana—a place where I’m convinced the vanlife gods themselves sent me. You see, everyone who works (and owns) Max’s lives in a van. I mean, what better welcome can a fellow van dweller expect than from a whole crew of vanlifers? I parked Shevanigans right in between two other vans, each with dogs inside just itching to meet Finn. It was like a little vanlife reunion—except I didn’t know anyone. Yet.
Max’s is one of those places where the vibes are just right. An organic, everythin
g-made-from-scratch café with almond milk lattes so good they could bring world peace, live music floating through the air, and picnic tables that practically invite you to stay forever. Everyone was so friendly, and the whole place just felt like home. So, here’s how it went: I arrived for a latte, took a long, stunning walk in the state park right out their back
door, stayed for lunch, extended for dinner, and eventually threw in the towel for a night filled with live music, doggie playdates, and drinks.
This was the time I had allocated for Glacier National Park, which (spoiler alert) didn’t happen. I’ll have to see Glacier another time. It’ll still be there—although, let’s be real, with global warming, that’s highly questionable, so I’d better book that trip sooner rather than later! But the experience at Max’s? That was fleeting, unique, and needed to be seized. I am nothing if not an opportunist, so I stayed. Sorry, Glacier—next time, I promise.
With the good vibes of Max’s still humming through Shevanigans, I eventually made my way toward Yellowstone. But not without a couple more pit stops along the way. I mean, come on—what’s a road trip without some impromptu kayaking, swims for Finn, and hikes to stretch our legs?
As for Yellowstone? Well, that deserves its own post. Stay tuned.
Until then,
Sheilagh, Shevanigans & Finn
