The sign simply said “plunge”, and was no more than a painted board nailed to a fencepost. Its arrow pointed east down a deeply rutted two track cutting through a cowpie-studded pasture. From behind the wheel, Darin glanced at me doubtfully, but I waved him on. Wasn’t this the whole point of travel: voluntarily getting lost?
Tucked into the pine and prairie foothills of the Little Rocky Mountains, the Landusky Plunge is a colorful oasis with miles of grassland unfolding in all directions. Emerald shallows deepening to sapphire and aquamarine depths make it a rare find: a polished jewel in a rough land. Its crystal-clear waters beckon travelers to stop and scrub off the road dust.
Sure, it was only early May in Montana, and barely 70 degrees, but I was dying to go for a swim.
I ran to the edge of the pool, peeling off clothes and kicking off sandals. Darin gave a wary glance to three kids at the far end of the pool. “Do we really have to swim in our underwear?”
I shot him a “what choice do you have?” look. And with that, I cannonballed into the deepest part of the plunge with an irrational confidence that, I realize now, only came from being able to see the bottom.
Expecting a hot spring, I was surprised to feel the water was lukewarm, almost the same temperature as the air. I let out a shriek of delight, and beckoned Darin to join me. His shyness melted, and we caroused like dolphins: twisting, splashing, diving, and chasing minnows.
But where was the source? Up the hillside we saw a second pool perched atop a tumble of mossy rocks. Water came roiling through a boulder-sized hole; tepid but soothing, like a bath that had slowly gone cold. Stones had been stacked underwater to make seats, and we lounged in the whirlpool, thankful someone else had done the heavy lifting.
Our swimming energy depleted, we stretched out on a beach of crumbled stone, soaking up sun while cattle lowed dreamily in the distance. As the rays slanted lower, we donned our clothes and hiked the hill overlooking the pool. In the last light of day, I snapped a picture that caught the water sparkling like the cross-section of a geode.
I still have that picture tucked away in my desk. It reminds me adventure is often a choice we make at a fork in the road, and that wonder can still be found in my own backyard. After years of trying to define it, the plunge also helped me develop my personal travel philosophy, which now consists of a simple recipe: just add water.
