Montana’s always been a magnet for explorers, and I’m drawn into it on a regular basis, this time heading west from Billings, on Interstate 90, for a bit of 21st-century exploration along one of many of Montana’s historic corridors of the Lewis and Clark National Historic Trail.

During the last century, some explorers stayed, leaving their mark in places such as Big Timber, my only stop on the way to Chico Hot Springs Resort. Both bear their Western heritage proudly and tastefully, attracting what I call vintage pioneers—people in search of the past. I’m curious to know what they find.

If the past lives anywhere in Big Timber, it’s in The Grand Hotel, a fully restored Victorian-era hotel, now run as a B and B by proprietor Larry Edwards. Built in 1890 and listed on the National Register of Historic Places, The Grand has always served locals as well as passersby. Edwards says that even after he bought it, local cowboys—retired and elderly—would come in and slap a nickel on the bar—once the going nightly room rate.

My husband and I enjoy a lunch of grand proportions over imaginings of former times in this former saloon—not hard in such authentic surroundings. A cup of thick, smoked ham and corn chowder complements a half turkey and cheddar sandwich on tender sourdough bread, and a side of sweet, creamy coleslaw is mellow but not mute, adding a satisfying crunch to each mouthful.

The Grand offers lunch and dinner for anyone with an appetite—and breakfast to overnight guests. Within sight of the Crazy Mountains, you can put aside your cares and relish a genuine Western climate that includes world-class trout fishing and hiking. And don’t forget your camera here. Every view through the window is world-class too.

Just an hour away, Chico Hot Springs Resort sits deep in Paradise Valley, a fertile carpet of land laid at the foot of the Absaroka Mountain Range, surrounded by Gallatin National Forest just north of Yellowstone Park in Wyoming. Rich in gold mining history, Chico’s real sparkle literally springs from the hot water beneath it.

It’s been at least five years since I was here, that time in summer. It’s February and in the 20s, but as locals know, Chico’s literally hot with activities year-round. The springs never cease their search for the surface, and the two pools—a large warm one and smaller, warmer pool—are only empty at night, when the pools are cleaned and refilled with fresh spring water.

A destination for centuries for Native Peoples and white men as far back as 1883, Chico’s hot springs earned a reputation for various health benefits, including purported healing properties. Whether true or not, tonight I relax and fortify myself against the cold with a good soak, fitting preparation for anything you care to do here. 

At 9 the next morning, I’m among the five people assembled in a small building attached to Chico’s gift shop, by the barn. We’re here for a half-day dogsled trek, but first: “Dogsledding 101.” Mark Nardin, owner of Absaroka Dogsled Treks, gives us the do’s and don’ts of mushing a team of their purebred Siberian Huskies. (They don’t use that term—“mushing”—with the dogs though, Nardin tells us, because its enunciation is too soft.)

“My commands are very literal,” said Nardin. If you want the dog to go, he says, don’t say “Come.” “Let’s go,” means go. “Whoa” is a courtesy that you’re going to come to a stop.

Nardin iterates his training philosophy. “You don’t manage by intimidation, you manage by positive reinforcement,” which he does frequently during interactions with his dogs, 22 of which wait outside in the “Mush Bus,” a small, former school bus in which he’s built 3 tiers of cubicles on either side of the aisle. Each dog lies comfortably in his or her cubicle.

The dogs—all various shades and patterns of grey, black, white, and cream colors—were “off” yesterday, says Nardin, preparing us for the din of barks, howls, and growls we can expect to hear during the harnessing process, as well as his commands. “You’ll hear me sound like either a master sergeant or a kindergarten teacher,” he said, stressing his need for a stern voice at times to let them know its time for business or to stay in control as the “alpha dog” of his “pack.” “It’s a lot like taking a bunch of kindergartners on a field trip.”

We climb aboard the Mush Bus for a 15-minute jaunt to Mill Canyon and the trailhead of a snow-covered logging road, our route into Gallatin and the Absarokas. At the trailhead, Nardin organizes nylon lead lines and harnesses on the snow in front of each of the three ash sleds, and harnessing begins. The dogs know, and a chorus of howls, whines, sporadic barks, and growls begins and grows at times to an almost deafening pitch, the sound of animals anxious to do their jobs. “Lead” dogs take the lead positions, “swing” dogs follow, and “wheel” dogs follow them in the two six-dog teams. Nardin hitches extra swing dogs to his 10-dog team.

I take my seat in the sled and wrap myself in a sleeping bag, as Nardin gives last minute instructions to the two men in our group who’ll stand on the sled runners and “mush” the teams. Nardin whistles loudly, yells, “Let’s go, let’s go!” and the sled lurches forward as the dogs plant all fours into the snow and launch their bodies against their harnesses. The sled follows with a jolt, and we’re off at a good clip.

All’s quiet except for the uninterrupted swish of the sled runners against the soft snow and the dogs’ heavy breathing, their feet moving forward in unison in a rhythmic pattern, ears laid back like hair streaming in the wind. They look happy.

Frequently, Nardin, with his team in the lead, looks back to make sure we’re keeping pace. I’m in the hands of six dogs and a musher, a soft-spoken stranger who, when I ask, says his name is simply Raider. “What do you do, Raider?” 

“I used to have a ranch [near White Sulphur Springs, Mont.],” he said. Ranching got too hard, he says, so he worked as an assessor, retired, survived the death of his wife, remarried, and he and his new wife are traveling.

It’s mostly uphill travel to a campsite for lunch. Nardin lays two sleeping bags and a caribou skin over the snow and “sets the table” with napkins, silverware, and plastic containers filled with fresh vegetables, dip, sliced cheeses, and huckleberry cheesecake. As the sun has disappeared in the now-grey sky, we welcome the thermoses of French onion soup, cocoa, and coffee. 

Nardin says he got his start in dogsledding in Jackson (Hole), Wyo., 12 years ago.“Why do you think this appeals to people?” I ask him, after he tells me he’s taken increasing numbers of guests on treks during those 12 years, many of whom return with family and friends year after year. He relates a story of a surgeon from the East who he says decided to “do this for myself” after realizing he spends all day helping others. “We’re rediscovering ourselves,” said Nardin, leaving me to ponder what they find in the search. Maybe, as Nardin poses, there’s an element of risk to overcome. 

Maybe within Montana’s pristine forests the modern-day “explorer” finds an instinctive, sometimes spiritual, conative experience and a rare satisfaction, not unlike that of early frontiersmen or, as Nardin points out, like that of soldiers who risk death and survive. 

As we prepare to leave for the return trip, Nardin lets out a howl. All 20 dogs follow suit, and a deafening chorus rings through the pines. Crucial to exploration during Alaska’s 1899 gold rush, sled dogs possess uncommon courage, independence, and intelligence. Harnessed by man for a set purpose, the dogs negotiated the forces of nature but not alone. With time an intimate relationship developed that helped ensure survival, a connection that continues in places like this and in other forms. Like the cowboy and his horse, they learned to depend on each other and communicate—or perhaps perish. 

Back at Chico, mushing partners part ways, and I’m ready for another soak and dinner. I’ve been looking forward to meeting Chico General Manager Colin Davis, who’s arranged for us to meet for dinner. 

It’s a Friday, close to 8 p.m., and people are pouring into Chico’s main lodge to check in for the night or dinner. My husband and I take a comfortable seat near a warm pellet stove. Beside it, on an oval, green dog bed, lies a large German Shorthair Pointer, partially covered up with two towels and fast asleep, seemingly unaware of the activity around him. Everyone rests soundly here, dogs included. 

Davis introduces himself and escorts us to the back of the dining room to our table. He’s been with Chico seven years, he says, but became a managing partner after just two years.

“We think the same…” said Davis of Mike and Eve Art, Chico’s owners since the mid 1970s. “You know Mike’s great. He’s like, ‘We’re caretakers, we’re really just taking care of the Old Lady, and we’re going to pass her on…’ But the biggest goal is to grow and not change.” Sound familiar?

According to Davis, people come here not just for the environment, not just for Montana or the Old West or history. “I think it’s all those things…” he said. “… I think it’s quintessential Montana… It’s tucked away in the West, it’s family-owned, it’s still in a very rural area, it’s the real deal.” 

My Gorgonzola filet mignon arrives, a lovely cut of beef, cooked to the pink—as in medium doneness—of perfection, lightly rubbed with toasted fennel and coriander and served with a Fonseca Port reduction, flavors that contrast marvelously with the sharp, throaty savor of the Gorgonzola cheese finish on and around the thick fillet. 

The menu—which Davis describes as “meat and potatoes”—is another Chico tradition, started here, incidentally, by Larry Edwards, now in Big Timber. “He was really the one that set the tenor for the basic dishes,” said Davis. Recruited by the Arts in the ’70s, Edwards pioneered Chico cuisine, creating traditional favorites such as beef Wellington and the flaming orange, a signature dessert and visual delight. Every effort is made to use local producers for everything, including meats. Herbs and vegetables are grown on the grounds, and scratch cooking prevails. 
Current Chef Chris Clark is homegrown too. Having come up through the ranks, says Davis, Clark “gets what we do. He helped us put the cookbook together. He’s done a phenomenal job.” I can only nod agreement as I sample first my carrot cake, then my husband’s coconut almond tart, and finally the signature flaming orange. Just roll me back to my room.

Only two others venture out on this chilly night for a final soak in the pools. Steam rises off the warm water into a layer of fog that hangs over our heads, creating a dream-like atmosphere, made more ethereal by the pine-covered foothills that rise just behind the poolside grill. In the light of a full moon, the effect is calming, and there’s a sense of being able to share the experience of explorers and Native Peoples. Moments like these have tied people to traditions, the land, and to each other for as long as their existence.