Northern Exposure

Perched high above Flathead Lake in Montana, the author marvels at the sapphire expanse below, where boats bask in the early fall mountain breeze. Brianna Randall

Tiller between my legs, I hold the finicky jib sheet in one hand and my sparkling water in the ­other. Sueños picks up speed like a horse ready to run. I’m solo sailing, my favorite pastime. And I’m wing on wing, my favorite point of sail. Today, Montana’s Flathead Lake is perfect for both.

The Rocky Mountains graze blue sky on the eastern shore. Those craggy peaks culminate in Glacier National Park 30 miles north, where grizzlies, goats and woodsmen roam. To the west, bleached bluffs have baked to golden perfection after a long summer. And in front of me, the September sun glints across a vast expanse of royal blue that is mine alone.

At age 43, I’ve sailed more than half my life. I live with my husband and our two young kids in an area of Montana 100 miles to the south. We’ve spent the past four winters cruising in the Bahamas aboard Mikat, a 36-foot Jaguar catamaran. 

But my husband is less enamored of sailing than I am. Or, to be more accurate, he wants a break from fixing boats in beautiful places. A few months ago, we sold our one-third-ownership share in Mikat. As I skim across Flathead, he’s happily planning a family backpacking trip to Bolivia, South America’s only landlocked country.

Sueños and crew get a taste of Big Sky Country while at anchor. Brianna Randall

The loss of our catamaran hit me harder than I expected. When we walked away from Mikat in Marsh Harbour, in the Bahamas, this past March, I nearly hyperventilated. What if it became a ghost ship that pulled me under when it sailed off without us?

A few weeks later, at a ­meditation class back in Montana, the instructor told us to envision a place where we felt happy, healthy and peaceful. I closed my eyes, and the forward berth on Mikat came into view—sheets perpetually damp and sandy, a tinge of diesel and mildew behind the salt water. I saw my children spiraling through the air as they swung on a halyard, framed against a slice of white sand. I saw the four of us diving off the transom, baptized anew in the neon water. 

I needed another happy place. So I found a boat ­partnership closer to home. 

Sueños is a Catalina 25 that’s been cruising Flathead Lake for two decades—only a few years longer than I have. As the largest natural lake west of the Mississippi, Flathead has hundreds of miles of shoreline to explore, along with a half-dozen islands. 

I nudge the tiller to turn toward my favorite of these islands, trimming in the sails. When I reach the horseshoe anchorage tucked against Wild Horse Island, I scramble around the deck, alternating between nursing the idling outboard, lowering the main at the mast, and running to the bow to wrest the anchor and chain from the hold. Sueños is definitely not set up for singlehanding, but that just makes it more interesting.

The sun is skimming the top of the ponderosas by the time I’ve set the hook. I strip off my clothes and cannonball off the side before the light disappears completely. The lake is cold but not icy…yet. The sailing season is short here in the Big Sky State—June through September, at best. Half of those days are too chilly to swim, the other half too smoky to see the mountains. But ­occasionally, you stumble upon the magic that makes Montana the last best place.

The author is all smiles as she enjoys the solo sailing on Flathead Lake. Brianna Randall

Before the last of the light fades, I row the dinghy to shore. Most of the island is a state park, with no roads or electricity. The few homes along its shore are accessible only by boat. I huff up a steep hill in the twilight, then startle when I see a herd of bighorn sheep at the top. Standing stock still, I watch two dozen mamas corral their rambunctious half-grown babies into a still-green hollow where they’ll be safe from human hikers.

Back aboard Sueños, I drink a beer while making dinner. The alcohol goes straight to my head and inspires me to call my friend Katie in Bellingham. As a fellow sailor who grew up in Montana, she’ll be able to appreciate how special it is to be alone on Flathead.

“I was just thinking about you,” she says. “We watched that documentary on the Race to Alaska last night. Are we ever going to do it?”

We’ve been talking for years about entering the 750-mile, nonmotorized, free-for-all ocean race from Port Townsend, Washington, to Ketchikan, Alaska. Our kids were always too little, our jobs too hard to leave for a month, and our motivation not quite strong enough to brave gnarly currents, freezing water, and wandering grizzlies.

But now, I have a sailboat-­size hole in my heart, and a craving for the next big ­adventure gnawing at my belly.

The beer answers bravely. “We’re totally doing it. This June.”

“Seriously?” Her voice ­ratchets up an octave. 

“Dead serious.”

We talk for a while about what kind of boat we want (cheap but fast, bigger than a shoebox and hopefully slightly drier), as well as whether we should invite others (maybe one more if it’s a woman and she can suffer cheerfully). Then we talk for even longer about what kind of logo and sweatshirt we should make for our team (because there’s no such thing as a perfect boat, but a good hoodie can last for decades). We decide on a team name: Sail Like A Mother.

I’m too excited to sleep, so I roll out my sleeping bag in the cockpit and stare up at the glittery smear of the Milky Way. I picture braving the Strait of Juan de Fuca at night, rounding Cape Caution with 30-knot winds on the nose, and ringing the bell if (when!) we arrive in Ketchikan nine months from now.

The next day, I sail Sueños back across Flathead. The lake is just as empty, just as regal. The boat picks up speed with both sails fully loaded, cutting fast toward the little harbor with its bobbing boats.

My heart picks up speed too. Sailing alone has never scared me. It’s docking alone that gives me nightmares.

Whether sailing or hiking around Flathead Lake, chances are you’ll see a mountain goat—or four, perhaps—scaling the high, sheer cliffs. Brianna Randall

The old finger docks at Dayton Yacht Harbor are wobbly, narrow and made of ancient, splintery planks. There are no cleats, just a rusty metal pylon at one end and chains looped around boards on the other. Since it’s a weekday in September, the docks are deserted. No one is around to lend a hand.

Talk about adventure.

A couple hundred yards away, I do my deck-scramble dance to take down the sails and put out the fenders. I loop an extra-long bow line on the forward cleat and a stout stern line on the port side. I gauge the wind. It’s behind me, of course, to make this even harder. 

I take deep breaths and mutter: “You got this. You got this.” Leaning over the stern, I maneuver the sputtering outboard and tiller at the same time to turn into the slip. At the last minute, I throw it in reverse and leap onto the precarious dock with both lines in hand. I quickly wrap the stern line around the pylon and hold on tight to the bow line, hoping that I don’t fall into the lake. Sueños settles safely. Whew.

Before I go back to my family, I sit in the cockpit for a few minutes. Soaking in the mountains. Remembering past voyages. Planning a new one. Thanking the universe for the gift of people who are willing to travel beside me on wild, watery paths.

Brianna Randall is a writer based in Montana. Her stories have appeared in National Geographic, BBC, The Washington Post, Outside, CNN, Discover and plenty of sailing magazines. Follow her and the (comedic) exploits of Team Sail Like A Mother at briannarandall.com. 

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