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A crowd gathered in the dusty little field just north of Shelby, Montana. The Lake Shel-Oole campground was a small, flat place whose only notable feature was the distinct absence of grass—or anything green, for that matter. The grayish soil was beaten and barren. Old wooden fence posts leaned in different directions lining Highway 15, each held upright by the light tension of wires adjoining them. Across the road from the entrance to the tiny park was what appeared to be a Gomer Pyle-style barracks building. It looked like a giant barrel, about forty feet long, that had been cut in half and laid on its side. It had been there since the 1960s, but the shoddy tin structure held its shape well. For snow country like this, a half-barrel-shaped building was ideal in the heavy winters. Seve
