Fueled by Chicken Tenders
Hello again, everyone. It’s roughly 11:30 am. We’re just leaving Butte, Montana and heading over towards Missoula. It snowed here last night and today; it’s June 17th.
We got into town yesterday around dinnertime, made our way over to a local spot, paid twenty dollars for chicken tenders, and then considered our sleeping options. We went into the day thinking we’d continue to seize the moment, the opportunity for type two fun, and sleep outside. The post dinner lull (as well as the winter weather advisory) made us reconsider this decision. We stayed at the Wyndham. It was the right choice.
Staying in town gave us the opportunity to relax a bit more; Jarret took a deep Wikipedia dive on the town’s environmental history, I sat in bed and watched highlights from the Euros, and, eventually, we both decided that a trip to the Golden Arches, for ice cream, was necessary.
The morning brought fewer feelings of relaxation and more of depression. To quickly (and somewhat accurately) depict Butte’s environmental history, the place used to be considered “the richest hill in the world.” It used to boom with wealth, and it doesn’t take much effort to see that: old and classy hotels, steakhouses, diners, banks, apartments, and more. Once, the city probably looked rustic and beautiful. Now, everything seems to be either run down, abandoned, burnt down, or closed. Furthermore, today is a Monday, and the downtown area is virtually empty.
One theme I teach my students, when I teach about environmental justice, is that, most of the time, the winners and losers of environmental catastrophe (which has happened several times here in Butte) are separated both geographically and economically. It’s clear that the money from the mines played an enormous part in building the city. In fact, I read on a plaque that a common theme of life in the city was “controlled quiet next to deafening noise”: maybe a less sexy version of what we now think of as “mixed use.”
Now, it seems like the activity in the city and the activity in the mine are almost completely separate. They are still mining, making money off of the land right next to Butte. So why don’t they have the tax revenue to make the city look decent again? Why do only 30,000 people live here now? Why is nearly every restaurant in the city closed on Mondays? I don’t have answers about what is happening here, but it’s certainly been one of the most puzzling places we’ve been.
In a lot of ways, Butte reminds Jarret and myself of Duluth and Pittsburgh, respectively: post-industrial towns just slightly further along in their transitions away from primary(ish) production.
Just prior to Butte, we spent a few hours in Big Timber, Montana—where I found my first positive exposure to antique shopping; it was a sharp contrast to my first experience in Minnesota.
The few days before that were spent at the Bedford Ranch just outside of Roundup, Montana. That place was our heaven. The Bedfords, who we only knew through a third-hand connection, put us up in their newly-renovated guest house—equipped with cow-hide rugs, actual beds, laundry, showers, air conditioning, complimentary frozen pizza, oh, and also some of the most incredible soundscapes and landscapes I’ve ever witnessed.
We also got to take part in a branding day on the ranch. For those of you who don’t know—and this is my blog, so most of you don’t know—a branding day entails roping calves from horseback, holding them down, and, at this particular ranch, hot-branding, vaccinating, ear-tagging, and castrating them all within 60 seconds…then they go back to their moms like nothing happened. By the sounds of the calves though…they did not enjoy those 60 seconds.
We so desperately wanted to help out with branding day; we were willing to tackle a calf, pull the ropes, tag ears…whatever they needed. It was my first opportunity in life to truly be a frontiersman, a ranch hand, a cowboy.
After about an hour of watching, our host, Sharon, called for me. “Ben, I have a task for you.”
Yes. It’s my time. I’m ready.
“I need you to go up to the house in thirty minutes and turn the white crockpot to ‘low.”’
Defeat. Shame. Masculinity: in the dirt.
In reality, she could tell I was a little sad, but we laughed it off. Next time.
I adjusted the shit outta that crockpot. Even better, Reni, the border collie/australian shepherd dog was freakin’ stoked to see me in the house; finally, someone who appreciated the services that I was bringing to the table.
The next day, we took Reni (Reni took us) on a hike in the mountains next to the ranch. I’m pretty sure the dog generated more serotonin on that hike than Jarret and I had (combined) over both of our grad-school careers. Thankfully, Reni transmitted some to us, secondhand, as well.
Prior to our time on the ranch, we spent a few days in North Dakota: Fargo, Dickinson, and Medora. Fargo blessed us with the most divey of dive bars I have ever experienced. For the Star Wars fans out there, I would say that this place answers the question: “what if Mos Eisley Cantina were a real place?” Rick’s.
Rick’s is located right off of the highway—in between Moorhead, Minnesota and Fargo, North Dakota. Their four horsemen operation—bar, restaurant, casino, and liquor store—opens every day at 8 am and closes at 2 am. We were two of the three people sitting at their bar—on a Tuesday night at 9 pm. The other was a hopelessly drunk man who continuously tried to make “conversation” with us for nearly an hour — mostly about how much he “fuckin love[s] Butte” and “fuckin hate[s] California.”
The other Rick’s patrons all found themselves in the encampment that was the slot machine/poker/live-stage room. We hung in there, people watched, listened to a drunk driving story from a bartender who “never drive[s] after drinking,” ate chicken tenders (for only eleven dollars), drank Budweiser, and eventually made our way out of there unscathed. Rick’s.
Oh, and we also went to Drekker Brewing Company (prior to this)—which is in a completely different part of Fargo, where there seems to be a lot of money and development coming in. A four pack of beer costs (minimum) 16 dollars there…but it is funding a wickedly cool, mixed-use building called “Brewhalla.”
Dickinson and Medora: Dickinson had a coffee shop (with wifi), a Walmart (with produce), and endless stroads. Medora, on the other hand, was right next to Theodore Roosevelt National Park, and still held the nostalgia of the American frontier: the Little Missouri Saloon, The Cowboy Cafe, Medora Boots and Western Wear (where I impulsively bought my first cowboy hat), and more.
We stayed there for two days, slept in our hammocks, befriended a lovely couple from California who are currently roadtripping/van-lifing all the way to Maine: Lanny and Jane: both educators, slow-life advocates, and enjoyers of strangers; we appreciated them dearly.
So yeah, we now find ourselves in Missoula, Montana: a place I’ve actually been before, staying at a hostel I’ve stayed in before, hoping to recharge our batteries before hightailing it all the way over to Mt. Hood, Oregon tomorrow.
Ciao for now. Thanks for reading. More to come.
