Mild Mild West: Grant-Kohrs Ranch Nat'l Historic Site 8/13/12

Our visit to the Grant-Kohrs Ranch National Historic Site in, and I do mean in (more later), Deer Lodge, Montana, is less a tale of what was actually seen than what was studiously avoided. First of all, full disclosure - after burning rubber upon leaving Big Hole, we checked the NPS website and discovered that yes, the site was open until 5:30pm, giving us just enough time to blast through the visitor center and wander the estate for a bit (no sense in doubling back the next morning). Hell, maybe we'd even catch a demo or the tail end of a tour. After all, there was much ground to cover, what with the sprawling vistas, wide open ranges, and crystal blue Montana skies that reduced the ranch to a speck of humanity amdist an endless sea of pasture. But as we pulled into Deer Lodge, our hearts began to sink. You mean the ranch is nearby? How could that be? Didn't the pictures present a wonderland of detachment and isolation? An awesomely historic example of a working cattle ranch that would, at bottom, invite city slickers to leave modern life behind and escape into a bygone era? And wasn't there a long, quaintly-hidden back road somewhere, where the dust would fly as we ambled to nowhere in particular? We wanted whipping wind, wandering beasts, and leathery men with straw between their teeth. We could not have been more disappointed.

We'll be as blunt as possible, perhaps as blunt as we'll ever get on our blogging journey: Grant-Kohrs is the worst NPS site of them all. Some are less exciting, and some are even less understandable, but none match this level of silliness. When we hit the front gate to the site, there before us sat the ranch. Not out there, or anywhere, frankly, near the range. It was plopped down, shoehorned, if you will, right in the middle of town. Within earshot of a McDonald's and a gas station, for crying out loud. A busy road was out front, a prison museum just down the street, and bustling commerce and city living everywhere it's not supposed to be when we're dealing with a cattle ranch. It was absurd. Ridiculous. And for the first time we could remember, we openly laughed at the prospect of even going in. I mean, really? Sure, this is the actual spot of the historic estate, donated to the NPS back in 1972, and I get that the buildings are the real deal. So? From all appearances, this was going to be about as authentic as a beans-and-brisket supper at the now-deceased Flying W Ranch. Where were the speakers blasting Ghost Riders in the Sky? And would I find a horse trough from which I could pan for gold? So surprised that we damn near drove out for fear of being associated with a place so embarrassing, we looked at the site, looked at each other, looked again at the site, and parked with no real idea of what to do next. This warrants federal protection while the August Wilson Boyhood Home rots away with neglect?

We know what you're thinking - those pictures are pretty cool, huh? It all looks so serene and ready for exploration, right? No, ma'am. Or sir. Or whoever the hell is unfortunate enough to be stuck here for more than a half-hour. No picture could ever accurately capture how unimpressive Grant-Kohrs really is, as again, we were originally among the fooled. The bamboozled. The hopelessly led astray. At that point, I could not have cared less if Zombie John Wayne stumbled out of the shadows for a lecture on bareback riding. This was Pioneer Village. A side attraction at Disneyland. A reproduction that could not be further away from life as lived. And hey, we usually enjoy such sites - and it would likely have made a brilliant Side Dish - but not here, not with the National Park logo so painfully close to the action. As vital as the ranching life was and is to the American experience, there's got to be a better way to remember it all. Push it out, back it up, and for chrissakes, give it some breathing room. As it now stands, it's like going to the Paris Hotel in Las Vegas and thinking it's as good as standing beneath the actual Eiffel Tower. Or confusing hologram Tupac for the man himself.

So what did we do? Even if the drive had not been worth it, I was not about to neglect the precious passport stamp. But as I pressed firmly in that little book that means more to me than most human beings, the ranger tapped his watch and informed me that at best, I had 15 minutes to look around. No problem, my good man, and from what I see, that just might be 13 minutes too many. I didn't actually say that, but I could have. Should have. Will, as I speed away in the night. Down a short trail and through an overpass, I came upon an exhausted female ranger, who also reminded me that I didn't have a lot of time, and that she had just spent several hours with screeching children. I smiled as she passed, then went hunting for pictures. My god, I have to prove the Cales were actually here, right? So I checked them all off, one by one: a barn, a house (closed for repairs and tours, so whatever), a field, and a wagon. I'd be lying if I say I cared, and not an ounce of me cried out in frustration at the live blacksmith demonstration I might have missed. There's a buggy shed, a chicken coop, a granary, and bunkhouse row, and no, I won't think about any of it in the days and weeks to come. I love the Old West, and we're both tickled by the past, but we couldn't escape the overwhelming rage of crushed expectations. We thought we'd do precious little at Minidoka and left with a new best friend; at Grant-Kohrs, we had our hearts set on a great affair, leaving instead bereft and slightly ill.

So is there legitimate history at Grant-Kohrs? Yes, but it's not overly important at this point, and I'm not about to spend more time discussing a site that looked and felt more unreal than Old Tucson Studios. At least they had a staged gunfight. The whole enterprise goes back to the Civil War era, encompasses several families from all points east and west, and is inextricable from our economy and culture, but when a man has only a few minutes, what could he ever hope to learn? Especially when - I shit you not - the allegedly hallowed ground on which you walk features chuckwagon dinners and campfire sing-alongs. I know, I know, it's a working cattle ranch - that fact is pounded home again and again, from the VC to the unigrid, I'm guessing because you'd be otherwise tempted to snicker. And hell, I'm certain Conrad Kohrs was one hell of a man, but this spread is little more than a political favor made good; protected for prosperity in order to celebrate a powerful Montana family. But no matter. Off we go. And damn it all, it's too late to catch a tour at that prison museum down the road.

FINAL RATING

1/10