From a distance, Butte, Montana looks appealing.
That quickly changes upon entering.
Butte’s historic downtown is drab, deserted and depressing, its once glorious emporiums decayed and dilapidated.
Such was the fate of Jerome, until it rediscovered itself as a living ghost town—and brought in tourism revenue.
If you’re not producing something everyone needs—say, copper—you need you find another way to survive. If there’s nothing to produce, you need relics.
Many centuries ago, relics were a euphemism for bones. It gave way to skullduggery, which was the art of digging up relics, taking them home, and putting them on display for revenue-bringing pilgrims.
It is the same today. You want revenue? Bring visitors.
Nevada has gambling. Jerome has ghosts. Monterey has a cool aquarium. Salinas has the National Steinbeck Center.
Butte’s got nothing.
And it hits me, you don’t visit Montana for its human settlements, which resemble cancerous lesions, but for its big sky and natural settings.
However, in Butte’s case, this means The Berkley Pit, which Anaconda Copper deserted once they raped it clean, leaving it to evolve into the most toxic place on earth.
Butte was once “The Richest Hill in the World,” from which a billion tons of copper, silver and gold were mined. Now, not even the grand old Finlen Hotel cuts it as an appealing place to overnight. Unless one wants to hang out among tattoo parlors, pawnshops, nail salons, consignment stores, abandoned shops and decrepit dive bars.
Penned into my notebook: Sad, forlorn, dreary, depressing.
We find ourselves seeking refuge in the new part of town, by the airport, for hostelry.
Alas, the old Copper King is closed and roped off. Butte’s only other “high-end” hotel is a Best Western tucked between Route 393 and I-15 with neighbors named McDonald, Wendy, Wal-Mart and Albertson.
Wealthy folk hide out in country clubs while the middle class go to Sizzler and Chili’s for the big night out, with everyone consumed by sports and issues like race and gender, designed to distract from the real problem—a magician’s sleight of hand that ruins the country while billionaires grow into multi-billionaires.
This is the lowest ebb of the trip for me. I am despondent, not knowing where to turn next. Make a run for Boise? No, it’s seven hours away and we’re already way past cocktail hour.
We pull into a gas station and feed the COW while pondering this dilemma and assess options. Epiphany strikes. Montana is known not for its cities and towns but for its ranches and resorts—right?
I pop resorts near Butte into the iPad.
Up pops Fairmont Hot Springs Resort, 20 miles away. I call. Two rooms left.
“Hold them,” I say. “We’re on our way.”
We zoom west to the Fairmont, which we discover to be a low-end resort starring a monster water slide. The rooms are shoeboxes, the lighting fluorescent (a tragic new trend) and the bathrooms come with paper cups instead of glasses. But, hey, it’s got internet and fresh air through a screened sliding glass door, though being ground floor precludes me from keeping it open when absent or asleep. No AC because the fan won’t work.
But at least we’re not in Butte.
Enroute to the bar—and a much-anticipated martini—I stop by reception. “The fan’s not working in my room,” I say.
“It’s not working in anyone’s room,” says the receptionist. “The central system and is off unless it gets too hot or too cold.”
Yup, time for that drink.
Whiskey Joe’s is sparse and drab. But it has Bombay Sapphire, the old fallback, one ounce in a mini-martini glass, take it to a drab patio with gas fire pits at each high-top table, a view of the thermal pool and monster slide.
Andrew reappears. “This is great!” he enthuses, eyeing the bathing beauties—tattooed and obese—near the pool. “I could tap into some of that.”
I look at him with one eye. “Are you stoned?”
“No, horny.”
I shake my head and drain my mini martini, return for another one. I assume two such cocktails will help me see the beauty of this place.
Wrong. But the menu looks good.
A sudden rainbow offers some hope.
Most of those around us fight for tables in Springwater Café, which serves burgers, fries and onion rings, heavy on grease, while almost no one opts for the elegant (in comparison) Mile High Dining Room, this night featuring “Grilled buffalo hanging tenders, pickled cauliflower, garlic horseradish mashed potato and grilled asparagus.”
Chef Joshua, from Wyoming, drops by to ask, “How’s everything tasting?”
Honestly, quite good, especially with a bottle of Elk Cove pinot noir from Willamette Valley.
“I can’t remember the last time a chef visited my table,” Andrew whispers, after Chef Joshua departs. “Come to think of it, no chef has ever visited my table.”
We share a hot chocolate brownie a la mode, a fine finish.
I take my glass of wine into Whiskey Joe’s where an electronic pianist who sings named Danny Roy tries to enliven his embalmed audience while Andrew attempts to chat up Monique, a server from Butte, born and bred.
And when my wine is gone, I am too.