I was riding shotgun, my father at the wheel, the two of us encased within the confines of a beaten-down Chevy on an immaculate American highway. We were heading northwest on I-93. Outside the car window, a broad expanse of Montana landscape unfurled like an artist’s canvas. Mile upon mile of luscious terrain stretched into the distance, the vast open country lending itself to the spirit of exploration — a spirit that was leading us to one of Montana’s crown jewels, the 50,000 Silver Dollar Inn and bar.
Nestled in the verdant heart of Lolo National Forest, the 50,000 Silver Dollar is not merely a roadside bar; it’s a destination. A resting place for wanderers. A sanctuary for nomads. One can easily locate it off I-90, the inter-state offering it up like a gift to the weary traveler. We had made the journey from the East, my father and I, following the asphalt vein through the body of America, and the Silver Dollar was to be our restful oasis.
Barely had we parked in the ample expanse of their lot when the expansive haven of the 50,000 Silver Dollar Bar lay before us. Not simply a bar — no, no — but a sprawling complex with the grandeur of a self-contained gift shop, a homely restaurant, with an attached bar. It felt as though we had stepped back in time, standing on the threshold of an old Western trading post, save for the modern-day conveniences.
Our boots crunched on the gravel as we ventured into the majestic Lolo National Forest, the home turf of the Silver Dollar. It offers innumerable recreational opportunities: miles of forest roads begging to be traversed by ATVs, Jeeps, or snowmobiles, single-track trails offering hikers, bikers, and motorcyclists an intimate encounter with nature.
Though, it wasn’t just the nature that drew us. As an adolescent with an indomitable love for history and fantasy, I found myself drawn towards the gift shop. Displayed within its walls were artifacts from various eras and locales: medieval knight’s helmets, armors, a collection of ninja-like throwing stars, and an array of swords that would make any fantasy enthusiast salivate. Among the odds and ends, beautiful photographs and imported curiosities caught my eye. Yet, the crowning glory was undoubtedly the namesake 50,000 silver dollars, their gleaming metal embedded in the bar-top and walls, rendering the establishment a veritable treasure trove.
I gawked, eyes wide, as we approached the bar. A man standing next to us was bedecked in actual pistols. “Dad, did you see that?” I whispered, my voice tinged with awe and trepidation. “That guy has actual guns. Like we literally entered the old west.”
My father, a man of few words but loaded glances, peered over at the gun-slung man and chuckled. “Whoa, dangerous characters,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping over the growling motorcycle bikes parked outside. As we left, I turned back, casting one final look at the 50,000 Silver Dollar. The intriguing anachronism it presented was irresistible, a mix of the bygone era and modernity. It had the promise of an adventure, and I, like a young boy dreaming of gallant knights and brave gunslingers, couldn’t wait to come back.
Chapter 2: From the Lure of Silver to the Song of Wallace
Imagine taking a time machine back to the Wild West, with your father as your guide. That’s precisely the journey we found ourselves on as we continued our exploration beyond the 50,000 Silver Dollar. Not long after, the highway snaked us into Wallace, Idaho.
Wallace — a place where time seemed to have stood still. The freeway, an elevated streak of concrete, stretched over this historic town, gifting us with a view akin to a scenic wide-shot from a classic Hollywood film. Looking down, we saw life in Wallace as though through a magnifying glass: people swarmed like ants, their voices melding into a distant buzz. But the sound wasn’t just chatter; it was music. A rock concert was underway, the energetic strums of a live band echoing off the buildings and filling the streets with a rhythm that pulsated in time with the town’s heartbeat.
The COVID pandemic had starved us of such communal joys. Live music was a nostalgic memory, and the chance to revisit it was an offer too enticing to resist. We pulled over, feeling the summer heat pressing on our skins as we stepped out of the vehicle.
“This place,” my father began, his eyes scanning the town, “once boomed with the mining industry. It wasn’t just minerals they were digging for, though.” A hint of a smile played on his lips. “You mean, prostitutes?” I asked, echoing his insinuation. His affirming nod and distant gaze painted a vivid picture of Wallace’s less celebrated past.
“Indeed,” he said, “A madam, a real dame, once strutted these streets, a Hollywood star in her own right. The townsfolk loved her, and she took care of her girls, and the solitary coal men, too.” His words transported me back to a time when Wallace was the center of the miners’ universe, filled with dusty men with hopeful eyes and women striving to make a living.
As the Los Angeles-based band strummed their strings and sang their hearts out, my father continued, his voice a backdrop to the poignant tunes. “But a preacher eventually came, brought order, cleaned these streets,” he said, a tinge of regret lacing his words.
“Unfortunately?” I asked, a grin spreading across my face. Our conversation turned to the darker side of such historic times, from the spread of syphilis to the free-love movement of Haight Ashbury and its accompanying negatives. Our laughter echoed around the town, blending with the music and chatter.
Glancing up, my gaze caught a billboard praising Jesus, standing in stark contrast against the town’s sin-ridden history. “Huh,” I muttered, “If there were ghosts, they’d probably be in these walls.”
My father nodded, perhaps agreeing or perhaps lost in his own thoughts. After a final look around Wallace, its history etched into the brickwork, we climbed back into the car. And like adventurers with a hunger for the stories hidden within America’s heartlands, we drove on, in search of our next chapter.
Kerry Heffelfinger co-founded Sunflower Counseling MT with his wife, Marie, and their three spirited children. In the scarce moments of respite from running the business, Kerry indulges in his passion for the electric guitar, which he keeps, rather unconventionally, in the bathroom. Aside from his musical pursuits, Kerry finds solace in the seemingly mundane: wandering the aisles of Target and browsing the colorful array of La Croix cans. These simple pleasures, however ordinary, offer him moments of tranquility amidst the chaos of family and work life.
