Rollin' Through Rochester

After a brief stop in Butte to see all its Copper King glory and striking turn-of-the-century architecture, I headed south on Rt. 2 bound for the Highlands. Turning off the highway and onto the forest road, I began my route south towards the forgotten boomtown. From there I would continue on to Twin Bridges, quite possibly the coolest little town in Montana. Just after turning off the two, I passed under Blacktail Trestle high in the sky, almost like it was a grand gate welcoming me to the wilds between Butte and Rochester.

My grandfather had taken me up to Rochester for the first time when I was a young boy in that rumbling old white Jeep CJ-7 with the blue seats that he loved to drive around out in Montana. Rochester is an old gold mining town that first got its legs in the 1860's briefly as a placer mining camp (think panning for gold in loose material) before solidifying more-so into a lode mining camp. Lode mining, sometimes called hard rock mining, is the kind of mining that takes man deep into the earth, using tunnels, drills and explosives to extract the mineral from its veins. The town, like many others, went through its cycles of boom and bust over the years before being abandoned almost completely in the 1930's. Part of an old west boomtown is often a cemetery, and Rochester was no different. My grandfather had shown me that old cemetery years ago and said he wouldn't mind being buried up there, with the view of the land and valley he loved. Now I was coming back to visit, to check up on it for him.

The road climbed upwards, winding its way through the Highland Mountains to reach a summit which would mark my highest point between Butte and Twin Bridges. From there, I could drop down into Sawmill gulch on the other side of the low peaks. Beginning at around 6,000 feet, I climbed to an elevation of nearly 7500' on a mix of gravel and dirt before reaching the top. I kept the truck in a lower gear and rolled up the mountain fairly easily, luckily there was no snow or ice like I'd encounter very soon in some areas exploring along the Montana-Idaho border. Once near the summit, I saw that there was a pullout ahead, so I stopped off to prepare for the descent and give everything a once over. Getting out, I walked around the truck and camper, checking my tires, tie-downs, and a few miscellaneous things. After finding nothing out of the ordinary, I hopped back in the cab and popped the brake. Time to drop-in towards the gold town.

With the snow-capped Pioneer Mountains in the distance, I began my descent into the gulch. The road soon became pretty rough with a few small boulders jutting out like sprinkles on an ice cream cone and some wash-outs that created some nasty off-camber ditches as well. This was the first time on my trip that I had to put the truck's four wheel drive system in low, in order to keep the camper from bouncing off the mountainside when going over the rocks. I even scraped the undercarriage a few times but luckily she pulled through relatively unscathed. The length of the truck could really be felt on the tight switchbacks as I descended where I could see a decent amount of flex between the bed and the cab in my side mirror. Checking my map again, I saw I was now on camp creek road and that I would soon be facing an abrupt 30 degree turn to the northeast before I veered back south.

When I arrived at this junction, there were traces of an unmarked trail dead ahead that led a few hundred feet up to the exposed summit of a lone hill. The hill stood between Sawmill and Moffett gulch, and had a commanding view of the land all around. Curious if I could see the path that lay ahead or even traces of Rochester, I decided to attempt the steep grade. Putting the truck into first gear, I began to roll forward, feeling the heavy diesel engine rise within the nose of the truck. It was steep, steeper than any road grades I'd attempted, but thankfully the torque made it easy and I chugged up with cloudy blue sky dashing across my windshield before the horizon rose into view.

Low layered mountains shown all around, covered in pines so thick they almost looked like a mat of astroturf. I peered ahead and could make out part of the path towards the south. To the east was Table Mountain with its distinguished flat top recognized far and wide in that part of Montana. My grandfather and his childhood friend Bud Cheff Jr. had taken me up there driving the roads beneath the peak to explore in that old jeep one day years back. Bud lives in the beautiful Mission Valley of Montana, a couple hundred miles northwest of Rochester. There he keeps himself busy with his Ninepipes Museum of Early Montana, which helps to preserve the history of the Flathead Reservation and the tribes of Montana. It is a great place to learn vital Montana history and see some excellent artifacts preserved from lives past if you ever get the chance to visit the epic valley south of Flathead Lake.

I took in the view for another few moments until I was too eager to see what lay ahead, so I got back into the truck to turn it around on that tiny hilltop. It took a many point turn to get the truck 180 degrees back around as I was trying to keep it as level as possible, but after a few minutes of steering, the nose was pointed back down the rocky path. With my foot resting heavy on the brakes, I eased off the top and back down among the tall bundles of sagebrush dotting among the grasses. Then I was soon back to where I'd originally split off from the tight turn in the path.

Getting back on the trail, I crawled along, trying to take it easy on the camper by hopefully minimizing the bouncing as I continually rolled over stone then dirt again and again. I contemplated airing down my tires for a little more cushion but decided against it, hoping the trail would improve soon and not knowing how low I could actually go before the weight of my home would pop the bead off the wheel. The "road" did improve slightly, but is still one of the worst I'd been on since starting my journey. After a few miles I stopped to stretch my legs and back, and then while doing a walk around, I noticed that a hinged cover piece from the stove vent on the side of the camper had fallen off along the trail somewhere. I ended up walking back for over an hour trying to find it, initially wishing I had my old dirt bike with me. The sun was out and felt warm on my face even in early November, along with the winter winds teasing through the valley here and there. I soon realized I didn't mind taking it a little smoother, slower, and quieter on my own two feet for a bit in that beautiful country beneath the big sky. It made me appreciate the rocks, trees, and mother nature even more-so.

I passed back by an older cabin and barn that was on a private plot in the midst of the BLM land. Perhaps it was some sort of summer range headquarters back in the day. Nearby I also walked through a low meadow maybe 50-yards wide with a couple beautiful meandering streams, willows, and green grasses all around; a small oasis in the arid high desert country. It was a picturesque place like something out of an animated movie, something I would've never found had I not gotten out to take a little walk. Not finding the vent piece I was looking for, I started the hike back to the truck. I could see it just barely in the distance, a speck of white against the greens, tans and grays of the surrounding countryside. Part of me couldn't believe I'd already come that far, but then I realized that perhaps another little part of me had actually been trying to hike out of its view just to give it a shot. Upon making it back, I also realized I had been able to park smack dab in the middle of a road for over an hour with nobody coming upon it. Not many places one could still do that these days in the modern world, although I guess I'd all but left that behind for a little bit.

Climbing back in the cab, I drove on and the road began to smooth out a little bit as I neared the valley floor. Soon enough I came upon the northernmost surviving structure in Rochester, an old mining cabin with the small headframe and a couple outbuildings. Near the edge of the road in front of the place I saw something that instantly brought me back to an old memory when I had been up there with a couple lifelong buddies on a trip years ago. There was a rusty steel bin of some sort with a pyramidal top on it, and we had been shooting the .22s to get some target practice in when someone who was still learning decided that the bin would be a fine target. They took a shot and the tiny piece of lead ricocheted off of the pyramidal top. We immediately realized what happened, and how close he'd come to hitting the Chevrolet suburban or worse. It was a vital lesson in firearm safety for us all that I shall not forget.

That old headframe near the center of the photo above had been still standing around a decade earlier, but now it was just a pile of timbers over the mineshaft, left to rot back into the ground from which it grew over 100 years earlier. I entered into the main cabin with its dual pitched roofs and explored around, but there wasn't much besides bits of tar paper, mattress springs, and part of an old style cooking stove. The ceiling was all torn up and so were the walls, wether by vandals or animals I could not discern. Curiosity got the best of me outside so I had to peer down the mine shaft in the midst of the timbers, where I tried to make anything out in the descending darkness. When I'd been there before, the shaft had still been fully open and not a tangled mess of splintered wood and wire like it was now. A small part of me is curious if one could go down the shaft with a rope and some gear to check out the interior if one cleaned the front door up a bit. Though I also realize that it'd be a pretty dangerous and foolhardy idea to try to explore shafts that were known to collapse all the time when they were new...let alone a century later!

Rolling onwards into Rochester itself, I kept spotting flat mesh grates on the ground poking through the fading grasses and mint green sage tufts, along with some accompanying warning signs. Slowly coasting to a stop, I got out to investigate further. Walking over to a grate I could see that it extended far and wide over the dark spot near its center. Peering down, I could make out only a deep open hole, covered up for safety reasons obviously. It was just increasing darkness fading into the earth, with rough rocky sides to the shaft and no timbers in sight to shore it up. These were new, all the precautions designed to keep people out. It was a good thing for sure to prevent anyone from falling into the mineshaft since they had hardly anything else to mark them. However, in a small inconsequential way it did ruin the area just a bit; man's modern mark upon the area was more prevalent even without anyone else around.

After the grates, I was now making it into what must've been old "downtown" Rochester just past the Watseca mine which seemed to be in some sort of current operating state. Interestingly enough, that was the original mine that had drawn others to the area in the early days. On the way in, I could see on my maps that I was passing other old mines including the Lizzie Ann, Watazicka, and the Champion among others. Seeing all the names made me wonder just how big they all were, how many people they employed, and how many lives they all supported all those years ago. The only marks of human habitation left were some scattered bits of rusted metal along with some rock and mortar walls leftover from only the most substantial buildings.

The two main roofless ruins I saw were sheltered a bit by small bluffs, likely the main reason why they were still standing compared to other lower foundations. In the midst of the sagebrush, the structures were fairly camouflaged into hillsides with their walls being a smattering of brown and tan stones among the greens and grays. A couple even had intact wood framing on the windows and some wood exterior pieces but that was it. No glass, doors, or even furniture besides steel stoves were left anywhere around. One of them was fairly large, and seemed like it could have had a handful of rooms at least and possibly even a second story. For a town with so few buildings remaining at all, it must've been quite the substantial structure in its day.

Standing there on that early November day, I wondered what it was like for a family to live up there in their own house in the lower mountain valley during the rocky mountain winters. How many holiday meals were cooked on that stove to celebrate with family, friends, and neighbors? Were they always harsh, did the wells ever freeze, where did they even get firewood or is that why there are no trees around now? It must've been a hell of a life indeed up there in the late 19th century, living as humans had for hundreds of years while so much change was happening in parts of the world as well.

On a farther hill, there was one last wooden building still standing with bits of a roof and one severely sagging side, looking like it would soon collapse into the earth like all the others within a few years. It was across a small gully but I wanted to get a better view so off I went, curious to see what was left inside. It turns out it wasn't much of anything at all, just scattered bits of wood and roof all around the building, no doubt some ripped off by the wind hitting the totally unsheltered structure.

Even though many were blocked, some mine shafts were still very much open like they'd been silently sitting for a century. One of the shafts I'd seen earlier in town was partially covered with old wood boards just loosely thrown on top. It was near a building's foundation in the tall sagebrush, it would've been easy for some to miss but that is the risk that comes with mining towns, one must be observant of what's around them. Near the wooden building above, there was an open shaft sticking out of a mound of dirt which was equally unsettling, but at least it was elevated a bit and visible from afar.

With a broken runged ladder and pine pole reinforced sides, it stretched straight down until I couldn't see anymore. This one was likely the best preserved example I'd witnessed in the area. When I popped my head over to gaze down, I must've startled a pigeon who in turn startled me as well, dashing from the hole past my eyes and into the sky quicker than I could turn my head around.

Something about deep dark entrances into the earth beneath our feet is fascinating to me. Especially the unknown or abandoned ones, since we don't know what people left down there. How much of lives past are just waiting there preserved in the darkness.

Part of it is also the fact that so many humans in history have been willing to go down into them to chase riches risking life and limb in the process. The draw of humans to multiple minerals has shaped our history, but most especially the draw of gold. It is almost strange, the lengths people have been willing to travel, across oceans and continents for millennia, far from their families and friends at a time when they were unlikely to see them again. Going into unexplored country for the sake of some shiny yellow pieces of metal that may or may not be in the ground once you reach your destination, one even knew exactly where it was. Even then, you've got to get the stuff back out again to where it can be sold or exchanged for some things one may actually need.

It was eerie to see a town as a whole which had once held thousands of people now so close to gone, in the sense that soon there would be zero signs that said substantial population of humans were ever there. Perhaps the steel bits can last another hundred years or two in some form but hardly in a recognizable state. The area would soon be mostly wild again, besides the cemetery with its fence and small headstones holding out against winds and weather brought by mother nature. Up on a small hill to the southwest, I could make out an old rough chain link fence in the distance and knew that I'd spotted the main place I'd come to see, Rochester cemetery. It was a quiet spread, perched up just a number of feet above the townsite itself, laid out on a slightly sloping hillside looking down towards Twin Bridges in the river valley to the southeast. Driving up near it, I spotted a sign that had been erected by the Bureau of Land Management that explained a brief history of the town. I was pleased with the placement of the sign because it showed that they recognized the cemetery as the last discernible evidence of the town itself. A place worth preserving for future generations to see and honor the men and women who helped build this country and fuel its economy in order to create the lives of comfort we have today.

A new fence wrapped around the outside of the old instead of totally replacing it, keeping the scene as original as possible, once the new fence weathered a bit of course. On the main gate was a sign naming veterans from both the Mexican-American and Civil Wars that were resting on that hillside so far from where they'd fought and bled. Walking around, I stopped at each headstone, some still well legible and some scrambled by the sands of time as wind had eroded the edges of the carvings. Reading the names that I could, I wondered how these people lived and died, and what they did in the little town to pass the time and celebrate the holidays. Did some people go up into the highlands to snag a Christmas tree for their home? Was there a church near the cemetery at some point? I told myself I'd go back and look around online but I haven't found more than a handful of pictures of old Rochester. I'm sure there's got to be more out there, just not marked with the location or sitting in an old shoebox waiting to see the light of day again. This town is a mystery to us today. Unlike nearby Bannock and Virginia City with their plethora of buildings and storied residents, much of Rochester's history has been seemingly lost to the past. Hopefully some of that history in the form of writing and photographs still rests in cellars and attics across America waiting to be found.

With the sun beginning its final dip, I decided to park the camper near the graveyard that night on the grassy hillside to keep the old souls company up there since much of it was BLM land after all. When I woke up in the morning, I was greeted with excellent sunrise views over the cemetery itself. Sure wasn't a bad place to be planted for the rest of time.

While my grandfather didn't exactly end up resting there, I know his spirit is not far. He passed on fairly close-by in the land that he loved doing what he enjoyed most. His heart never really left Montana much at all anyways. The older I get and the more I see of this place, the more I understand why.

Sources:

“Rochester.” Gthofmt, www.mtghosttowns.com/rochester. Accessed 22 August 2023.