Montana
The indomitable Butte, Montana – High Country News
In 2006, I left Alaska with a plan to become a famous singer-songwriter. But before I got to Memphis, I stopped to visit Butte, Montana, where my friend Wendy had bought a $10,000 house and wanted help fixing it up. We weren’t carpenters, but we could demo with the best of them. It was summer, and we’d work all day in dust masks, then smoke joints and drink PBR on her back porch into the evening, looking out at the twisting streets and glittering incandescent lights of Uptown, the city’s historic district. We slept in sleeping bags and peed in a 5 gallon bucket, made coffee on a Coleman stove and wandered over to the Silver Dollar Saloon for open mic night. I fell in love with Butte. It was as if I’d been away for years and finally returned home. I don’t even feel this way about my own hometown. Butte was a beacon in the dark, a warm handshake with cold fingertips.
When winter came, I headed south: Memphis, Nashville, and then Austin, Texas, where I spent 13 years making music. But almost every summer, I came back to Butte.
By 2012, I was growing weary of Austin. Wealth had found a foothold on the central Texas limestone, so I started looking for something to buy in Butte — my other home. One balmy spring day, a real estate agent took me to view a house up in Walkerville, a tiny town that sits above Uptown. Instead, a nearby place — a small green miner’s cottage with an overgrown yard — caught my eye, shining like a penny in the sun, the headframe of the Lexington Mine looming in front of it. This was the house I wanted. But it wasn’t for sale.
When I got back to Austin, I wrote a short letter explaining my pull toward the property. and sent it to the house’s owner, Edwin C. Dobb, a continuing lecturer at UC Berkeley.
Butte was a beacon in the dark, a warm handshake with cold fingertips.
When Ed — as he asked me to call him — wrote back, he explained that he grew up in Butte and lived in that home for years before he took a job in California. He left the cottage locked up, bleaching in the sun, explaining that it held too much sentimental value for him to sell. But he was kind and curious about me.
We wrote letters and spoke on the phone for six years. He became a mentor to me as I struggled with melding art and commerce. I told him I wanted to turn his old house into a writers-in-residence space. We became friends, meeting when I was playing a bar in his California town. Ed was short with white hair, and charming; he wheezed when he walked and drank two beers at lunch.
One afternoon, I was sitting in my Austin backyard when Ed called and said he was ready to sell. I was a waitress and a musician, and no bank wanted to loan me money. But Ed offered to finance the house for four years. And so, in the smoky summer of August 2015, we walked into Summit Title in Butte and signed the papers. The next day, he left in a U-Haul, and I moved into the little green house.
The pipes were busted, the roof leaked. The ghost of Ed was around every corner. My college friend Matt fixed all of the plumbing. Wendy’s husband, David, removed the knob-and-tube wiring so the place wouldn’t burn down. Eventually, I had heat, running water, fresh paint and a roof that I hoped would last. I lived among the things Ed couldn’t fit in the U-Haul: worn-out steak knives, pro-union posters, a kitchen table with a broken leg where he told me he liked to write.
In all my years of coming to Butte in the summer, I saw only a partial view of life there. I marveled at the crystal-clear air, the big sun in the sharp blue sky over the yellow landscape. Butte is located in a high desert that was scraped of trees at the turn of the century, and there are signs of underground mining everywhere: huge hoist houses, tall black headframes where ravens roost amid the giant wheels of old pulley systems that haven’t moved in 80 years.
In the deathly quiet after a fresh snow, I would walk to the old Alice Mine, behind the brownfields, and down to the Mountain Con, another long-shuttered copper mine. Some of my neighbors welcomed me, others did not. Everyone was either born in Butte or Walkerville. Many were elderly. People were curious about the woman who lived in Ed’s old house and trimmed the ancient lilac bushes. It took years to gain their trust, and who’s to say that’s wrong? Now that I’ve been here awhile, I understand why. I cleaned up the yard, took out the trash, baked apple pies and sent slices home to my neighbors.
Meth was a painful reality in Butte then. In one of the houses down below me, a man who stole cars was openly chopping them up in the alley. I called the cops at one point, but they never bothered to drive up the hill. Poverty remains a fact of life. Houses stay under construction for 20 years. But kids still play like kids, riding barefoot on a 50cc dirt bike to the Excelsior Town Pump to get chips and a pop. I watched a couple of grade schoolers eat a pizza at the picnic table outside Pissers Palace, the only bar in Walkerville.
One summer night in 2019, I was eating a cheeseburger in a bar when I found out Ed had died. I left a $20 next to my half-eaten plate, went to my van and cried. He had a stroke, then a heart attack. I was so close to opening the doors of the writer’s residency, and he would never get to see it.
That October, I played music at his memorial service at the Knights of Columbus Hall in Butte. I choked up mid-song as I played “Caledonia,” by Dougie McClean. Afterward, I hugged Ed’s sister, grabbed my guitar, went home to his cottage and stayed there for days, mourning. In January 2020, I hosted my first writer in residence. I named the program “Dear Butte.” Since then, I’ve hosted 60 other writers. I run the space in honor of Ed: a true Butte Boy-o, as he would call himself. Generous, thoughtful, genuine.
I have learned that there is a shelf life for a lot of transplants. I call it Butte Fatigue. The lack of services, restaurants, the omnipresent pollution — people in Butte are both proud to thrive here despite the lack of amenities, and yet they also desire some of those amenities. I never got tired, and Butte only pulled me in deeper. I have become protective of the place.
I run the space in honor of Ed: a true Butte Boy-o, as he would call himself. Generous, thoughtful, genuine.
Some folks in Butte will tell you that when the Anaconda Company shut down the mine pumps in the 1980s, all the good things and people left. Jobs dried up. What was left behind were mining dredges and the people who couldn’t afford to leave. The population grew old, houses sat vacant. Empty houses were stripped of copper wire, then sold to Pacific Steel for enough money to buy meth.
People in Butte can be deeply suspicious; they are used to a commerce of take and no give. The company extracted all it could from this place and then left a mess behind. So much has been taken from Butte, and everyone who comes here and judges the place is also taking from us in small ways.
I take a while to get to know newcomers, too, now. To be “Butte Tough,” as the saying goes, means not just being hardy and at the ready, but guarding our own. We protect our hearts like people who are used to having their hearts continually broken.
The story that gets missed about Butte amid the tall tales of mining history and a drive-by view of the scenery is the story about the people who chose to stay here. Our elders upheld a credo: that generosity is bigger than money. It’s written into Butte’s DNA. No community member is left behind. What do you need? Your dog walked? A new kidney? No problem.
One day, I was pulling stubborn knapweed from my flower bed when my neighbor, Toad, showed up with a bag of cement and a trowel. He insisted on fixing the cracked sidewalk he’d noticed at the entrance of my house. I said OK and stood at the ready with a hose. Fat raindrops fell as we worked, pelting our bare necks. Toad worked through lightning and thunder. Later, while I was in Texas one winter, he mudded and taped my entire house; he said he needed to get out of his wife’s hair. I could tell you so many of these stories. But folks in Butte shy away from compliments; they’d much prefer you to just buy them a round, or two.
When you are driving east or west on I-90 and see the terraced open-pit mine and the brick buildings of uptown, you might think, “My God, what is this place?” If you drive up Harrison Avenue or Montana Street, the untrained eye sees brokenness and bygone grandeur. That’s the drive-by view a countless string of writers has come here to talk about. But when you live here long enough, you stay, because what Butte sees is its people.
But when you live here long enough, you stay, because what Butte sees is its people.
If there is a lesson America needs to learn, it can be learned here. Butte’s story, to Butte people, is not the failed projects of capitalists or the honeycomb of abandoned tunnels underneath us. Small wins — a new restaurant opening or a vacant house being repaired — can bolster us for years to come. Setbacks are just another thing to climb around together. When you’ve been losing for so long, you only have one another. Butte learned that lesson when the Anaconda Company abandoned this place like a broken toy. The community — ready to help itself — is more powerful than anything it ever built. And we will be here for centuries to come, knapweed growing from an old foundation.
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KALISPELL — A Flathead County man is turning a personal rock bottom into a lifeline for his community by starting a free, late-night ride service to keep drunk drivers off the roads.
Adam Bruzza started Big Sky Sobriety Shuttle LLC, a free ride share service for people who have been drinking, after realizing he was struggling with addiction.
Maddie Keifer reports – watch the video here:
MT man starts free, late-night ride service to keep drunk drivers off the roads
“I just wanted to give people who do still drink the option for a safe, sober ride home,” Bruzza said.
Bruzza said a devastating mistake behind the wheel became a turning point where he decided enough was enough.
“I was charged with a DUI October 22 of 2024,” Bruzza said.
After a few months focused on his sobriety, Bruzza channeled his energy into his community by starting the shuttle service.
He operates the shuttle in his personal pickup truck. Riders can reach him by phone, text or social media at any time of day or night at no cost.
“I just wanted to give others the opportunity to not get a life changing charge,” Bruzza said.
Bruzza works with bars to connect riders with his service. Although the Big Sky Sobriety Shuttle is a new endeavor, he has already seen a big impact.
“The community response without a doubt has been unconditional love and support that makes my heart all warm and fuzzy,” Bruzza said.
Bruzza also shared a message for others who may be struggling with addiction.
“Your life is worth it, there are people that care out there and it is okay to ask for help,” Bruzza said.
To learn more, click here to visit the Facebook page.
The Montana Lottery offers multiple draw games for those aiming to win big.
Here’s a look at April 19, 2026, results for each game:
Winning Big Sky Bonus numbers from April 19 drawing
05-13-15-17, Bonus: 01
Check Big Sky Bonus payouts and previous drawings here.
Feeling lucky? Explore the latest lottery news & results
When are the Montana Lottery drawings held?
- Powerball: 8:59 p.m. MT on Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday.
- Mega Millions: 9 p.m. MT on Tuesday and Friday.
- Lucky For Life: 8:38 p.m. MT daily.
- Lotto America: 9 p.m. MT on Monday, Wednesday and Saturday.
- Big Sky Bonus: 7:30 p.m. MT daily.
- Powerball Double Play: 8:59 p.m. MT on Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday.
- Montana Cash: 8 p.m. MT on Wednesday and Saturday.
- Millionaire for Life: 9:15 p.m. MT daily.
Missed a draw? Peek at the past week’s winning numbers.
This results page was generated automatically using information from TinBu and a template written and reviewed by a Great Falls Tribune editor. You can send feedback using this form.
The Ole’ Mercantile is a busy place by Grass Range, Montana, standards.
The community of roughly 125 people sits along a long, lonely network of two-lane highways connecting Billings with points north along Montana’s Hi-Line.
For drivers pushing toward Lewistown, Malta or Glasgow, the store’s lights are often the first sign of anything for miles.
Of late, they may also offer a chance of identifying the person driving a truck local women say is stalking these roads.
Owner Krista Manley told Cowboy State Daily her store is outfitted with a top-of-the-line camera system that offers a 360-degree view with no blind spots. Four overlapping cameras capture her property, the Wrangler Bar and the full stretch of Highway 87 frontage running through town.
Fergus County investigators now hope that footage — and Manley’s willingness to comb through hours of it — can help identify the driver of a newer white Ford four-door pickup with dark tinted windows, no front license plate and a chrome grill guard.
The truck is at the center of the most recent reported highway stalking incident.
Lizette Lamb, a 48-year-old traveling health care worker, says she was nearly run off the road the evening of April 10.
Now a growing chorus of similar accounts from women across north-central Montana are popping up on social media.
At The Ole Merc
Travis Lamb, Lizette’s husband, took to Facebook to post about what happened to his wife on one of the loneliest stretches of highway in Montana.
Travis told Cowboy State Daily Lizette pulled into the Ole’ Merc Conoco in Grass Range between 7 and 8 p.m. to grab a drink. She later remembered a pickup was backed in alongside the cafe: a newer white Ford four-door.
“Kind of gave her the heebie-jeebies,” he said. “My wife has worked in a prison and stuff like that, so she’s used to kind of going with her gut.”
She bought a drink, got back in her Ford Bronco Sport and headed north on Highway 19 toward Glasgow.
About a mile and a half down the road, she realized the white pickup was behind her. Through the dark tint, she could make out the silhouettes of two men.
She slowed down and edged toward the shoulder to let them pass. They slowed with her. She sped up. They sped up.
By the time she reached Bohemian Corner 23 miles up the road, Travis Lamb said, his wife knew something was wrong.
There were no other vehicles in the lot, so she didn’t bother pulling in. She tried to call Travis. No service.
She tried 911. The phone beeped, displayed a red message and disconnected.
Truck Gets Aggressive
The white truck continued to shadow Lizette along Highway 191. About two miles from where the road crosses the Missouri River, coming into a construction zone, the pickup got aggressive.
Travis said the truck rode so close to the Bronco’s bumper that his wife could no longer see its windshield, only the grille.
Then it pulled out as if to pass and swerved into her, he said, in what he described as an attempted PIT maneuver — the law-enforcement technique of clipping a fleeing vehicle’s rear quarter to spin it out.
PIT stands for Precision Immobilization Technique, and this tactic is used to stop a fleeing vehicle by forcing it to turn sideways, causing the driver to lose control and stop.
“She was fortunate, kind of timed it to when they went to turn into her and hit her, she sped up,” Travis Lamb said. “And they missed.”
That’s when Lizette Lamb pulled her Springfield XDM 9mm pistol out of the center console. She didn’t point it, but she made sure they could see it.
The white pickup hit its brakes, threw a U-turn in a spray of dust and gravel, and headed back toward Grass Range.
The Video
“I thank God that it did happen to her and not somebody else, because I know my wife is more than capable of defending herself,” said Travis Lamb, an Iraq War combat veteran, who eventually reached out to Manley at the Ole Merc.
Then, when Manley reviewed the surveillance video from the Merc’s camera system, she found no sign of a white Ford truck.
“We have not found evidence of them at our store or at the three businesses that come along the highway right there,” Manley said. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.
“My default is to absolutely believe women, and she (Lizette) was, she was rattled.”
Manley holds a Ph.D. in cognitive psychology and ran the research team at Procore Technologies before going into business for herself.
When reviewing the video, Manley logged the times Lizette arrived and left, and then watched the highway for an hour after.
“We’re absolutely not arguing the authenticity of the report in any way, shape or form,” said Manley. “In my previous life before I had the store, I actually was a memory and cognition researcher. I understand how stress impacts memory.”
The Echoes
Travis Lamb’s Facebook post went off like a flare.
He tallied 36 accounts of similar experiences in roughly the same swath of country stretching across prairie and badlands in one of the least populated parts of Montana.
The pattern in many of the comments was consistent enough to be unsettling: a white pickup, often a Ford, sometimes with out-of-state plates, tailgating women on isolated stretches of two-lane after dark.
One commenter described being followed by a white truck north of Grass Range three years ago around 10 p.m., tailgated with brights on at more than 80 mph until the truck peeled off in a different direction.
Another described a white Ford pickup near Harlowton trying to force her to stop, then waiting for her at a gas station. Another recalled a white pickup with North Dakota plates in the same area.
In Wyoming, one poster described two men in a white truck with Washington plates on Highway 120 between Cody and Meeteetse who tailgated her, tried to push her off the road, then cut in front and slammed on the brakes.
Other women described different vehicles — a dark Escalade, a small white car, a black double-cab — but the same script: tailgating, refusing to pass, brake-checking, dead zones with no cell service.
Easter Night
One name in that Facebook thread was Joni Hartford of Lewistown, who told Cowboy State Daily she had her own near-identical encounter on Easter evening just days before Lizette Lamb’s.
Hartford, who works in insurance, had dropped off some belongings to her son, a football player at Rocky Mountain College in Billings.
She stopped at a gas station on her way out of town “for a pop,” climbed back into her red 2014 Ford F-150 and headed north on Highway 87 around 7:30 or 8 p.m.
“I noticed it right after I left Billings,” Hartford said of the pickup behind her. “It was right behind me and I kept thinking, ‘God, this vehicle is super close.’”
About 15 miles out of town, past the racetracks, she pulled toward the white line and slowed to 60 mph on a long straightaway, hoping the truck would go around. It wouldn’t.
“He was so close behind me, I couldn’t see his taillights, but I could see his marker lamps on his mirrors, his tow mirrors,” Hartford said. “So I knew it was a Ford pickup, and I knew it was like a three-quarter or a 1-ton. It was a big pickup.”
She couldn’t make out the color in the dark. She called her husband.
“I said, ‘This pickup is tailgating me,’ and said, ‘It’s really kind of making me nervous, because if I had to stop for a deer, it would run me over. It would run me off the road,’” Hartford said.
“And he goes, ‘Well, just stop.’ And I said, ‘I am not stopping. I’m in the middle of freaking nowhere,’” she added.
She made it through Roundup with the truck still on her bumper.
North of town, climbing toward Grass Range, Hartford caught a lucky break with an Amish buggy sluggishly clapping up a blind hill and slowing traffic.
“I darted around the Amish buggy, right before the blind hill, and he couldn’t get around them, and I just gunned it, and I was going probably 90 mph just to put space between us,” Hartford said. “I never seen him again.”
Hartford carries a .380 pistol. She had it out and on the seat. She didn’t show it — between the dark and her tinted windows, she wasn’t sure the driver behind her would have seen it anyway.
When Lamb’s post crossed her Facebook feed, Hartford said the parallels stopped her cold.
“It’s the same exact situation,” she said. “I can’t say for certain it was the same person, but it sure seems like it was the same person.”
Hartford said she believes the driver is hunting for circumstance: single women, after dark, on a corridor he knows is desolate and short on cell coverage.
“They’re targeting them at gas stations,” she said. “That’s the only place they could have found me, because it’s the only place I’ve stopped.”
The Candidate
Penny Ronning, cofounder and president of the Yellowstone Human Trafficking Task Force, had a similar drive in 2022.
She remembers it as the only time in nearly a year of solo campaign travel across 41 Montana counties that she felt afraid.
Ronning, then a Democratic candidate for U.S. Congress, was driving from Billings to Havre for a campaign event.
Instead of taking the interstate, she chose the back roads — north out of Winifred on Highway 236, a route that runs about 30 miles of gravel through some of the most remote country in the state before dropping into the Missouri River Breaks, which Ronning compared to a Montana version of the Grand Canyon.
As she entered the gravel, a four-door white pickup with blacked-out windows pulled in behind her.
“That was what made it frightening,” Ronning said. “It was that I was followed.”
Ronning, who has spent years working on human trafficking policy and prevention, was careful to push back on the framing that has circulated on Facebook around the Lamb case — that the white-pickup encounters are likely abduction attempts tied to trafficking networks.
“Human trafficking is the use of force, fraud or coercion to compel a person into commercial sex acts or labor against their will,” Ronning said. “Just because someone is being followed, that doesn’t rise to the level of human trafficking.”
The most prevalent form of human trafficking in the United States, she said, is familial trafficking, one family member trafficking another.
In Montana, she said, labor trafficking is also common in construction, nail salons, illicit massage businesses, hospitality and domestic servitude in pockets of high-end real estate.
Sex trafficking almost always begins with someone the victim knows.
The Watch
Back in Grass Range, every white pickup that rolls past the four-corner blinking light is now turning heads.
Manley said her store has worked closely with the Fergus County Sheriff’s Office on past incidents, and her cameras are essentially a standing resource for investigators.
She also said the response on social media has dismayed her, commenters questioning whether these highway stalking incidents happened at all, or suggesting Grass Range itself isn’t safe.
She believes her store, and others like it in remote pockets of Montana, are informal refuges.
“We’ve all been there, whether it’s in a snowstorm or where we’re just uncomfortable driving like this where we’re just like, ‘Oh my gosh,’ you see the big lights and you’re like, there’s a beacon of safety, essentially,” Manley said.
She said that her eyes are open to potential threats along the isolated highways connecting Grass Range to the rest of the world.
“We know that it is a highway that has a reputation for, you know, trafficking, drug moving, all of those different things, and that’s why we are as diligent as we are,” said Manley. “We really care about the safety of our community, our employees, and our customers.”
Manley remains in contact with the Lambs.
“She told me, ‘I’m not going to quit looking,’” said Travis, explaining how Manley is arranging for the Lambs to review the footage themselves.
Travis figures that perhaps, “Instead of a white Ford, maybe it’s a tan Dodge.”
He added, “I’m hoping somebody’s like, ‘I know that pickup.’ That’s what I’m praying for.”
So is Lizette, who told Cowboy State Daily, she’s thankful for the response to her story. She’s also thankful she was traveling with her sidearm.
“Unfortunately, that’s the world we live in now. You know, Montana, in the middle of nowhere,” said Lizette, who encouraged anyone else with similar encounters to come forward.
“This is just a reminder that it is happening,” she said. “It is real.”
David Madison can be reached at david@cowboystatedaily.com.
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