It’s not completely abandoned. Even though the arched windows and doors of the church are covered with plywood, there’s a hand written cardboard sign nailed to the fence. “Please keep the cemetery neat. Garbage pickup is on [too blurry from water damage to read].”
The air is cold and the sky is blue. There wind is coming from everywhere and it carries a bite. I go back to the car to get my jacket. The gate is slapping against a post and creaking at the same time — I want to laugh because it all looks so much like a scene from a Sergio Leone spaghetti western, only it isn’t funny. It’s sad. The boarded up church, the dilapidated scaffolding for the bell out back, the wind, the slap of the gate. It’s all sad.
The graves are marked with wooden crosses, there are only a few carved granite stones. There’s a monumental marker in the middle of the graveyard — Saint Francis, it tells me, but not a whole lot more. The names on the markers are Indian names, the First Raised family, the Yellow Robe family, and there are some other family names too, Romero, Azure. The plots are surrounded with rails made from painted two by fours, with gathered stones, the earth is piled gray and dry in mounds. Plastic flowers tumble around in the wind, fading pastel colors held in place by heavy dust. Behind one incomplete marker sits a pink stroller. A mark of recognition? The death of a baby girl? Or just forgotten?
There’s a lot of noise, the squeaking of the gate, the wind, and a clack clack clack — I finally locate the source, it’s a plastic angel with sparkly wings on hinges, the wind flaps the angel’s wings, clack clack clack. Cars rush by on the highway below. I think about winter, what must it be like to die in winter here?
There is no one around to ask about the church. The farmstead across the highway is for sale, there is no village in sight. I stand at the side of the church, at my feet lies a wreath of blue satin roses, coated in dust. I want to put them back where they belong, but it is impossible to know where that would be. The crosses are faded, the names hard to read. When I turn to go back to the car, I see more fabric flowers scattered across the rise, blown off the grave sites by the wind. They are everywhere, stuck in the barbed wire fence, pressed up against the scrappy sage, bleaching their artificial petals in the sharp Montana light.
What a wonderful narrative. You brought this place to life for me.
I really like wandering around and photographing old churches and graveyards. There is an old mission in St Ignatius, Montana that is still an active parish. The interior is painted by a Jesuit Brother (the cook) with beautiful art, I blogged about it here http://tinyurl.com/mteq5d
I attended the blogher travel panel and listened to you speak. I was thankful to hear you then, but I’m even more thankful to read you now. Wonderful to see your blog, I look forward to getting to know it.
beautiful, beautiful photo, pam. i love that you write so well that we feel like we’re there WITH you.
Like Lorraine I also attended the BlogHer conference and was glad that you were on that travel panel. I could see you had a passion for travel and not just going out there looking at hotels and restaurants. This is a enlightening story I can sense the age of the church, the history behind it and the sign posted about the cemetray. Plus your photo is perfect.
@cate and @lorraine — I’m really flattered you’ve dropped in here to say hello. thanks for coming to the session, too, i really appreciate that others are interested in the wonders of travelblogging!
blog and travel happy. 🙂
I have drove by that church lots of times, the only time stopped was at night and the headlights from the cars headed west cast a crazy shadow on the wall of the church from the crosses in the cemetary. I think the stroller, and other childrens toys like dolls, toy animals, ect are there for the children who passed away to play with. I also thought I seen shadows of kids, or people amongst the crossses of the wall. I left and never said anything about it to anyone.
Between fifty and sixty years ago, many times, I looked out on this church from the back seat of our family car as we traveled from Havre to visit my mother’s ranching and wheat-farming relatives in Wolf Point. Usually it was hot, and cars were not then air-conditioned. Dad in his WWII aviator’s sunglasses was driving. My mother often commented on the Indian mission to my sister and me. In the 1950s this was still a functioning church. If we passed on Sunday there were native parishioners around, wearing straw hats and string ties. Their children played on the steps.
Highway 2 has never been busy, but it wasn’t as deserted as it must have been the day you snapped this photograph. Your multi-sensory description adds to the desolation. I agree that it is now a very sad landscape. It wasn’t back then and isn’t in my image of it.
Thanks for memorializing it here so it isn’t completely forgotten. I found your page after a search on “Fort Belnap Church”, because I will be traveling this way again next week. It’s been ten years or more since the last time. I wondered if the old landmark was still standing.