The Milk River Valley Church swung its doors wide in 1918, like some lost ship docking in the desert. Who the hell knows why they chose this godforsaken spot? I guess someone thought it might be a good idea back then, but it’s hard to see it now.

No towns close by—just Gildford with its 179 souls and Kremlin barely scratching at 100. You count all the bodies in ten miles, you get maybe 400, if you’re lucky. It’s lonely out there, real lonely. Wasn’t any different back then, either. The place is literally nowhere—dusty trails, fields and silence.

Ph. The Rugged Society 


Construction kicked off in 1915. The local businesses and neighbors chipped in, some cash, some sweat, a little bit of both. All the lumber came from Gildford, from one of its three yards. They wrapped it up by 1918, and John A. Brumbaugh was the first to preach.

And soon came the droughts, the place was struggling. People started packing up, getting the hell out. Hard to say how long the church lasted. Not long, probably. The pews were empty more often than not, and before anyone noticed, it was just another ghost in a field of dust.

 

Ph. The Rugged Society