Enjoying Our Parks

By editor

Billings, Yellowstone County, Montana

Now, if you find yourself rolling into Billings during the 1910s, you might be forgiven for thinking the town was merely a stopover on the great iron horse’s route westward. But a man named Charles H. Ramsdell, a landscape architect from Minneapolis, had other ideas--not about railroads or mines but about the patch of sandstone rimrocks that fringe this Montana city like a stubborn old fence. Ramsdell proclaimed, with an eye on the motorcar and a nod to the picnic basket, that "interesting drives in and about these park lands would appeal to the automobile pleasure seeker... nor should the desires of those who would like picnic grounds be disregarded. Provision should be made for the quiet enjoyment of field lawns and woods as well." That sentence, written in the era when cars were still a novelty and roads more of a suggestion, set the stage for what would become a peculiar experiment in urban nature appreciation.

Ramsdell’s vision was not merely a matter of planting flowers and setting out benches. He saw the rimrocks themselves as a natural scenic drive, a promenade for engines and their passengers to admire the rough-hewn cliffs and the valley below. Rimrock Park was born from this vision--a strip of sandstone cliffs that frame the city like the ledges of some geological scrapbook. Alongside it, Pioneer Park was designed as a community garden, a spot where Billings folk could witness the flowering of both plants and neighborhood pride. This was a time when the city was growing fast, thanks to the railroad and the influx of settlers chasing dreams of land and fortune, yet still people sought leisure in the open air rather than in the saloons or bank offices.

By the 1920s, Rimrock Park had become the haunt of hikers and the site of more than a few outdoor luncheons and sunrise breakfasts atop the sandstone edges. It was a place where Billings’ citizens could momentarily escape the clatter of commerce and the dust of the streets to find a bit of quiet--though quiet in a town that was still wrestling with the noisy demands of growth was a relative term. The park’s popularity was no accident; it was the result of deliberate planning and a community’s need to balance industry with a modicum of leisure. The automobile, which Charles Ramsdell had so astutely predicted would draw people to these spots, was becoming a fixture on Montana roads, making Rimrock Park accessible to more than just the hardy hikers.

The story takes a turn with George Swords, a man whose name would become attached to the rimrocks in the late 1920s and early 1930s. Swords was a local landowner who deeded significant portions of the rimtop lands to the city, an act that expanded public access and allowed for further development of the park. In recognition, the city rechristened the area as Swords Rimrock Park. This was not merely a change of name but a move that symbolized the growing institutional commitment to preserving and enjoying these natural spaces amid urban expansion.

Then came the Great Depression, that grim era when Americans found themselves out of work and, more often than not, out of hope. But the federal government, under President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s New Deal, launched the Works Progress Administration (WPA) to put unemployed men to work building infrastructure--roads, bridges, and parks among them. Starting in 1936, the WPA turned its attention to Swords Rimrock Park, constructing a scenic loop drive on the east end of the park. This was not just a road but a project that employed hundreds of local men and aimed to enhance public access to the rimrocks’ impressive views.

Completed in 1938, the new road was named Black Otter Trail, after a Crow Indian chief whom the Billings Commercial Club claimed was killed in 1861 and buried near the park’s high point, close to where the grave of Yellowstone Kelly, the scout and soldier, now rests. The story of Chief Black Otter, however, is shrouded in mystery and contradiction. Crow oral traditions, which are usually rich with the names and deeds of their leaders, contain no record of such a figure. This discrepancy reveals how local lore, civic pride, and the desire to honor Native American heritage sometimes collided with historical fact--or the lack thereof. The Commercial Club’s narrative served its purpose in naming the trail but reminds us that history is often a patchwork of myth and memory.

Along the Black Otter Trail, remnants of three observation platforms remain, where once stood viewing telescopes that allowed visitors to scan the Yellowstone Valley and the distant peaks. These platforms, now dilapidated, bear silent witness to a time when the city sought to invite its residents to look beyond their immediate surroundings and appreciate the vastness of the Montana landscape. The stone barriers along the road, built in the characteristic WPA style, add a rugged charm to the route and speak to the labor and craftsmanship of Depression-era workers.

The mid-20th century brought new challenges and ambitions for the rimrocks. During the 1970s, there was a push to elevate the area to National Monument status. Senators Lee Metcalf and Mike Mansfield, both Montana Democrats known for their conservation efforts, introduced bills to protect the rimrocks at the federal level. Metcalf, in particular, had a reputation as a champion of public lands, once declaring, "Montana’s beauty is a heritage we cannot afford to lose." Despite their efforts, the bill was rejected in 1971, largely because the area was deemed too developed to qualify for such designation. The city’s growth and the presence of roads and recreational facilities worked against the claim that the rimrocks were pristine enough to warrant federal protection.

This rejection highlights a tension common to many Western communities--the desire to preserve natural landmarks while also accommodating the economic and social needs of a growing population. Billings, fueled by railroad commerce, banking, and land speculation, was no stranger to this balancing act. The rimrocks were never wild in the untouched sense, but neither were they mere backdrops to urban sprawl. They occupied a middle ground, shaped by human hands but still offering a chance for respite and reflection.

A 1915 guidebook advised travelers, "When you get as far west as Billings go slow. Take time for side trips. You are near the most marvelous scenes nature has placed on earth." This counsel still holds some truth, though the “side trips” may now be punctuated by the hum of engines rather than horse hooves, and the marvels include not just raw wilderness but also the layered histories of land use, urban planning, and community identity.

So, next time you find yourself atop the sandstone rimrocks of Billings, looking out over the Yellowstone River and the city below, remember that these parks are less a pristine wilderness and more a landscape of intention and compromise. They are places shaped by the ambitions of landscape architects, the generosity of landowners like George Swords, the work of Depression-era laborers, and the shifting tides of civic and federal priorities. And that, if you ask me, is a story worth sitting down to enjoy, perhaps with a sunrise breakfast in hand.

See also

• [Enjoying Our Parks](/historic-markers/enjoying