Get Outta Dodge!

And don’t stop to take pictures of the cows on your way out.

Dodge City

It went down in history as one of the worst vacation stories to enter into our family lore.

Right up there with the hotel we stayed in with sand in the bed, ashes behind the non-smoking room door, a picture hung on the wall upside down, and a toilet seat on the light fixture.

There was also the time we drove five hours just to find one hotel that finally threw a mattress on the floor in a meeting room so we could sleep somewhere.

Then the time my grandad went with my dad on a trip and lost his brakes (and his voice) and visited a mine on his own just to give his claustrophobia a rise…but I digress.

Dodge City.

The home of the Wild West, Cowboys, Outlaws, and cows. It’s known as the “Queen of the Cowtowns,” “Buffalo Capital of the World,” and “Wickedest Little City in America.” It’s known for Boot Hill where people died violent deaths and were buried with their boots still on.

It’s known for the phrase “Get out of Dodge,” but wait… why? Well, you’re about to find out.

My grandad found it on a pamphlet in our hotel room. He was always the perfect sleuth for finding interesting things to do. He took us around to the Louisville Slugger bat-making factory, old historical sites, the Hershey’s Chocolate factory, and more.

This time, his finger landed on “Dodge City.” He kept reading off everything you could do there. “Admission free” was the response to absolutely everything you could think of exploring. Sure it was a three-hour drive from our hotel room, but you couldn’t miss an opportunity like that on a rainy day with nothing else to do.

We hopped in the van we’d rented for this family vacation and hit the road. As soon as we hit the halfway mark, the rainy day became an outright thunderstorm with windshield wipers flying, hail getting sizably bigger, and only the tail lights in front of us were visible to light the way. But we couldn’t turn back now.

It was Dodge City or bust!

We finally arrived, and the sun started coming out. This seemed to be a good sign, but the sign should have read: “Just turn back now” instead.

We hopefully tramped up to the visitor’s stand, and the lady behind the counter started counting heads, “That will be $65.”

My grandad’s mouth dropped in shock.

“But, it advertised, admission free!”

He even got out the hotel pamphlet to show her.

“See?” he traced the line with his finger.

“Sir,” she said expressionlessly, “That says admission FEE.”

If it had just been a jaunt down the road, we’d probably have hopped back in the car to try our luck somewhere else. But after we’d taken a three-hour drive and risked our lives along the way, it didn’t seem right. My grandad shelled out the $65 (over 20 years ago that was quite a lot) and we headed out to explore the town.

There was not a lot to see except…

• A tiny museum that looked like it had been robbed of its most interesting artifacts (we’ll give them the benefit of the doubt, here.)
• An empty store-front face that was an entirely new construction.
• A tea shop that looked like it could be cutely closed for further construction.
• And a shoot-out draw that scared my four-year-old brother so badly we ran for cover like a real war had begun.

At least an ice cream parlor was open. We paused to lick our (emotional) wounds. I bought a black and blue garter with the inscription “Dodge City” on it. And with that purchase, we’d seen everything on site.

So we decided to take the tram to visit the historic sites. They showed us where the famous Boot Hill used to be, but the tour guide explained it had been moved to make room for new construction. They took us to see where other important sites used to be, but also no longer were.

And finally, at the end of the little tram ride, we got to a cattle lot. This at least was currently in existence. We could tell by the nauseating smell that wafted down the hill toward us.

Instead of “the cattle on a thousand hills,” this was more like a thousand cattle on a hill. The guide made his first and only stop and said that here we could get out to take pictures if we wanted.

There was a long pause and one brave soul got off the bus to snap a shot of muddy ground and some dirty cows — the only thing happening on this tour or in this Old West city.

In the meantime, the bus filled with the overwhelming smell of poop and a swarm of flies. I think at least half of the tourists became vegetarians that day.

We finally got back to the visiting center, weary and tormented for the price of $65. We just couldn’t stand it anymore. A ghost town would have been a step up.

We didn’t learn much about the city, find many fun things to do, or see many historical sites that day. But we could hear the ghosts of every cowboy still whispering to anyone that dares to enter: “Get OUTTA DODGE.”

And get out we did.

The sun smiled on us all the way back to our hotel.

Key takeaway: When an entire city is named “Dodge,” take that as a first clue.