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The Spokesman-Review Newspaper
Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883

Sprag Pole Inn, Museum an expected delight


Buttons are one of the hundreds of items collected by Walt Almquist on display at the Sprag Pole Inn and Museum.
 (Photos by Patrick Jacobs / The Spokesman-Review)
Patrick Jacobs Correspondent

For me, it’s record albums.

My fascination with them started as soon as I was old enough to figure out how to put them on the gigantic wooden console stereo we had in our living room. My childhood record collection started with The Beatles and The Supremes and lasted through disco, new wave and early alt-rock before the shiny CD eventually took over as my format of choice.

However, to this day, I cannot pass a thrift store or yard sale without stopping to file through any dusty stacks of vinyl that might be lurking there.

Almost everybody is a collector of something, but few people ever take the idea to the extreme of the late great Walt Almquist, whose jaw-dropping collections of nearly everything you can think of are displayed in the dusty glass cases that make up the Sprag Pole Museum in Murray, Idaho.

For Almquist, it all started in the 1930s after a pal gave him a decorative whiskey bottle to adorn the bar of his newly established Sprag Pole Inn, which was housed in an already historic building where legendary madam Molly B’Dam once had performed her, ahem, business.

With the help of his brother, Harry, and many friends, Almquist spent the rest of his long life adding miscellany to his self-proclaimed museum, eventually expanding to fill three buildings.

Curiosity recently led Q. and I to make the venture east to Murray one cloudy afternoon to check out this legendary tourist trap.

In Wallace, I took the wrong road north, and we ended up traveling through the narrow Gem-Burke valley filled with mining ruins and mobile homes occupied by folks who look like they don’t especially take kindly to strangers in them thar parts.

We backtracked and found the proper road to Murray, which was approximately wide enough to fit one and a quarter automobiles and snaked over the mountain like a cheap roller coaster.

I gleefully zoomed around the curves, causing Q. to go into a full-on anxiety attack as he pictured us flying off a ledge to our death in the remote wilderness.

Fortunately, we made it in one piece.

Pulling into Murray, we could see clearly why it’s listed as a living ghost town.

At the height of the mining boom, it was a city of several thousand people, complete with a thriving red-light district. Today, only around six original buildings remain standing, including a tiny post office, a fire station that looks more like a firetrap and two bars, including the bright yellow Sprag Pole Inn.

I actually didn’t realize they served food and drinks until I walked in. I was famished, but Q. was still a little queasy from our mountain adventure.

The room was empty, but the noise of several televisions and the staggering amount of wall clutter made the place seem lively. We were greeted by the current Sprag Pole owner, Lloyd Roath, who told us to grab a seat anywhere.

As we looked around the place, two things became immediately clear:

First, Lloyd really, really likes both the Seattle Seahawks and the Seattle Mariners – so much so that he has continued Almquist’s collecting obsession, except he has chosen to focus solely on memorabilia of those two sports teams.

Second, I never knew before that antlers could be used to make such a wide array of lighting fixtures.

The Sprag Pole dining room takes the notion of “down-home charm” to the extreme, with its mismatched variety of plastic church chairs and tables of random heights, sizes and shapes. Crudely handwritten signs hang everywhere, touting everything from the wine list and the daily specials to snarky company policies such as “No credit – Don’t even ask!”

Looking at the menu, we were a bit surprised by the fanciness and cost of some of the offerings.

For example, the going special was a full pound of Dungeness crab, a half pound of steamed clams, five jumbo prawns, a potato and soup or salad for $25.99. Racks of Lloyd’s “famous” barbecue ribs, porterhouse steak, prime rib, pan-seared oysters and Alaskan cod all were floating near or above the $20 mark.

We realized perhaps this wasn’t the backwoods dive we’d thought it was and that the place must have quite a cult following to be able to serve such relatively haute cuisine.

Fortunately for us poor folks, the Sprag Pole also serves a variety of burgers, sandwiches and fried items. Basically, if you can fry it, they serve it, including zucchini, cheese sticks, gizzards and that rare but oh so wonderful artery-clogging delicacy known as Chester fried chicken.

Tempting, but I chose to opt for the relative safety of a bacon cheeseburger; Q. decided his tummy had settled enough to tackle a bowl of chili and a pint of Moose Drool. Yes, not even wee Murray is safe from the microbrew craze.

Our food came hot and fast.

My burger and onion rings looked like they’d arrived via a time machine from 1955 – an old-fashioned monster meat patty on a behemoth bun, served with a pile of lettuce, tomatoes, onions and pickles. It was fully luscious, exploding with the rich flavor of the crisp bacon and sharp cheddar. The beer-battered onion rings were laughably huge, light and crispy and not at all overly greasy.

Q. tasted his chili and declared it “didn’t need a thing,” an impressive compliment coming from someone who usually massively abuses his food with condiments and salt. He proudly pointed out the huge chunks of jalapeño swimming within, and when the waitress came to clear the table, he told her it was the best chili he’d ever had in his entire life. From the quiver in his voice, I knew he meant it.

Full, we sat stunned for a few moments, absorbing the unexpected shock of such incredible food. We paid the bill – a bargain at under $15 for both of us – and turned our attention to the ugly metal door in the far back corner that serves as the humble entry to Walt Almquist’s museum.

The first fluorescently lit room houses Almquist’s original collection of dust-covered bric-a-brac and curios, displayed in huge glass cases.

One case contains nothing but hundreds of small wooden animals, carved by Almquist himself. A half-dozen cases are filled with a half-decade’s worth of collectible booze bottles representing all 48 states then in the Union. Another is filled with nothing but cigarette packages. Rock and mineral buffs will want to visit the place just to check out the thousands of colorful specimens the Almquists somehow amassed from around the globe.

Other displays are more random, showcasing long outmoded household devices, brass vases, old money, war and mining memorabilia and even old Avon cologne bottles. One of the more humorously morbid items we noticed was a small ceramic urn with the red Dymo-tape label, “Grandma Shroyer.”

In addition to the items, each display case is filled with tags describing the contents, written in old-man handwriting.

Cleary, the time and effort that dear Walt must have invested in this collection are staggering, and he did all this while cooking food and serving drinks at the inn.

After running out of room for all his stuff, he built on an expansion and set up some scenario-oriented historical displays, including a one-room classroom, a mining scene and a replication of Molly B’Dam’s den of iniquity.

Even some antiques of more recent vintage make appearances here, such as pinball machines and primitive video games, clunky old telephone answering devices, BetaMax video machines and other quaint, obsolete electronics.

Eventually, it all became too much for the aging collector to maintain, and in 1982, operation of the museum was handed over to a private nonprofit company, which carries the Almquist torch proudly by continuing to collect items and expand the displays. It regularly receives large donations from private collectors, so it’s worth returning here every few years or so to see what’s new.

Q. and I weren’t really sure what to expect when we arrived, but we left as devoted members of the Sprag Pole cult. We plan to return as soon as we can afford that incredible $25.99 seafood special.