The Secret Anxieties of Harrison Ford, Circa 1988

Harrison Ford is walking purposefully along a wooden plank sidewalk in a town somewhere in the Rockies. He moves with a sturdy grace, well-muscled shoulders shifting against the yoke of his denim shirt, hips working like ball bearings inside dirty Levi’s. Save for his sunglasses, which he wears as armor against chance recognition, he could be just another cowboy.

By Ford’s calculations, he only makes it into the big city—a one-stoplight affair on the edge of a National Park—about “0.3 times a week.” Although the place retains a smidgen of western integrity, it has largely gone the way of all mountain resorts. The streets are lined with white-water-rafting outfitters, real estate offices, and ski shops. The main square is anchored by a Ralph Lauren boutique. Ford feels fenced in here.

No wonder. On his 800-acre spread seven miles out in the country, elk and deer roam freely, bald eagles wheel overhead, and cutthroat trout shoot through the creeks. The ranch is dominated by a two-story house of Ford’s own design that a friend, relishing the obvious contradiction between the dwelling’s massive size and plain style, terms a “Shaker mansion.” Ford calls the compound a “refuge for animal animals and human animals.”

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