High Country Ghost Towns

There is a unique emotion that one feels coming upon a ghost town. It’s a bit hard to pin down, but I’d say it’s an amalgam of melancholy, serenity, and a sense time having been compressed all around you. It’s the kind of feeling that you’d expect to find a fun compound word for in German, so, in a pique of linguistic hubris, I combined the words for ‘history’ and ‘feeling’ and came up with geschichtsgefühl. Feel free to roll that word around your mind the next time you find yourself in a town that’s been abandoned for decades.

Whatever you call it, there is plenty of it to be found in the American West. The boom and bust cycles of mining led to the creation and eventual abandonment of many towns, and the arid climate on the high plains and in the mountains meant that wooden structures built even the nineteenth century often remain in relatively good shape.

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The insides usually didn’t have much left behind, save for stoves and an occasional piece of furniture. In one case, a building’s sagging framework itself framed the house next door in a unique way.

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The only way into the cabin pictured below was so treacherous, I decided to take this shot of the armchair standing on my tiptoes while looking through a window.

Other sights included the odd car left behind. This old beater was left dramatically parked on an embankment, and has been used for target practice over the years. Any identifying badges were gone, but if you can identify the make and model, I’d love for you to leave it in the comments. My only guess is that it was from the 1940’s, judging from the style of the body.

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Here, a row of houses catch the last bit of sunlight as the coming storm can be seen in the background.

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This building had collapsed entirely, but I though the jagged ruins against the background of rolling hills still held some charm.

In another recent blog post, I wrote about the lucky run-ins we had with a couple locals that led to us being able to tour a hospital that would have been off limits to us otherwise. I’ll end this post with a similar story of a serendipitous interaction we had with one man in the town pictured below.

We had barely parked and gotten out our gear when an old timer on an ATV came rolling up. We were immediately on edge, assuming he would ask us to leave or otherwise give us a hard time. But he merely asked matter of factly what we were doing, and I told him we were photographers and not looking to trespass or vandalize. Without changing his demeanor, he nodded, informed us that the entire town was his property, but that we were welcome to walk around and take pictures, and drove off down the road. We were relieved and pleasantly surprised, but even more so when he came back maybe a half hour later. This time, he chatted with us at length, telling us his name was Dave, that he was seventy nine years old, and that the last fifty or so he’d spent living in this town. It seemed he was the lone hold out as the town emptied as mining operations shut down. After querying us on the things we were interested in photographing, he even gave us the location of a nearby abandoned mine that we had not been previously aware of! After talking to him for so long and getting such great info and stories from him, I felt we owed him something. Remembering we had beer in the car, I offered him some, to which he responded that he’s “quite partial to beer.” For the next half hour or so, we stood around and talked some more while storm clouds rolled in. The rain soon started, with the occasional drop of rain building into a steady drizzle. My friends and I each in turn went to the car for our rain coats, until the three of us were finishing our beers while Dave continued sipping his, seemingly oblivious to the rain. At this point I was equal parts worried that he was continuing to stand out there with us out of mere politeness, and also that the building rain would cause us to miss the mine that Dave had shown us. So, finally I said something along the lines of, “well, we’ve all got our coats on, I hope you’re not getting too wet or uncomfortable on our behalf.” To which Dave, in the slow, even manner he spoke, merely replied, “uncomfortable? It’s only rain.” I was not about to argue with this man, who’d been so generous with his time and stories with us, and had lived almost eight decades in the rough climate of these mountains so that he could brush off getting soaked through while talking to us. We watched him slowly finish his beer, at which point we finally thanked him and said our goodbyes.

It was a slightly surreal, but by no means unwelcome experience. Now, when perhaps I’m stressed at work, I like to flash back to the time I was standing in the rain having a beer with Dave. It was a treat to have met his acquaintance.

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Thanks for stopping by. I think I have one more post on this trip that I’ll publish soon.