Same Kind, Different Flavor

I find as the days grow shorter and my life longer, snapshots in time appear, recalling memories mixed with mundane, wonder, and grandeur. Moments that stay implanted have a life that evolves into a deeper meaning than first witnessed.

It was a beautiful early summer but the feel of a spring day when we set off to trek through a ghost town. A town long abandoned in one of our Northwest territories of the United States of America.

The States all hold abandoned towns, many waiting for renovation, recovery, buyers of antiquities. Someone, a single buyer or, a corporation to infuse life into a settlement long forgotten with the green that pays the bills.

But sometimes a town is left to rot to be recovered by only the land. This was such, known only to the locals, not a tourist site. Hidden from most eyes, this was such a town with a feel of despair on the highway of life.

Our first stop was the three-story high dance hall/saloon/eatery/room accommodations with or without company. The first building on the right as you entered civilization. Sturdily built, not planning on going to the earth anytime soon. Though this town, even hundreds of years had passed, the expiration date stamped on the other structures.

The Honky-Tonk music could be heard in the mind's ear, and the twirl of skirts seen alongside the hearing. Tables in decent repair were made of sturdy wood. They were arranged along the outer, elevated area, encompassing the room from front to back, leading to the stage. The stairs on the right side leading upward to the sitting area overlooking the nightly show.

The musical instrument pit and live prompter seat bumped out in front were a full-scale visual when entering the second set of double doors from the four steps up into this establishment.

The stairs proved to be somewhat rickety; our exploring stayed on the first floor. So only our imagination could fill in the visuals for the two rear areas of this grand old dame of a welcoming building into town.

Exiting the building, we saw a small glass-enclosed area where a person would sit to take tickets or payments located in the foyer area. We mused on the placement as we carefully descend as there were no handrails.

Perhaps payment was accrued when one left the establishment, or the builder was left-handed. We turned to follow the curve of the avenue upward.

There were no wooden sidewalks – each establishment had stairs leading into them, again no rails.

We could see into the adjacent building, and it was either the grocers or the general store. We surmised it was the general store as it too was more extensive than most small-town stores.

The next one up looked to be a shoe and clothing repair shop. Finally, there were a few more buildings, but their blandness did not give up the secret of their usage.

There was no signage like there were no wooden sidewalks or rails on the stairs.

We asked our friends what was at the top of the hill. They said they didn't know. They had only been out here once before and stumbled on the town. As one could tell, it was overgrown before we got to the clearing and was somewhat railed off. It was late in the day when they hiked and took a quick look around, and went back to their car. They had taken us to see it so they too could explore.

We decided to look in the other houses, and they looked more to be that than stores, although larger again in floor space than most houses in the old west. We looked in one end of the house and out bolted a deer. As we approached the next, another deer shot out and ran uphill.

The following two again were huge, and yes, both had deer in the residence that took the hills when we approached. One was a barn with stables and a loft. There was no straw, but that would have been eaten years, lifetimes ago.

The town was old but built to last for generations. How old? We may never know.

As we turned to leave, we heard a sound faint from the back stall. We slowly approached the sound but stopped and slowly again backed out of the barn. The mother deer stood blocking the gate to the booth. It was late in the season, but a mother she was.

Our host and quasi guides were shaken and wanted to leave, afraid the deer would attack. We assured them that it was unlikely if we stayed away from the fawn or possibly fawns.

They still wanted to leave but gave in to our curiosity to see the top of the hill. But, unfortunately, it was surrounded by trees, so a dwelling, if there was one, could not yet be seen.

We needed to go down, to go up. The road and it was that, went from left side to right and then again to the left. There were deep wagon tracks. Our hosts again said, "Let's go – this is strange, this is eerie."

But Hal said, "We're almost there. Let's look."

At the top was a vast clearing. Again, crisscrossed with deep ruts leading to some small and some large iron wrought enclosures. Granite stones engraved with names and dates – parents laid with their children in the smallpox epidemic of 1887 – a complete village wiped out in the space of weeks. Newborn babes to pre-teen siblings laid side-by-side with their own headstone name and date of birth and death. Testifying to the probable age of the town.

How long it took to carve the headstones? Or who commissioned it is to be a mystery. But it showed a love for those departed.

And is a stark reminder of our mortality on the day of our Covid plague.