The strange case of Centralia, Pennsylvania

Drive north along Rt. 61 in central Pennsylvania, and you'll zigzag in a slightly maddening fashion through small, blue collar towns built on the coal business.

Just north of Ashland, the road makes an abrubt turn to the right, making a half mile detour around an older section of Rt. 61 that now looks like this:

Follow the detour, and you soon find yourself in Centralia, Pennsylvania. Or what remains of it.

I first read about Centralia - where else? - in a book by Bill Bryson (A Walk in the Woods) and have since been fascinated. It turns out that in 1962, one of several veins of anthracite coal common in the area caught fire, and has been burning underground ever since. Having failed to contain the fire early on, the town went about its business for nearly two decades, until 1981 when a 150 foot deep sink hole opened up under a presumably alarmed 12 year old boy (he miraculously survived). National attention came Centralia's way, a government buyout was voted on and approved, and most of the town was razed.

Today Centralia is less a ghost town and more a collection of oddly configured houses situated on a large grid. Most of the streets look like this:


Roads with weeds growing in through the cracks, roads that border empty lots. The majority of residents heeded the state and federal warnings and moved out in the 80's. There are a few who remain, though...

I was half hoping to stumble upon a crazed man in his nineties living in a ramshackle tin house, defending his territory with a shot gun and a homemade doomsday button. On the contrary, I found about seven houses, each in good condition. A pool sat behind one of them. Several had satellite dishes. According to the 2000 census, there were 21 people living in Centralia at the time. The towns are so close together here in Pennsylvania that the remaining residents aren't terribly inconvenienced. Supplies can be obtained in several nearby towns only a few miles away.

There are of course the matters of unstable ground and high levels of carbon monoxide to contend with. But hey, at least it's a quiet neighborhood. And the crime rate must be pretty low to boot.

Driving across America, glimpsing into the habits and lives of my fellow Americans, the notion of home is forced upon me. There is a sense of home here that I have never felt in my own life, one that the remaining citizens of Centralia are willing to risk their health to uphold. Some stay for economic reasons, unable to afford a move elsewhere despite a government payoff, but most feel a sense of duty to a home where their parents and grandparents grew up.

I can't imagine what it must feel like to be so attached to a place that survived for over a century, and now only exists as a slight curiosity to the passing tourist.

There is barely anything left of Centralia, but somehow it holds on. And to think, Tombstone insists it's the one that's too tough to die.

New York (State)

Went hiking in the Catskills yesterday.

It was nice.

On Walmart

I drove through New York State yesterday with the hopes of sleeping somewhere near the Catskills so that I might get up early and go on a hike. Instead I'm at a Barnes and Noble updating the blog, but I digress.

Normally the way it works is I look on my U.S. atlas for a town in bold letters that looks like it may support a Walmart. Then I drive there and usually manage to find it right away, usually on the edge of the type of sprawl mentioned in the Hot Springs, Arkansas post. I park, hang various clothes and towels by the window to block out the light, and try to sleep.

But last night I found myself on all sides of the tracks in Binghamton, New York, looking for that familiar blue and yellow sign. I was positively all over the map, cruising through some interesting neighborhoods, eventually landing in a K-Mart parking lot where a woman kindly directed me to the Walmart eight miles out of town. I found it and was relieved. Elated even. Then just disgusted.

It's a sad day when I'm excited to be at a Walmart.

As a young 'un with liberal leanings and a fancy pants edumacation, I've almost been trained to detest Walmart. But the problem is that to many Americans, Walmart is as American as apple pie and baseball. Defame Walmart and you may as well boo Nascar, spit on the Bible and piss on Old Glory itself.

There is the usual litany of objections to Walmart's practices, such as attempting to move into towns whether the town approves or not, trying to take over the world just like McDonald's and Starbucks, and the most popular - "it's ruining the mom and pop stores of Small Town, America!"

Unfortunately, these things aren't exactly top on people's priorities. Many people don't have the luxury to stress over China's emerging economy, but instead can only worry about what is in their daily lives. Ignorance is bliss, and in our society especially, money talks. As long as Walmart continues to sell cheap plastic crap, people will buy it when "competitively priced."

The Great American Roadtrip can be an intimidating endeavor when undertaken alone, so it's odd this shift in perception that has occured. I've slept in Walmart parking lots all across America this summer, and it will never cease to be the evil face of capitalist greed in my mind, but for this trip at least, it has come to be something more. It's a symbol of safety. It's continuity through a vast landcape, it's comfort from familiarity in uncharted territory.

Funny how that works.

Niagara Falls

Until 1885, the two water falls that make up Niagara Falls - American Falls and Horshoe Falls - were privately owned, a fact that should belong in the nearby Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum. For decades a fence blocked visitors' views, that is until they paid the admission.

In 1885 the government of Ontario stepped in and stopped the madness, but the tradition continues today in the form of parking fees. If one wishes to park within a five mile radius of the Falls, one must part with $18, $20 Canadian.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the Falls, though, is the sheer lunacy it inspires in ordinary people. Take the case of 63-year-old school teacher Annie Edson Taylor. In 1901 ol' Annie became the first person to go over the Falls in a barrel. Since that time, 14 people have followed her lead, five of them dying in the act.

North of the border

I've spent the past few nights here in Canada staying with an old college friend, Yashy.

She's the only Bates friend I've met on this trip, so it's been fun to reminisce with an old friend about the good old days of living in the Bill; wrestling in yogurt, boobytrapping the hallway outside of our JA's room, everyone in the building hitting on Yashy's roommate...

Two things stand out from my time here in Toronto: the 12th annual Toronto Festival of Beer, and watching Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream" tonight in High Park.

But I must admit I'm tired. I've grown weary. I've been on the road for more than two months now, and though I often thought I could do this forever, I also have to admit that on every trip there is a time when home calls. I look forward to returning to familiar surroundings where I can process all that I've been through.

Until then, I'll try my best to pump out a few more decent posts...

Millington, Michigan

I spent Thursday taking backroads across Michigan, and due to missing the turn for state road 90, I ended up in the village of Millington. I saw this sign as I drove down Main Street:


Driving around the country on no set schedule makes it hard to remember the exact date or the given day of the week. After some quick mental calculations, I was surprised to realize that it was August 9th. I was just in time for the big party.

Millington truly is a village, with a Main Street no more than a block long, and as such the festival was little more than a few booths set up for games, some food tents, and a petting zoo.


But it was so distinctly American. The families milling about, the bored, disaffected youth trailing behind, American flags everywhere, the smell of barbecue in the air and shrieks and laughter everywhere. It made me wish I had an international friend with me who might have appreciated it on an even higher level. Small Town, America was indeed alive and well, and this only a few hours from the Canadian border.

After visiting the petting zoo, I tried my hand at one of the games. A quarter bought me three plastic rings with the object of throwing them around the necks of glass bottles set up in the middle of the booth. I hooked a coke bottle, and so I won a coke.


I then watched the local kids compete in some sort of kiddie tractor pull.


I finally decided to have dinner at the Millington Inn where I was feeling overwhelmingly American so I ordered a cheeseburger and fries as well as a house salad. The check came out to $5.94.

I finished off my tour of Millington at McKatm's Pub across the street where I sat at the bar with a Bud Light. There were three beers on tap: Bud Light, Busch, and Killians. Draught beer was served in red frat party cups, while the rest was served in cans. All of the men wore paint smeared clothes and construction boots, while the women looked like they could sweat cheeseburgers.

The women behind the bar were true barwenches. One had teased bangs a la 1987 while another had a mullet. They all had terrifically colorful dispositions. I sat and listened to the banter.

"Hey Tina, how come you don't get a bell and ring it like whenever someone gives you a tip."

Tina set the new beer in front of the man, put the extra dollar in the tip jar and said, "Ding ding. Now drink your fucking beer, Mike."

It was the greatest bar I've ever been to.

Grand Rapids, Michigan

It's a testament to a group's character when a stranger arrives in its midst and they instantly make him feel like a part of the crew. Alcohol probably helps too.

I spent the night with Matt last night in Grand Rapids, Michigan. He's a student at the local college and lives in a house with two roommates. He took me on a driving tour of East Grand Rapids (where "American Pie" was filmed - got to see Yesterdog, their local hangout in the movie) and Grand Rapids itself.

Matt: "We should go to the fish ladder."

Me: "What is that, like a brewpub?"

Matt: "No, it's a ladder in the river that helps the fish swim upstream."

We never did find it, though.

Afterwards I met his friends and we did what college students do best: we drank. Unfortunately I didn't have the presence of mind, shall we say, to get a picture of Matt himself, but at least I got a shot of his friends upon returning from the bar where we did flaming Dr. Peppers.

It was most likely my last couchsurfing experience of this trip. Really going to miss it.