Jerome, Arizona, once known as the "wickedest town in the west" is now visited by ghost hunters trying to prove it really is inhabited by beings from the other side. Once close to abandoned completely, it has been revitalized as a destination for tourists with many thriving shops, the famously haunted Grand Hotel, and a view that is priceless.
Situated on the side of a mountain with Route 89 twisting and turning its way through the town, Jerome is bustling with activity yet the faded buildings reveal a place steeped with history. Inquiries pointed us to a small road leading out of town a short distance, to an old gold mine and the "real" ghost town. A weathered store front surrounded by abandoned vehicles, rusting tools and mining equipment proclaimed itself "open" so we wandered in.
"Can I help you?" came from the back of the interior as we pushed the old screen door open and entered.
"Are you real?" I asked in the direction of the voice. In this place so far removed from civilization it seemed highly possible one of the ghosts we'd heard so much about might be running the place. A young girl stepped out of the shadows; she smiled and seemed real enough. Bluegrass music was playing on some unseen audio equipment. The wooden floorboards looked ancient but the merchandise was all tourist tripe. We picked up a few baubles for the grandkids and asked about the self-guided tour advertised on the door leading out the back of the store. It seemed the older one was, the cheaper the tour. For Paul and I it was $5.00 a piece.
Someone had told me to be sure and pay the $10.00 to hear them start up Big Bertha. I had no idea who she was, but I obediently asked the young lady how we get her started up. She indicated the back door. "Just have someone out there start her for you." Since there was no evidence of another living person on the planet besides my brother John, his wife, Paul, myself and the young girl, I was fully intrigued.
The four of us stepped through the old squeaking screen door and into another world untouched by time for the past hundred years. The path was lined with more rusting tools, I assumed more mining equipment. We came upon a leaning wooden building with signs indicating it belonged to the resident dentist. The door was wide open so we made free to enter. By the looks of it, the Doctor walked out one day and never came back. All the tools of the trade used before the comforts of Novocaine and laughing gas were in vogue, lay scattered about, covered with a thick layer of dust and grime. Being afraid of my own dentist, armed as he is with all the modern pain-relieving drugs, I felt a shiver travel up my spine at the small, peeling board that advertised bargain rates for multiple tooth extractions. With implements of torture arranged on a rusting tray and the leather from the chair moth-eaten and corrupt, as they say, it looked like the perfect setting for a Hitchcock film.
Passing further into the twilight zone we saw more buildings, all weather-beaten and leaning here and there. No sign of life anywhere as we wandered up and down the various pathways, but we did find Big Bertha with a sign advertising the cost of getting her running. A huge metal contraption that Paul says may have provided power to run the mine, sat housed on a platform in a three-sided lean-to.
Two men materialized but paid us scant attention. I called out that we want to see Bertha run. One of them said, "Okay as soon as I get the sawmill warmed up." He then proceeded to start up another contraption behind me,with belts flapping and a motor putt-putting. I could almost see the OSHA people squirm in anticipation of coming horrors.
 | |
| The backside of Bertha with the man who makes her tick. |
We milled about, waiting.. . and waiting.. . and waiting. Finally the sawmill fellow took my ten dollars and tried to make Bertha sing. She was obstinate and uncooperative. After a time another man appeared, by the look of him, straight out of the old west, and took over the Bertha Operation. In spite of, or maybe because of, his grizzled, unkempt, appearance, I had total confidence in his ability to handle the stubborn grey hulk that was Bertha. He had grey hair flowing down his back and clothes that looked like they had withstood the test of time. And he did know how to beat Bertha into submission. The belching backfires, according to her handler, could be heard from thirty miles away. From my sudden onset of deafness, I have no doubt he was telling the truth.
While our eardrums recovered we strolled around looking into sheds. We peeked into the hole that was the entry to the old mine and discussion ensued on potential incentives to explore the gaping black abyss behind the dilapidated fence. I have yet to hear a price sufficient to induce me into the claustrophobic darkness of that mine shaft. The stuff of nightmares, that's what abandoned mines are.
We came upon some chickens and goats, fenced in among the ruins outside the mine entry. Speculating as to who would take care of the animals in this abandoned place, we noticed a small sign proclaiming a private residence, indistinguishable from the rest of the ghostly dwellings and we realized this place wasn't empty. Another rusting sign read: "Trespassers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again." And the little hairs on my neck that felt like they were being watched, probably were.
We managed to find our way back to the parking lot, through the little store, and we drove back to Jerome. I felt like I had escaped something otherworldly.
We ate at a beautiful little bistro called Quince and I had to try the Avocado Pie. It sounded gross, so I ordered it to see if it was. It turned out to be quite tasty. Like a cross between cheesecake and pudding-filled pie with only the slightest hint of avocado taste. Proof once again that adding enough sugar to almost anything makes it edible.
We drove on toward Prescott and the road was a curving, majestic snake, winding its way around hairpin turns with sheer drops off one side and steep rocks on the other. I rarely get carsick but I was popping Dramamine before we got off the last mountain.
We passed through horse country and saw beautiful farms, fenced in with white rails. Eventually we made it to Phoenix and found our hotel where we connected with relatives arriving from all over the country and Canada, all looking forward to our real reason for this trip: family reunion in Black Canyon City the following two days.
We finished a full day by eating at a place called The Buffalo Chip Saloon. The food was great but we left before the bull riding contest started. No, I am not joking. Actual bull-riding. At a restaurant. If we wouldn't have had family we wanted to visit, I would have loved to stay and see the mayhem.
No comments:
Post a Comment