around the barrier and walked down old Highway 61. Clumps of weedy grass poked
through the surface here and there, but it still looked like a serviceable road. All around
on both sides for a considerable distance the land smoked broodingly, like the aftermath
of a forest fire. About fifty yards along, a jagged crack appeared down the center of the
highway and quickly grew into a severe gash several inches across, emitting still more
smoke. In places, the road on one side of the gash had subsided a foot or more, or
slumped into a shallow, bowl-shaped depression. From time to time I peered into the
crack but couldn't gauge anything of its depth for the swirling smoke, which proved to be
disagreeably acrid and sulphurous when the breeze pushed it over me.
I walked along for some minutes, gravely examining the scar as if I were some kind of
official inspector of highways, before I spread my gaze more generally and it dawned on
me that I was in the middle--very much in the middle--of an extensively smoking
landscape, on possibly no more than a skin of asphalt, above a fire that had been burning
out of control for thirty-four years--not, I'm bound to say, the smartest place in North
America to position oneself. Perhaps it was no more than a literally heated imagination,
but the ground suddenly seemed distinctly spongy and resilient, as if I were walking
across a mattress. I retreated in haste to the car.
It seemed odd on reflection that I, or any other severely foolish person, could drive in
and have a look around a place as patently dangerous and unstable as Centralia, and yet
there was nothing to stop anyone from venturing anywhere. What was odder still was
that the evacuation of Centralia was not total. Those who wanted to stay and live with the
possibility of having their houses fall into the earth were allowed to remain, and a few had
evidently so chosen. I got back in the car and drove up to a lone house in the center of
town. The house, painted a pale green, was eerily neat and well maintained. A vase of
artificial flowers and other modest decorative knicknacks stood on a windowsill, and there
was a bed of marigolds by the freshly painted stoop. But there was no car in the drive,
and no one answered the bell.
Several of the other houses proved on closer inspection to be unoccupied. Two were
boarded and had "DANGER--KEEP OUT" notices tacked to them. Five or six others,
including a clutch of three on the far side of the central park, were still evidently lived in--
one, amazingly, even had children's toys in the yard (who on earth would keep children in
a place like this?)--but there was no answer at any of the bells I tried. Everyone was
either at work or, for all I knew, lying dead on the kitchen floor. At one house I knocked
at I thought I saw a curtain move, but I couldn't be sure. Who knows how crazy these
people might be after three decades of living on top of an inferno and breathing head-
lightening quantities of CO2, or how weary they might have grown of outsiders cheerfully
poking around and treating their town as a curious diversion? I was privately relieved that
no one answered my knocks because I couldn't for the life of me think what my opening
question would be.
It was well past lunchtime, so I drove the five miles or so to Mt. Carmel, the nearest
town. Mt. Carmel was mildly startling after Centralia--a busy little town, nicely old-
fashioned, with traffic on Main Street and sidewalks full of shoppers and other townsfolk
going about their business. I had lunch at the Academy Luncheonette and Sporting Goods
Store (possibly the only place in America where you can gaze at jockstraps while eating a
tuna salad sandwich) and was intending then to push on in search of the AT, but on the
sean pound
(Sean Pound)
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