Discovering Ghosts: Yermo, California, USA

The wind slammed the car door shut, almost amputating my hastily-withdrawn fingers.  I tied my hair back, blinking back moisture from my stinging eyes.  The words "Calico Ghost Town" swung back and forth.  Squat wooden building clustered together, huddled together as if to shield each other from the howling wind.  There were very few visitors that day.  I wondered how many were like us, unexpected explorers stumbling upon some hidden place fallen out of of time. 

The one main street down the middle was deserted save for one elderly couple posing for pictures.  The wind snatched at the woman’s hat and she clutched her head, smile pasted on.  We peered through doorways of the small handicraft shops and marveled at the dust-glossed train.  A man clad in worn western gear hailed us, "No tours today due to the wind, except for the one I’m giving soon."  It cost another $4 each, so we turned him down.  He shrugged, and settled back down on his wooden bench, shoulders hunched and still.  I barely resisted poking him just to see if he’d turned into a statue. 

We climbed atop a giant pink-hued rock, my high heels scrabbling for purchase, Rick’s breath huffing next to me, his dark fingers stark against stone.  As we looked down, the buildings shrunk to the size of my hand, we could see no movement.  The whole town, indeed, felt abandoned as if we’d truly uncovered this time capsule ourselves in the midst of the empty desert, instead of following the signs to what was advertised as a bustling attraction.  The sun beat down on us, heat alternating with chilly bursts of wind.  We were epic for one unlimited moment. 

To celebrate, we treated ourselves with mugs of hot chocolate, burgers oozing with cheese, icy water condensing in ball jars, and agreed we’d most definitely have to come back on a future camping trip.  The door tried to amputate my fingers again as we flung ourselves, laughing, back into the car.