When I think of a ghost town, a tableau of the iconic “High Noon” spaghetti-western comes into mind. It is a row of ramshackle wooden buildings that form two lines like opposing armies in a battle. There is the requisite saloon door dangling on one hinge, while a ball of tumbleweed sweeps through the dry and barren street. Aside from a gust of wind, bringing in dust devils and a hot dry breeze, the environment has an eerie silence to it.
As I explored the area near Green River with Dan Hutson, a member of the Black Diamond Historical Society, where the town of Franklin once was, I perceived that, as a ghost town, it has none of these qualities.
First, there is the constant sound of rushing water from the Green River. There are no buildings to speak of, only foundations where the air shaft or fan house once sat. Nothing made of wood has survived a century of decay. Walls of stone and brick are all that remain.
A gravel trail is located where tracks once sat, and a small ravine is the sole indication of where the train used to back up into Franklin. Trees shoot out of a grassy mound where the dirt from the mines was deposited.
The mine shafts themselves are sealed off completely — most are filled with dirt, while one is covered with old rail tracks, concrete and metal bars, plus a guardrail. The old cemetery of crumbling tombstones and the fence that surrounds it is overrun with vines and bushes. The thick metal cables that once lowered and pulled up the mine cars are now sunk into the mud of the path that leads to the cemetery.
Nevertheless, there is an authenticity to Franklin that I’ve seldom seen elsewhere. Unlike most historical sites, the remains of the town are essentially the same way they were when they were abandoned seventy years ago.
It doesn’t have that “touristy” vibe that robs most locations of their natural aura. Although efforts have been made to clear away the blackberry bushes and vines from the foundations and cemetery, it is evident that what you see hasn’t been altered significantly for the sake of appearances by the Black Diamond Historical Society.
When the Dead Sea Scrolls came to the Seattle Pacific Science Center in 2006, I was enthralled at the opportunity to look at one of the greatest archeological finds in history. But at the exhibit, I was dismayed when I discovered that most of it consisted of the history surrounding the time period when the scrolls were hidden; the Dead Sea Scrolls themselves were nothing but diminutive fragments that had gone through a dozen inspections, analyzes and security precautions. I didn’t get to see the scrolls themselves, but a tiny sample of them. The excitement that I had had was robbed by a separation of formality.
That separation of formality, I believe, keeps people from enjoying anything they see. The lack of it in Franklin, I also believe, is what makes it so popular. There is no “official” path or course to take when visiting it. There are no rules about what you can and cannot do.
That is why when I came across an old metal trestle that stretched across a ravine, I felt more excitement than I did viewing 3,000 year-old documents.
It was fascinating to look at an engineering structure that has lasted for a hundred years, through time and weather, without any sort of care or attention to preserve it. Its existence is a testament to the ingenuity of those who built it. There were no signs, fences, glass or inhibiting factors to prevent me from examining it.
The mine shaft was sealed, of course, for safety purposes, but I was still able to walk over it and peer down into the abyss of blackness and listen to a rock fall down it for five seconds before hitting the bottom. I was able to wander around the cemetery and study each of the tombstones without a tour guide babying me the whole time.
When I visited Randolph Hearst’s home in California as a kid, the tour guide had to constantly watch people to make sure no one was handling the furniture or picking gold from off the floor. The kind of people who got Franklin have the common sense to know to treat it with respect.
Hutson explained to me that the tour he and Don Mason give keeps getting bigger and bigger each year. Last February, they had 233 people show up. For a number years, many of those people who came for the tours had grown up in the town.
During one tour, a man from Buckley seemed very interested in the Hyde Saloon that had been in Franklin. Later, Hutson and Mason learned that the man owned the original bar counter from the saloon. As it turned out, his father had taken it when the saloon has closed down and had used it for a workbench in his shop.
People go to Franklin because they appreciate what they find there, even if it isn’t always pleasant. Yes, Franklin might be preserved better, considering it is located in a state park. But a positive result is that visitors don’t feel like the whole area has passed through some vigorous inspection before they were allowed to come in. Aside from the mine shaft and a few signs, they feel as though no one else has been there in decades.
In Franklin, what sparks your curiosity isn’t a monumental historical event that took place there. It is the deeply personal stories of ordinary people, stories which directly affected only a few, but are fascinating to those who never knew them.
Too many historic sites have lost their allurement due to overexposure. Inundated with tourists, they have become tidy, clean revenue-machines that are no longer special to visit because millions of others have seen it. I hope Franklin never loses it.
