Amanda Hocking, Hugh Howey. Some may switch genres on occasion, but
theyʼre still writing in a clearly labeled box. And getting paid well for it. Because
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Centralia: The Black Diamond of Columbia County! Travel Article for AtlasObscura.com There are no welcome signs (excepting the town line markers) greeting visitors today to Centralia, Pennsylvania, but there needn’t be any. Upon entering the historic coal mining borough, you can’t help feeling like you’ve stepped back into a bygone era, one that received all folks with a winsome smile, a fresh glass of sun tea, and one of those little American flags on a stick. Everywhere you look you see signs of what once was and what in many ways still is. It’s a place evoking a simpler time, the classic “small town” character that, by stubbornly clinging to its homespun roots, refuses to go extinct. Indeed, many claim Centralia is on the brink of death, its slide to becoming a modern-day ghost town begun when its once-booming anthracite industry shut down in the 1960s. Yet adventurous visitors of all ages are treated to an abundance of hobbyist opportunities and captivating attractions there. Nestled in the wooded hills of the Appalachian Mountains, Centralia (est. 1866) is centrally located in Columbia County, accessible via PA Route 61 where it intersects with Route 42. When I arrived there that sunshiny day, I didn’t even realize I was in the town, or any town. I must have driven through it three or four times before I found my bearings. The first point of interest I visited—primarily because it’s the highest point of interest in the town, hence the easiest to spot—was the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary Church. Still operating after more than a century, the Ukrainian GreekCatholic house of worship is a towering white edifice topped with three Byzantine crosses set on azure blue domes.
Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary Church
The interior features an ornate, early 20th century, Italian-painted Iconostasis, gilded almost to excess, that will surely take your breath away. The grizzled groundskeeper I spoke with said it was like “somethin’ from a Roman art museum.” I couldn’t agree more. A short amble behind the church led me to its well-maintained cemetery, one of four in Centralia. The grounds exhibit magnificent sculpted tombstones, some dating as far back as the 1920s, with others far more recent. One cannot miss the irony: in a town whose population has dwindled dramatically (from more than 1,400 residents in 1960 to just 10 as of the 2010 U.S. Census), Centralia’s graveyards remain its lone parts that are still growing. I pondered this while reclined on the final resting place of Helena Liptak (b. 1904 - d. 1927), smoking the Drew Estates Java cigar I had purchased from a Cigars International superstore (1635 Mountain Rd, Hamburg, PA) on the way there. I haven’t felt so peaceful in ages! Next I explored random streets throughout the town. Even with Google Maps I was still quite lost, as most of Centralia’s roads no longer have their names posted. The majority of the homes once lining these streets had been leveled after they were vacated, replaced over the years by lush green flora. I imagine the land now makes for ideal camping areas, and I spied a few hiking trails heading deep into the verdure. Those who enjoy restoring old furniture may find a treasure trove of household décor discarded on the roadsides, or even an animal skull to add an outdoorsy touch to their den or office. There’s ample parking everywhere. The hotbed of activity in Centralia centers around St. Ignatius Cemetery (which I had passed twice, mistakenly thinking the cars parked on the street in front belonged to mourners). The area serves as a prime location for offroad ATV and motorbike riding, offering many fun hilly trails for recreational motorists. Walking up the slope to the right of the cemetery, I was treated to spectacular tree- and windmill-lined vistas of the town, great for photographers of all stripes. I asked one high school student and plucky shutterbug, Courtney, what she thought most striking about Centralia. “It’s awesome,” she answered. “There are so many great pictures to take here!” If you’re fortunate, you can snap a shot of one of the scattered plumes of smoke occasionally billowing from the kindled rock beneath the town. (I was warned not to get too close to them should I encounter any, as they are very hot and unbreathable.) It was too windy to see any such vaporous displays the day I visited, though I could smell the sulfuric tang on the breeze. It reminded me of the cookouts I had as a child with my family and friends at my favorite park.
The highlight of my Centralia experience was strolling along the attraction the town is famed for: its Graffiti Highway. Once part of Route 61, the mile-long stretch was permanently closed in 1994 due to severe fracturing. Since then, people have used the paved roadway as an artist’s canvas, spray-painting colorful pop culture homages, words of wisdom, and phantasmagorical designs across the length of it. (I noted skulls and phalluses to be recurring motifs.) It’s a remarkable communal project, showcasing the array of talent the region produces. “There’s a lot of funny, weirdass stuff on here,” said Mike, 22, a resident of nearby Pottsville “just hanging out” that day in Centralia. He pointed to an illustration of a smiling (or screaming) alien creature. “I did this one like two years ago,” Mike declared. Asking him why he had wanted to put his artwork on the road, he answered pithily, “It’s cool.” I contemplated someday returning here with paints to add my own cool image to the repurposed straightaway, perhaps of a clown puffing on a cigar, the tattoo I never had the courage to get. Graffiti Highway is an appealing and equally enduring alternative for it. Centralia-related things to do don’t end at Centralia’s city limits. The neighboring town of Ashland presents the Pioneer Tunnel Coal Mine (2001 Walnut Street, Ashland, PA), a dark and dank trip in an authentic mine car that transports passengers a third of a mile into the side of Mahanoy Mountain. Not only are you able to experience what it was like to extract coal as they once had in Centralia’s abandoned mines, you also learn about Centralia’s mining history in vivid detail, courtesy of the knowledgeable tour guides, as well as a bulletin board outside the mine entrance (for those who choose not to pay the tour admission fee). For a ride of a different sort, drive over to Knoebels Amusement Park in Elysburg (391 Knoebels Blvd, Elysburg, PA) and hop on the Black Diamond, a steel roller coaster that plunges you inside a three-story haunted coal mine complete with a road sign reading “Centralia.” It’s a spooky tribute to a place where one still senses the spirit of its past in the air, a spirit that still says to every visitor: ‘Come Back Soon!’
The Most Comfortable Bed We’ve Ever Slept In! Review of Ambrosia Bed & Breakfast, Victoria, BC And the bed was just the beginning. My wife and I spent three days of our honeymoon in late October at this newly opened four-room B&B, and across the board the place was impeccable. We stayed in the spacious Zen Suite, which featured the aforementioned incredibly comfy king-sized featherbed, hardwood floors, a fireplace (perfect for the cooler shoulder season), heated bathroom floor, a deep soaker water jet tub, and a separate glass shower with a drencher showerhead. The décor was, of course, Zen inspired— simple, yet pleasing. And NO TELEVISION (you’ll find a modest library in the hall). That’s right, there’s not a single room with a TV. We didn’t miss it at all. Then there were the breakfasts. Susan, one on the proprietors, was not only a wonderfully friendly and accommodating host, but also a fine cook. You have the option of either breakfast in your room, or downstairs in the charming dining area (where you share a table with the other guests). The food, served in four, perfectly portioned courses, was nothing short of delicious, from the chocolate-banana muffins, to the shrimp and asparagus crepes, to the white chocolate cheesecake with raspberry purée. Also worth mentioning were the home-baked cookies waiting for us each day in the hall, along with coffee and tea self-service. Lastly, there’s the location. Ambrosia is just a short stroll from the Inner Harbour, the Royal British Columbia Museum, and the Empress Hotel. That is to say, it’s near many of the main attractions of Victoria. Who could ask for more? (Unless you REALLY need that TV.) All in all, it was the ideal visit, both romantic and relaxing, and we were sorry to leave. But we will definitely return to enjoy again all the first-class amenities the Ambrosia has to offer.
Lest We Forget Personal Essay for Cowbird We were visiting from L.A., my friend Chris and I. We sat on the covered wood porch, nursing our bottles of beer with his uncles Mike and Johnnie. It was a quiet afternoon in the quiet town of Beaver Springs, Pennsylvania. The porch, belonging to Uncle Mike, who had built himself the A-frame house it was attached to, overlooked a pastoral, peanut-shaped lake. I noticed the hummingbird feeders—I counted seven total—hanging from a dead, sun-bleached tree looming on the bank. “What’s up with all the feeders?” I asked. “Those are ashes,” Uncle Mike said. “Of family.” I didn't know how to respond to this, the cremated remains of their loved ones dangling above the water from a barren branch... inside bird feeders. So I just nodded. “Is my dad in one of them?” Chris asked, as casual as if he were simply asking about the weather. His father had died only the year before, and Chris seemed to accept this custom as, well, customary. “Yeah,” Uncle Mike replied. “And your grandma too.” “Aunt Jane’s in one,” Johnnie added. “And another’s Edju.” “Two of ’em are our dogs. Buster and Corby.” “I remember Buster,” my friend said. Chris had grown up here—it’s still hard for me to believe that—living in the other house on the property that he told me had been built before the Civil War. “Corby was Uncle Ritchie’s dog,” Mike said. “You’d already gone when he got him.” Chris nodded and sipped his beer. We all did the same. I broke the short lull. “That’s six.” “Hmm?” one of the uncles hummed. “There’re seven feeders. Who’s the other one?” “Hmm.” Mike appeared to do a mental inventory of the feeders’ contents before declaring, “Dunno. Johnnie, who’s in the other one?” After a beat, Johnnie shook his head. “Prob’ly shoulda labeled ’em.” Mike and Johnnie sat in their lawn chairs concentrating, eyes squinted and brows furrowed, as if trying to psychically call the spirits of their ancestors to answer the conundrum. Apparently, nobody picked up. Mike huffed. “Who the f**k is it?” Johnnie took charge. “Ritchie!” he hollered over his shoulder. “Ritchie, come out here!” Uncle Ritchie, the oldest of the three brothers and the only one of them not sporting an unruly beard, opened the squeaky storm door and joined us on the porch. He was eating a pear.
“We’re trying to figure out everybody in them feeders,” Johnnie explained. “We got Jane, Henry, Edju, Anna, Corby, and Buster. Can’t remember the other one.” Ritchie mulled it over a moment. “Henry?” “Said him.” Ritchie grabbed a beer from the cooler. “Henry. Edju. Buster and Corby. Jane and Anna.” “There’s one more.” “You sure?” Ritchie asked. “There’s seven feeders. Somebody’s unaccounted for.” “Hmm.” “Maybe,” I posed, “it’s another of your dogs?” All three uncles shook their heads. They knew their dogs, doggone it. “Who the f**k is it?” Mike blurted again. We spent some more time, silent and solemn, staring out across the lake. Then we each took a swig of our beers, a tacit toast to Edju, Anna, Jane, Henry, Buster, Corby, and whoever the f**k the other one was, gently swaying in the autumn breeze.
