Just beyond Lake Susan Jane, the trail swung to
the west and came close to Cowboy Mountain. I could see the top of the
mountain less than a half mile away and was reminded of the events of that
fateful Sunday afternoon that left many people in mourning for their fallen comrades.
Once over the summit, the trail made a series of
switchbacks down the mountain to the main parking lot of the Stevens Pass Ski
Resort; traffic from Highway 2 raced past the facilities of the resort, and on
the other side of the highway was another large parking lot, with an overhead
walkway that connected the two.
The only way to get to Baring and Dinsmore’s
Hiker Haven was to hitchhike. I crossed the walkway, descended the
stairs, and stood beside the highway adjacent to the parking lot, stuck my
thumb out, and waited patiently for a good-hearted Samaritan to feel sorry for
me
.
Cars were scarce on the highway and what traffic
there was came barreling up the summit at sixty-plus miles per hour, then
quickly descended down the other side; stopping for a hitchhiker would
interrupt their train of thought as well as the smooth flow of their vehicle.
Nevertheless, as each car passed, I tried to gain eye contact with the driver
to make him/her feel guilty as sin for leaving me stranded on the highway, as
well as telepathically pleading my case to the driver as to why I should be
picked up. Eventually, an employee from Stevens Pass Resort, who drove
across the highway from the other parking lot, pulled up in front of me and
offered me a ride.
I told him that Baring was my ultimate
destination, but that I would like to stop in Skykomish at the café, to partake
of a meal, and of course, the all-important chocolate milk shake. The
young driver, who was in his midtwenties, said his girlfriend worked at the
café, and he would introduce me to her.
Skykomish was only a block off the man highway,
lying alongside the Skykomish River. We passed an old hotel that was being
renovated; its origins dated back to the beginning of the town which was 1909,
and from the looks of it, it must have been glorious in its heyday; now, it
looked like a money pit.
Surprisingly, the main street looked new, as did
many of the buildings on the street; there was a small park on the opposite
side of Main Street that in turn faced a plethora of railroad tracks. The
town had the smell and look of a railroad town; in fact, the town owed its
existence to the railroad, for it was here, beginning in the early nineteen
hundreds that this wide spot in the canyon became a maintenance and fueling
station for the Great Northern Railroad – known today as the Burlington
Northern Santa Fe Railroad. During the period from 1890 to1974 when
maintenance was performed on the locomotives, invariably diesel fuel and other
lubricant oils spilled onto the ground, and were never cleaned up.
Over time, this practice took its toll on the
environment; the soil, as well as the groundwater, became contaminated.
The oil in the ground began migrating towards the river causing an
environmental disaster. In 2004, the railroad, along with the EPA, began
a cleanup of the area surrounding the maintenance yard and the town itself,
which resulted in a massive excavation of the soil from the rail yard and
underneath the homes and businesses, all the way to the river’s edge.
Homes and businesses were lifted up and the
contaminated soil underneath them removed and replaced with new soil. In
some cases, buildings were moved to new locations; all these efforts resulted
in a rejuvenation of Main Street and the buildings fronting it. (BNSF)
We pulled up in front of the Cascadia Inn, a
combination café and hotel that was a definite throwback to a time when
frontier town motels were small, with small hallways and shared bathrooms.
The owner was friendly and attentive to the needs of the loyal clientele
that stopped often at this quaint establishment that seemed to be more hostel
than hotel.
Together, the driver and I entered the café,
where he inquired about his girlfriend, however, she’s not there; it was her
day off. I thanked the driver for his generosity in giving me a ride, and
bid him farewell.
Although other patrons came into the café, at
the moment, I was the only one in the small dining room that at maximum could
seat twenty-five people. I ordered the house special, which was a large,
juicy hamburger and the biggest chocolate milk shake the waitress could conjure
up. While I waited, I browsed through a house copy of the town’s history and
its association with the railroad. Many of the accounts were written by
residents or former residents who had gone to school in the town, and it was fascinating
reading as the contributors recounted what it was like growing up in a small
railroad town that was now more museum than thriving community.
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