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I drove out to a ghost town today. There's an old mining town near here (about 1.5 hour drive) called Michigan Bluff, and I thought I'd drive out to see what it was like. Well, I start getting close, and there are miles and miles of cars parked at the side of the road. I'm thinking "something is not right here. There's supposed to be a ghost town, and there are people everywhere." I get up there, and there's a foot race called the "Western States 100" or the "Western States Gruel-a-thon" or the "Western States Fuck-All" or something like that, and it goes directly through... Michigan Bluff. A once-a-year race, and they're starting it in my ghost town, on the one day I visit it. I can't actually drive into Michigan Bluff as a result, I have to stop (and find a parking space) 1/2 mile down the road.
A seemingly-abandoned building
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A remote ghost town, far from civilization, untouched and undisturbed - filled with brightly colored runners and nowhere to park for miles.
One side of the road is parking, the other is no parking because the road is so narrow that cars on both sides would make it impossible to pass. So I have to drive 1/2 a mile down another road just to find a place to park.I got sick of looking, so as an act of revenge against the race organizers for not letting me drive into Michigan Bluff, I parked in a no-parking area.
Yes, I'm a rebel. But not too much, because I made sure to leave plenty of space so people could pass. I was actually quite a way off the road.
Another seemingly-abandoned building, but this one is actually occupied, apparently. I didn't see the reclusive, wierd people that surely live here.
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This is definitely a ghost house. It has furniture inside and everything, although you can't get in, not that you'd want to. That timber on the left is holding the house up. I tried to move it to see what would happen, but it wouldn't budge. If I could have only gotten my truck down there...
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Walking from my truck to the intersection where the race organizers wouldn't let me go down the road to M.B., a lady says "Oh, you can't park there." I stared at her, seeming to be a little befuddled, hoping to avoid the conversation through confusion and vague-headedness. Then she says "If you park there, the race organizers will disqualify your runner." Well luckily I don't even have a runner, so I just left it there. I was hoping to come back and find a big label stuck to the windshield that said "DISQUALIFIED", but did not receive that particular satisfaction. If anyone got disqualified, they didn't tell me who.
A spooky window. It looks like this house was abandoned fairly suddenly. These drapes are still up, and there is furniture inside, although the house is clearly unfit for occupation. What would drive the people out so fast? Aliens? Monsters? What else is there?
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Fortunately, they had a school bus acting as a shuttle to drive people from the intersection down into Michigan Bluff. I used it. Nobody asked me if I was with the racers, but I didn't tell them otherwise. One guy seemed on the verge of asking me, but he never got to it. I guess I don't look like I'm ready for a 100-mile foot race. Looks can be deceiving - although in this case, they're not.
The purloined school bus, being used to haul people up and down the hill to Michigan Bluff. Who authorized this expenditure?
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The view from my seat in the bus. That lady in front of me was a total hottie. What does this guy got that I don't? I have more hair, and I outweigh him by at least 60 pounds.
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I got down there, found a few buildings (some of which are still occupied) and took a few pictures. It wasn't the same though, with 300 people milling around in bright colors. So I took the shuttle (elicitly) back to the intersection and hoofed it back to my truck.
The 300 people standing around in the ghost town. Note lack of translucence, no scary poses, no white sheets - these are not ghosts. They're not even convincing fakes.
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I do admire the runners though. It takes like 23 hours to finish the race. Unbelievable. I don't want to do things I like for 23 hours. Ever played golf for six hours? It's like a tour of duty on patrol in a pleasant, but hostile, country. It's nice, but it's work. And it's dangerous. By the time I got to my truck, up a gentle 1/2 mile hill, I was ready for cardiac arrest.
Prologue: The Mysterious Hair
While plugging my camera into my computer to download the pictures, I found this wierd hair growing on the back of my computer, near the fan port. I call it Compubic Hair.
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