Life of a ghost town

This last weekend we took a last-second trip to Liberty, Wash. Never heard of it? Well, if you google it you will have a hard time, too. It used to be a town near Cle Elum, a mining town, and in its heyday they had a pretty large group of residents. They even had a post office. But now you will only find the remnants of a cool little town that the current residents are very proud of. The miners still have their claims and the remaining buildings are part of the Historical Society.

Liberty is a small community in Kittitas County, located in the Swauk Mining District. Following the discovery of gold in Swauk Creek in 1873, Liberty was one of several gold-mining camps that sprang up. The discovery of gold in the Swauk is closely tied to the earliest beginnings of Kittitas County. The Swauk Creek discovery is notable for producing specimens of crystalline gold or wire gold. Originally established as Williams Creek in 1850, renamed Meaghersville in 1897, and named Liberty in 1916, it is the oldest mining town site in Washington.

But that is the end of the history lesson for now. Why were we there? You see, Karrie’s family tree on one side is firmly rooted in the mines and soil that surround the area. Her “Ma” and “Pa” Hale had a house there in the early ’40s and it is still standing today (barely). Her aunts and uncles all spent some of their childhood there, and two cousins were practically raised by Ma and Pa. Karrie and her siblings spent a lot of summers swimming in the creeks, running through the woods and panning for gold alongside the miners that did it all year long. They call it the best time of their childhood.

Guess what. No running water in the house. They packed it from the creek. Baths in a big aluminum tub, water heated on the wood stove. This was an adventure for the young kids, but this was life for the fulltime cabin dwellers. It was a rough life. Not one that many of us could handle today.

As we walked through the cabin, searching the remains of a life long ago, I could not help but feel like I was trespassing on some lost forgotten soul’s homestead. Every pretty rock, every homemade pick, every kitchen utensil told a story of how it ended up in the Hale house. Was it found? Was it made? Was a fortune saved up to buy it? There was not a lot left in the ruins, trespassers and hoodlums had broken in over the years, and what was now left was the home of rodents and skunks and spiders. But not all was lost.

You see, the treasures we seek are not always in the trinkets we find or are searching for. The treasure is the priceless memory. When the tears come reading a cheap little item, given by a young child many years ago, found among the debris. Or in the story told by the old timer that lived next to your kin for so many years, a story told with detail and accurate, precious love. It’s also in the carvings on an old desk, that tell who was sitting there doing his studies for many years. It’s in the old anvil that told of a dedicated man who hammered above it with thousands of strikes upon it. It’s in the meager beginnings of this family, who all have a family of their own, a home of their own, all with running, indoor water. It is in the faces of those who looked upon the very same view a man and a woman did long ago when they decided that this was home.

You see, it is a ghost town and the ghost of the Hales visited us that day. Through all the dust and muckiness and overwhelming emotions, something happened. It hailed. They said hello, and welcome home.