Martin's Landing

Abandoned, weathered and falling into disrepair, the cabin or shanty occupied a sandy stretch of beach along Carroll Creek, just west of Martin’s Landing.  Martin’s Landing was little more than a ghost town when I happened across it 20 years ago, I doubted there’d be nary a person alive today.  However I needed a few supplies to sustain myself while I put a few touches on the old shell of a place.

I headed into town on foot.  It was a fine day for a stroll, the weather was crystal clear, the sky was almost too blue and the sun sailed across a cloudless horizon.

I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going but my feet seemed to know the way until suddenly I stumbled on a large root that protruded into the path. “Oouf,” I exclaimed as I pitched forward.  Landing squarely on my stomach, most of the air gushed out of me.  I lay on the path as immobile as an upended turtle.  Several minutes later normal breathing returned and I righted myself. 

As I stepped over the bridge that spanned the forest trail to the sun baked, dirt track into town it was getting near dusk.  The shadows were playing tag with the light, further exaggerating the sense of atrophy of the buildings within sight.  Wooden planks of the ancient boardwalk curled up, many were missing or rotted away by time and insects.  A small puff of smoke rising from the chimney of the Hardware store proved there was a hint of life.

A simple “Howdy,” greeted me as I blinked for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dimly lit room.  A withered face peered out from under a haystack of gray hair and trailing beard, he looked nigh onto a hundred.

I nodded and remarked, “Fine day,” glancing around to take in the store’s contents.  I swear it was an historical Disneyland of western memorabilia.  Scythes, shovels, axes, bits, ropes, snowshoes and metal cutters clung to the walls.  Rows of shelves displayed oil lamps and oil cans, candles, lye soap, assorted cutlery, enameled coffee pots in several sizes, camp stoves, plus horse blankets to fishing hooks and just about anything a body would need to kit a cattle drive.  In the back of the store, large bolts of chains were affixed to poles and bales of fencing wire nestled close by.  Saddles astride sawhorses, several dummies donned cowboy hats, scarves and vests, and bins contained lag bolts to finish nails.  The room smelled distinctly of leather, lineament and the tobacco sheaths that hung from the rafters. The one thing that stood out in my mind was the gray dust that settled over everything in view.

I completed my visual tour letting out a long low whistle, then out of curiosity turned to the storekeeper and asked, “How long have you run this establishment?”

“Well now, young’un, I suppose it was before you were a glimmer in your granpa's eyes. My pa died in 1906 and left the store to me, which would make it,” he paused as he mentally calculated, and then continued, “About 80 years if I’m not mistaken.” 

Eighty years was a long time to keep these doors open in an apparent ghost town.  Scratching my head in disbelief, I prodded him, “That is hard to believe, is there anyone else in town to buy your wares?”

“Oh my, yes!” he responded. “Lilly runs the saloon and has a handful every Saturday night, all the cowhands that want to spend their wages and the preacher’s wife orders her china and other elegant, uh, intimate things from this here catalog,” he said, as he pointed to Ladies Necessaries.

I noted the publication was from 1920.

The hair on the back of my neck began to cloy at me.  Producing the list I made, I handed it to the wizened proprietor:  2 pounds roofing nails, 2 rolls tarpaper, a claw hammer, tin of coffee, biscuits and ketchup. 

I’d brought my own wieners, eggs, milk, pancake mix, 2 lbs. hamburger and beans to revive me after my labors, along with a bag of briquettes in the event I couldn’t get the fireplace to work.

Not so much as a batting an eye, he glanced at the list.  I watched him go to the cooler behind the counter and produce the biscuits, then rummaging amongst the shelves and bins completed the order.  He rang it up on an antiquated cash machine that took up nearly a forth of the counter, one ca-ching at a time.  Finally, he said, “$32.00 please.”

I must have looked surprised; he merely voiced, “Inflation, son.”

I handed over the money, picked up my purchases and wished him a good day.  Upon leaving, I noticed the fire had burned low in the pot belly stove and thought to mention it.  When I turned back I was assaulted by the empty, dilapidated room with nothing but a moth eaten catalogue lying on the counter and the lingering smell of dried tobacco.

Carrying my goods I retraced my steps but was intrigued to see the saloon was now lit up and a congregation of voices, oaths and music spilled into the streets.  I deliberately crossed to the other side of the street.  I didn’t want one of those ghostly cowhands to put a misplaced bullet in my chest!

Reaching the cabin, I threw my supplies onto the rickety table and lit the fireplace.  A brief swish with a basin of water; then I turned to preparing the night’s meal.  Finally, retiring to a mesh cot strung with leather and an old cotton ticking.  I quickly fell asleep.

Sometime during the night I heard laughter and the grating sound of a skeleton key turning in the lock, but knowing the door was unlocked, I dismissed it and my well deserved nap strove on through the night.

The next morning I drove into town and found the town as desolate as a desert.

WC: 998