Even on a clear day in late September, the Pennsylvania coal region seems barren. We pass through Shamokin, an expansive town with tiny houses stretching to the horizon, and enter Coal Township. No name could be more appropriate: on one side of the road, black heaps of coke disguised as natural terrain; on the other side, an orange creek running rich with sulfur from the mines. The coach bus rolls past a "Keep Pennsylvania Beautiful" sign. I look around at the gritty landscape, the utilitarian byproduct of human greed. "Don't Litter," the sign explains. But litter isn't the problem.
The lone bench just off the crumbling sidewalk means we've arrived. The bench's back slats read Centralia -- 17927. The streets are laid out like a town, but almost every lot is empty. Intersections are marked with four-way stop signs, but no traffic. You might heed the signs out of habit, but their new purpose is to allow you to ground yourself in this ghost town. Stop. Look around. We walk up a gravel path to the area where the mine fire started. In all directions, steam can be seen rising out of the ground in noxious wisps. At the top of the hill is the town cemetery, but buried farther below and ignored like a corpse is the Problem. Every now and then people like us stop to pay their respects. We travel down the fractured highway on foot, quietly board the bus, and leave the mine fire behind.
