So as I mentioned a moon or two ago, last December I tried skiing for the first time in Snowshoe, West Virginia. On the way back, we passed through a mysterious little town called Cass, at more or less the bottom of the mountain. What was odd was that the town looked 90% abandoned. There were about 40 white houses, all of them identical, though also in various stages of disrepair. Some were barely standing. Others looked like they’d fail a minimal building inspection. A sparse few actually had a fresh coat of paint, a satellite out back, or otherwise appeared lived-in. Most were somewhere in between. But all were white, with a porch, porch swing, white fence, and small yard. It looked like a religious colony.

Cass, the town, spills out over the mountainside, and rests its chin alongside the Greenbrier River (and “river” is really a pretty flattering term). Upstream stands the remnants of a paper mill.

As it turns out, the town has some history to it. It was founded by a pulp and paper company at the turn of the nineteenth century. The company founded, built, and ran the town along the river, and also built the residences for its workers — hence, the uniformity. The railroad used a Shay Locomotive, one of the most powerful engines of its time, to haul logs felled from the top of Snowshoe down the mountain (prior to that, logs were floated downstream).

The mill closed down in the 1960s, and the town was largely abandoned. In the fifty years since, it’s been subject of various half-assed attempts at historical preservation, my best guess would be thanks to federal grants secured by West Virginia’s senior senator, who seems to be pretty talented at that kind of thing.

The town apparently does some tourist business in the summer. But in the winter, it’s just dead-calm and eery.

The mill has burned twice, once in the 1960s and once in the 1980s. What’s weird is that the state of West Virginia (which now owns most of Cass) has pretty much left the mill’s remains standing. So as you’re coming down the mountain, you can peer through the bare winter trees, and just begin to make out the remains of this ghostly, rust-eaten, charred dinosaur from another era, still peering over the river. A tossed salad of factory entrails — gears, crankshafts, oversized bolts, pipes, and levers — then spills up from the foundation to the railroad line.

There are a couple of “enter at your own risk” type signs, but no fences or “no trespassing” signs. In fact, one of the few people we ran into over a couple hours of exploring told us to feel free to look around. So we did.

In fact, you can walk right up to the mill and, um, mill about (sorry). I did. It’s a bit treacherous. Sharp, rusted bits of industry jut up from all angles. But it’s fascinating. Kinda’ time warpish. There are still ash marks on the foundation inside the mill. If you’re really foolish — as I was — you can take a stip or two inside what’s still standing and picture points along the pulp-making process.

Up the tracks about a quarter mile sit a dozen or so abandoned rail cars, some with lumber still strapped to their cargo beds, though it’s apparent they haven’t been used in many, many years. Most are rusted out, windowless, and a hell of a lot of fun to explore.

Pics after the break.

The paper mill skeleton, taken from the railroad tracks.

One of two buildings to either side of the main mill building.

One of many abandoned train cars.

Another.

I like this one. View from inside one of the passenger cars, looking across the river. No windows.

Inside another car.

One the less well-kept houses.

Rows of like houses.

More houses.

Main Street, Cass.

Sigh. Relic of a bygone era. In this case, limited government. If only Congress fit in a building this size!

I’m guessing this was the result of one of those historical preservation grants. There’s an odd wooden walkway that goes all along the central part of the town, including the weird stretch pictured here that bridges a mild valley of grass. Seems like an odd thing to bridge, particularly when there are sidewalks on either side.

Here’s the superfluous flight of stairs that takes you to the superfluous wodden walkway connecting to the superfluous bridge over the Valley Yard.

Lefty’s Barbershop. The barbershop got its name because the paper mill owners demanded all employees have the same haircut — parted on the left, bangs swept to the right. Reason? The mill company didn’t think to hire a barber, and the only person in the colony who could cut hair was left-handed, and said style was his specialty.

I’m just kidding. But wouldn’t that be a great story if it were true?

One of few signs of life in Cass, the General Store was closed for inventory.

Walkway connecting the Post Office, General Store, and train station. Otherwise known as “Downtown Cass.”

That’s it. Might be fun to go back in the summer, and take one of the old-time train tours of the mountain.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, February 2nd, 2005 at 7:33 pm by Radley Balko and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.