A steady stream of fear and excitement poured through me as I crashed the car door into the fresh country air. The fresh prairie wind whipped right through my jacket, and I roamed wet sawgrass with my flashlight for nearly half an hour. A few minutes later I walked from the parking lot down the street to the next gas station. As I traveled through the sleepy countryside to find a place to sleep, my adrenaline turned out to be awake.
As I left the highway to drive on the rural side road west of the ghost town, the thick cloud cover from the early evening finally broke off. I recorded a few different compositions, but the clouds kept coming back and yellowing the already dusty gold landscape. After missing my tank, which was almost bone dry, I moved to a lonely gas station off the highway. It seemed like a big fire had burned through most of my pump, and I had to catch everything.
With a flash of red in her hand, Katie reluctantly stuck me in what was left of the old building. She said that as I crawled out of this glorified hut of rotting wood, my intestines screamed as if it were collapsing completely under a single gust of wind.
As my toes thawed in the car, I was overwhelmed once again by the familiar warmth and vertiginous ease. As we drove north from Sherbrooke, our surroundings became increasingly bleak, and after a few hours of shooting, we decided that the cold had actually won the battle against our toes and poor shoe choice. It may seem like an odd decision to go down this path to catch a decaying ghost town in ruins, but it really isn't.
Even under the bright moon we could barely see the silhouetted ruins of Sherbrooke in the dark thicket, but the subdued, knee-high metal shimmer was sure - tall weeds were actually a sight for sore eyes. It was hard to imagine a city that had been forgotten until now, let alone a ghost town.
The haunting description of the man sealed our fate, and we saw it ourselves - it was a completely ghostly town, where only a handful of inhabitants lived.