The Not-Quite Ghost Town

Colorado's Highway 160, in the southeastern corner of the state, cuts through a spooky place in itself: washed-out ranch land stretching to the horizon, arrow-straight roads, ruined adobe farmhouses abandoned during the Dust Bowl.

For long stretches, the only things moving were pronghorn antelope bounding across the Commanche National Grasslands on both sides of the highway. We laughed when we crossed over from Kansas and encountered a 1950s-style sign that welcomed motorists to "colorful Colorado." Sure, there had to have been at least five shades of tan behind it.

Here, towns are few and far between. Springfield appeared to be a bustling, crossroads hub. By contrast, just past it, there was Pritchett. Modest homes, cars in the driveway, and more run-down trailers greeted us. Nobody was around; probably at work. It looked nothing different than other prairie small towns we had seen.

Then we turned a corner into downtown.

Pritchett, apparently, had closed. All the shops, most of which looked from the 1930s or 1940s, were vacant. An old store advertising candy and soda on its windows sat full of junk. Dusty windows, some broken, gazed out. An Art Deco movie theater with glass cube windows was boarded up. Same for a garage. Even the town cafe had shut its doors, back in January and now for sale, probably the last survivor.

Cue wind sounds and eerie music. No dogs barked. Nobody appeared. It was hot and still and empty, no parked cars, no sign of life except for one guy in his yard. On the sidewalk, a 10-speed bicycle lay on its side, covered in brush. Had the Rapture only occurred here? It felt like something out of the "Andromeda Strain." Maybe aliens had abducted the entire town. It was quiet, too quiet. We didn't feel like sticking around to ask questions.

Eventually, in the safety of the state welcome center in Trinidad, I did. The mystery was solved: no pandemics, no aliens. The guide desk woman told me the town had just dried out, like the sage and yucca grasslands around it. Ranching and farming, she said, are hard lives there. Folks gradually gave up and moved away.

Pritchett didn't die. People still hang their laundry to dry there. It's more a zombie town now, still walking around but not much soul left.