The Abandoned Town of Ocean Falls
Friday, June 2, 2017
Today is the fourth day of Outer Shores Expeditions’ Passing Cloud sailing to the Great Bear Rainforest. It’s also the fourth day of the unrelenting rainfall that’s followed us thus far.
The rain seems to have doubled its efforts today. It’s absolutely pouring out. For a few brief moments, it will stop, as if it is about to clear. Then, it starts to pour all over again.
Logistics today dictated that we make a run up to Ocean Falls, British Columbia, in order to take on fresh water. Approximately 30 nautical miles away from our overnight anchorage, Captain Matt fired up Passing Cloud’s engine and we began a four-hour run up the inlet.
Ocean Falls used to be a company town. A large pulp mill was in operation here for nearly a century, and a hydroelectric dam site was added later. But when the mill closed in 1980, the town was hit hard. During the closing days of the 1940’s, this was a bustling place to be. By 1990, Ocean Falls was largely a ghost town. The hotel – the multi-story Martin Inn – was shuttered in 1988. Shops and businesses closed up, and many of the town’s residences were torn down and burned.
By the year 2000, fewer than 50 residents lived in Ocean Falls. Due to its remote location, most people just got up and left, leaving houses filled with furniture and belongings behind.
Today, Ocean Falls is mainly a ghost town. Were it not for the hydroelectric dam that’s still in operation, it would be entirely abandoned. A small pier is still maintained, along with docking facilities and – in our case – fresh water.
The rest of the town is an abandoned nightmare that’s right out of central casting for a horror movie. This place is ready to go – just grab a camera and some lights, and Ocean Falls can double as the set of the next big horror flick.
I’ve always found abandoned places to be interesting and yet moderately disturbing at the same time. That was definitely the vibe I got from Ocean Falls today. With an hour of free time while fresh water was taken aboard Passing Cloud, guests were free to explore the town – or what’s left of it.
On the dock, a series of whimsical paintings on the pier’s electrical hookups hint at the town’s past as a tourist destination. Every small town seems to have these – paintings of Disney or Looney Tunes characters intended to make the place seem more cheerful than it really is.
These electrical hookups feature hand-painted artwork, usually of the local area and its surrounding wildlife. This is complemented by a wildlife-related pun. Old and faded, they actually make the town seem even sadder. Whoever the artist was, she’s long since left the building.
At the top of the dock, another anachronism: a phone booth. The only working public phone in the village, it’s maintained by Telus. I checked my iPhone: not a hint of cellular coverage. No surprise there. Still, I patted down my pockets in search of some quarters. No such luck; looks like I won’t be calling home today.
I also wouldn’t be buying any souvenirs here today, though my lack of cash-on-hand has nothing to do with it. The town’s Gift Shop seems to be permanently closed, though surprisingly well-stocked. Ditto for the Canada Post office, which advertised it would open for four generous hours later today. At least it had electricity: an exposed bulb illuminated the entryway when I went to check it out.
All over town, the sadness continues. The school is gone, and the local Legion is in shambles. It’s second floor has fallen in on itself, and the main floor is filled with old books, supplies, and wares of all kinds. It smells rancid; a mixture of acetone, mould, rust and leaking chemicals. Off to one side, a box of wine is rotting away, exposing six unopened bottles of cheap Merlot.
Across the street is the most imposing structure in Ocean Falls: the crumbling ruins of the Martin Inn. Situated right at the end of the street where the BC Ferries dock once welcomed arriving guests, the hotel is now in a state of disrepair.
I poked my head into a ground-floor entrance, looking in on what used to be the hotel’s main reception area. Its door is long-gone, and I was able to waltz right into the building. I could only see maybe 10 feet in front of me. Glass crunched under my feet, and the distant echo of dripping water filled me with an uneasy feeling.
Blue tile still gleamed in the bit of daylight it received, and a staircase led up to the main Reception level. The darkness beyond that made further exploration impossible – between the shattered glass and fluorescent light bulbs on the floor and the water falling from the ceiling, I felt that to go further into the hotel would be unsafe. The thought of falling through a soft patch of flooring into a sub-basement filled me with dread. No one would know I was there, and no one would be able to help.
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