Lately I've been taking the back roads to work to avoid the stress of construction on our rural highway (as a former resident of Denver and the San Francisco Bay Area, I know we're spoiled here, but I still hate traffic obstacles of any kind). When the land along Stanley Road shifts from acres of flat crop circles to the grassy bogs that border the Rio Grande River, the scenery turns from utilitarian brown to lush green. Cattle and horses graze in knee-deep grass along the river. Empty stuccoed farmhouses and gently toppling fences dot the meadows, with the occasional John Deere tractor or combine bringing me back to the 21st century.
This abandoned train car sits motionless at the edge of a pasture just beyond Road 102N. Old freight cars are a frequent sight in a valley whose economy was once dominated by the railroad, but passenger cars like this one are much less common. The car's interior is haunted by birds; its shattered eyes are lidded by the flapping remains of its window shades.
Nervous about being caught with my camera on private property, I jumped at a flock of shadows that suddenly filled the car. My overactive imagination told me that although years have passed since this car went anywhere, its seats might be occupied by apparitions of the past.
In reality, the abandoned house and its empty car seem to welcome visitors. I saw only one sign posted on the property, a faded placard that read, "No Hunting." I assumed that the sign referred to shooting wildlife, not hunting ghosts or memories.
