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The Seattle Times
Sunday, June 14, 1998
Gathering the memories of a town called Lester
By Lily Eng
Seattle Times staff reporter
LESTER - Hardly anything remains of
this old railroad town. Hocking's general store has vanished. So has the saloon,
the schoolhouse and even the railroad depot. where crews once labored around the
clock on steam plows and engines to keep the Northern Pacific line
running.
Like dozens of turn-of-the century communities across the
state, Lester has traveled beyond being a ghost town and has entered oblivion
- it's not even on the map anymore. All that's left of this remote King
County town off Stampede Pass is its soul - Gertrude Murphy, who turns 95 later
this month. The retired schoolteacher still greets passers-by on the lonely,
gravelly road leading to Lester.
During the spring and summer months, Murphy lives in Lester
with her niece, Mary Aucourt. During winters, she bides her time with relatives
in Kent until it's safe enough to travel again on the curvy roads,
and warm enough to return to her cottage by a creek. If it were up to Murphy,
she would stay year-round, even though she recently battled a nasty bout of
pneumonia and a pesky bladder infection.
"Every year, I can't wait for winter to be over so I can
get back to Lester. I'm chomping at the bit," she confides, sitting in her
bright, orange overstuffed rocker.
"I know that the air is clear is and it smells
pretty".
There is not much in her cottage - a couple of yellowed
photos, a china buffet, some furnishings. The television crackles and offers
only snowy images. Simple pleasures are freshly baked spice cake, and instant
coffee. Murphy doesn't even own the cottage she lives in. Most everything she
had burned in a fire five years ago.
Still, Murphy finds comfort in the old mountain town. After
all, Lester is where she met and fell in love with her husband, Frank. This is
the place where memories still have a home.
"Come with me," she says, heading to the front
door. "I'll tell you about our town."
Not easy to reach
It's not easy to get to the
heart of Lester. A heavily padlocked gate blocks off the road on Stampede Pass
along the upper Green River. And it takes another two miles to actually stand on
what was the town.
For years, for decades really, people have talked about
Lester dying, but no one expected it would end this way. The only thing that
cries out "Lester" is a white sign on the spot where the depot once
stood. Even foundations of houses were hauled away. Nature has snatched back
this patch of land where elk now roam and where mist hovers in the evergreens
like cotton candy.
But a little imagination it is what it takes to see the town
come alive again. And Murphy has plenty of that.
"That's where the rose bushes grew," she recalls,
nodding toward a clearing along side the railroad tracks.
"We had beautiful yards filled with them. We also had
foxglove, sweet peas and lupines. It smelled wonderful in the summer
months."
Several steps away was the
school.
A wonderful place Murphy exults, where, once a month,
townsfolk waltzed, fox-trotted and shimmied to the latest tunes, while babies
and children napped on coats and shawls. Townsfolk nibbled on chicken sandwiches
and chiffon cake and drank coffee and punch. Then they danced until passed
midnight, with just enough time for the band to catch the last train at the
depot.
This is where Murphy also taught the children and grew a tiny
garden near the picket fence.
Town Changed Names
The new town was born in 1891
and was originally named Deans, after the owner of a logging company. But the
name never took hold. Folks kept calling it Lester, after telegraph operator
Lester Hansacker. "Calling Lester, click, click. Calling Lester, click,
click." The name stuck.
"The river froze over in 1929," Murphy says.
"Can you imagine that? We skated on it for five weeks. Then at night, we
had bonfires by the bank and toasted marshmallows."
She chuckles. Everyone got on the ice: the rail workers, the
loggers, the dairy workers, the children, the teachers. The river hasn't frozen
since, she says.
On the weekends the young hopped on the 10:40 a.m. train to
go skiing. "We left our lunches on the train. Back then, it was safe
to, you know," she says. "We skied all day and came back in the
afternoon."
Lester hit its peak in the 1920's with
a population of 1,000. Of course, time betrayed the town. It was
inevitable.
The residence of Lester had long been
locked in battle with the city of Tacoma, which began purchasing property along
the banks of the Green River to protect it's watershed in 1963.
While the townsfolk leased homes on the property, the city
owned the land. In the 1980's the U.S. Forest Service restricted travel on the
town's two roads that burrow through the watershed. Those who lived in town
needed traveling permits to get in and out of Lester.
But the town's demise really began in 1985 when the state
abolished funding for small school districts. The school, Lester's only thriving
institution, closed and then everyone started to leave.
With the school gone, the battle for survival went with it.
People moved and left behind their homes. Vandals destroy the remaining
buildings.
Still Murphy won't leave.
"No, dear, I won't go."
The fog settles on the trees in the late afternoon as she
carefully hobbles over the rocks at the depot site. Murphy breathes deeply
taking in the sweet, mountain air. And, perhaps, the smell of wonderful
roses.
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