Backstory: Home is where the fire is

Attempts to douse the fire with water proved unsuccessful, as did trenches, bore holes, and excavations. By 1980, the state had spent $3.5 million and the fire still raged.

"They didn't address it hard enough, fast enough," says Tim Altares, of the state Division of Mine Hazards. "They underestimated its size and potential to spread."

The situation became a technical, political, and financial quagmire, pitting neighbor against neighbor and residents against government. The state invoked eminent domain in the '90s, settling with homeowners and razing properties. The "stayers" are now squatters in homes they no longer own.

Mr. Altares explains that not every inch of the 150-acre town is on fire. The borough has 10 coal seams – three actively burning beneath 450 acres in and beyond the town limits. As the fire creeps along it leaves a trail of destruction: Trees reduced to white stalks protruding from patches of black. Buckled asphalt giving way to deep clefts.

It sounds more dramatic than it looks. The truth is, Altares explains, it's not that unusual. There are 38 other underground fires in Pennsylvania alone. One beneath Australia's Burning Mountain Nature Preserve is estimated to have been burning for 5,000 years.

***

With little fanfare, the town council – made up of half the 11 remaining residents – meets monthly to pay bills. And every day, the sun rises and sets, splashing the forested hills in pink and gold.

As resident John Comarnisky shared a porch swing with Mervine, enjoying the twitters of birds, he admitted they've grown tired of the attention: "People ask, 'Where's the fire?' They expect holes with flames shooting out and houses falling in."

Mr. Comarnisky's family moved here when he was a teen, and though his childhood home was sold, he fixed up a second family property and returned permanently after college. He fondly recalled crisp autumn afternoons watching the smoke curl from chimneys, and smelling the odor of the coal that kept everyone's homes warm.

He noted a strange thing: By making the town uninhabitable, the fire has created a bucolic utopia. "It's not real fancy around here, but it's nice if you want a quiet, rural place to live with plenty of space and no one in your face."

So Comarnisky and Mervine aren't budging.

"This is the only home I've ever owned, and I want to keep it," said Mervine. No price, he claimed, could make him leave, though the state's offer sits at the bank, awaiting his signature.

Comarnisky is equally stubborn: "There's something in my nature that says, 'You're not going to tell me what to do.' "

Not everyone felt that way. Comarnisky described how conflicted people were with their decisions: Some waited until the moving van arrived to finally admit they were leaving; others were revealed by the local paper's weekly listing of those who'd given up the fight.

Comarnisky does his best to dispel rumors about Centralia. Dollar bills don't catch on fire if dropped, and snow still sticks to the ground – 22 inches one year. He was appalled during a TV interview when a disenchanted cameraman jazzed up the visuals by pouring water on the rocks behind him to create steam.

" 'Raging inferno,' " he continued. "Those are words they love to use. 'What's it like to live in a ghost town?' How do you respond to that?"

Gazing out toward the empty lots kept neatly trimmed by remaining residents, he falls silent.

"There was a time when I was bothered by it, but not anymore," he said, pausing to watch a carload of tourists creep along Troutwine Street. "I'm happy here. If the rest of the universe doesn't know about it, then fine."

And as I leaned back against the porch rail, warm and content, it felt, oddly enough, like home.

Page: 1 | 2