Thompson Springs

The first thing that one notices when they drive through Thompson Springs is the abundance of single-wide trailers and junk. The vacated buildings certainly outnumber the inhabited ones. I was surprised to see one house, probably built in the thirties and hadn't seen a paint-job since, with new curtains in the window and a vase holding a fresh rose.

I drive a long Bogart Avenue, one of the main roads, yet it only lasts a block or two. On one side there are single-wide trailers, one with an old picket fence that is falling down. Other trailers are obviously vacant, the yard and garden and dog-house next to them out of use for years. The opposite side of the road looks like a storage lot for equipment and old vehicles.

The town has certainly seen better days. Honestly, when I came here, I wasn't expecting to find anyone. I was surprised to see a gas station and a handful of dwellings that were inhabited. I knew that a scene from the movie Thelma and Louise was filmed here: the bar scene. I think they may have revamped one of the old cafe's in town.

Thompson has been at the crossroads for some time now. A few miles up the canyon, Ute, Fremont, and Barrier Canyon Indians have left their markings on the rocks. In 1870, E.W. Thompson was the first white man to establish a residence at the springs. The Denver Rio Grand Rail Company built a rail station here in the 1890's, which became a key to Thompson's early success.

The railroad still runs through Thompson, but no longer stops. The rail station was moved twenty-one miles away in Green River. As I cross the tracks on the north side of Main Street, a kid on a custom-built bike with an extended front wheel passes me going the other way. It is a reminder that people actually live here, and the kids have got to find things to do.

Have I said how remote Thompson is? The nearest town is Green River, population 929. Moab is 35 miles to the south, Price is 90 miles to the west-north-west, and Grand Junction is 77 miles to the east. Any civilization to the north in inaccessible.

As I drive down Main Street, I realize that Thompson was a much more thriving place than it is now. I pass a motel, grocery store, cafe, and several houses, all in disrepair and vacated for quite some time. The townsfolk probably have to drive to Moab for groceries now. There is one hotel, or more likely a bed and breakfast, that looks like it has been restored to its former glory.

A small kiosk on the corner provides some useful information on the town. I was about to peruse the sign when the kid on the bike pulls next to me and asks, “Do you want to ride my chopper?”

The first thought that came to my mind: is this town so lonely that you stop strangers on the side of the road and ask them if they want to ride your bike? On the other hand, I was flattered that the thought would even cross his mind. I was far too sore to ride and odd-shaped bike, but it did lead to a good conversation with this fifteen year old kid, Brandon.

He was very excited to tell me all about his bike. “I got the parts from three different bikes. My friend put it together for me.”

“So they call that a chopper?” I asked, feeling a little bit stupid.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling a goat head out of his tire. “I hate these things. I've already had to pump my tire up once today. Check out these new add-ons.” He unscrewed the cap on the stem of his tire and handed it to me. A shiny new skull.

“Nice,” I said, examining it with my fingers. “So, how many people live in Thompson?”

“Twenty-seven.”

The answer was much lower than I expected. Just then, a girl in a white car passed the intersection. (This was the only vehicle to pass during our conversation.) “That's my sister,” he said. “She's a crazy driver. She got up to one hundred and eighty on the highway!”

“Are you related to the whole town?”

“No, but we know everyone.”

“So, where does everyone work,” I asked. “Do they work in the coal mines?”

“No. They work at the gas station.”

Before I left, Brandon asked me if I'd like to take his picture. I was glad to do it. It is a reminder to me of the living aspect of a town that is mostly dead. We shook hands and then he continued on, peddling on his one-speed chopper through ghostly streets.

On my way out of town, I passed the gas station, and as I was about to enter the freeway, I noticed the train coming from the west and about to enter town. I pulled over to look at it. The bright yellow engines moved distinctly across the desert, with the palisades of the Book Cliffs behind them. The horn of the engine blew several times, loud enough for me to hear. The clanking of wheels on the rails thumped swiftly. But I knew that this train would not be stopping at Thompson Springs. No, those day have long been over.