When I was a kid the town of Washout was a thriving commercial place. The forestry used the railway as a means of transporting the logs to the mills on the coast.
But with the forests decimated over the years the town had died along with the industry that sustained it for so long.
Years later I came back on a cycling tour with mixed feelings as to what I might find.
Apart its dilapidated appearance it was exactly as I remembered it. The shops behind the warehouses were still there, the facades still visible despite the ravages of time.
The little cottage seen in the photo housed the stationmaster and was also a boarding house for the drivers and guards who drove the trains up the mountain to Washout, the end of the line.
I wandered around the old town, memories flooding back of the characters, the mates I had, the games we played all now consigned to history.