From Ghost Towns to River Towns: Reflections on the Susquehanna Valley

Climbing Into Jerome

Climbing the winding road into Jerome, Arizona, I felt a mix of awe and disbelief. On one side, a sheer cliff dropped away into the desert below; on the other, a rock face rose steeply, cutting the path into tight, twisting turns. The main road up was asphalt, guiding us safely into the town, but once inside, the residential streets told a different story. Some were just rugged rock paths, yet each had a street sign, as if to declare, “This is a real town, with its own life and history.”

Perched precariously on the mountainside, Jerome is small but rich with character. Walking its streets, I could feel the altitude and the thin desert air pressing gently against my lungs. The climate is extreme—cold in the shade during winter, scorching in the summer—and yet the town endures. The sun has kissed every building, every street, every step, leaving its mark over decades, shaping the rhythm of life in a place where survival has always been part of the story.

The Streets and Shops

You could hear the wind rushing around the mountainside, and as we arrived just after lunch, the faint murmur of visitors drifting down the streets began to reach us. Many shop doors had old-fashioned bells that jingled softly when opened, announcing your presence. Inside, shopkeepers greeted us with smiles and warm hellos.

Despite the abundance of rock around the town, the sounds didn’t echo as you might expect. The stone seemed to absorb and direct the noise outward into the desert. There was a denseness to the town, a quiet intimacy that made every interaction feel personal, every bell and voice a small connection amid the vast, rugged landscape.

The architecture and shops tell their own tales. Wooden doors with brass knobs, some misaligned with age, opened into small, intimate shops brimming with local artistry. Panoramic windows framed breathtaking desert vistas stretching endlessly beyond the mountains. Some buildings, burned and rebuilt, still carried their old foundations, whispering history with every creak of the floorboards. Sublevels accessed via metal steps anchored into the sides of the buildings added to the town’s vertical, layered charm.

Inside one shop, I met an older gentleman, gray-bearded and kind, who welcomed me warmly. He shared stories of buildings that had burned and been rebuilt, of the town’s mining past, and of the community that persisted despite isolation and hardship. “This is where history comes to life,” he said, touching my arm gently as if to pass on a sense of connection and continuity.

Everywhere I looked, creativity thrived in constraint. Shops offered desert-inspired sculptures, jewelry crafted from copper and turquoise, and even sacred geometry reflecting a sense of interconnectedness. Diners embraced the ghost-town charm with humor, offering ghost burgers and other playful nods to the past. Jerome had taken what it had—a challenging location, a harsh environment, a sparse population—and turned it into something authentic, vibrant, and alive.

Harsh Beauty

The desert itself is both beautiful and unforgiving. Wind swept across the mountainside, temperatures swung dramatically, and water was precious. Standing there, I felt the weight of the environment—the reality of survival, the necessity of resourcefulness. Yet in that severity lies a stark beauty: the endless vistas, the interplay of light and shadow, the silence punctuated only by the occasional bird or the desert wind. Jerome had learned to live within these constraints, and in doing so, had found its own rhythm and identity.

There was an almost spiritual quiet in some moments. The scent of sage and dry desert plants mixed with the faint aroma of wood smoke from chimneys. The sun on my skin contrasted sharply with the cool shade behind buildings. Even in such extremes, there was beauty, and a deep lesson in resilience.

Reflections on Home

And then I thought of home—the Susquehanna Valley. Unlike Jerome, we are not isolated. Our land is rich, our river flows abundant, our heritage runs deep. The Susquehanna River, one of the oldest rivers in the world, threads through our region like a lifeline. Native Americans lived off its waters; miners and settlers built communities along its banks; generations of families have called it home. Yet how often do we stop to notice it, honor it, and imagine the possibilities it holds for the community?

The Valley holds treasures that Jerome had to fight for: thriving ecosystems, smallmouth bass darting through the river, trails and parks inviting exploration, and a rich cultural and historical landscape. If Jerome can rise from near-abandonment by embracing what it had, surely we can see the potential in our own backyards. The river, the history, the people, and the environment are here, waiting to be noticed and celebrated.

Lessons from Jerome

Walking back along Jerome’s streets, I felt inspired—not by a plan or directive, but by possibility. The town had thrived because people recognized value in what existed and built from it. The Susquehanna Valley has that same potential: to connect history, community, and nature in ways that celebrate our identity and inspire a shared vision.

Imagine a valley alive with people enjoying the river, exploring trails, appreciating history, supporting local artisans and businesses, thriving not because someone told us what to do, but because we see, understand, and honor what is already here.

Jerome taught me that thriving is about recognition, connection, and creativity. Standing by the Susquehanna River, I could imagine our Valley alive in new ways—residents and visitors alike drawn to its waters, its history, and its stories. The river is waiting to be honored. Our heritage is waiting to be remembered. And our future is waiting to be imagined. In that realization lies the possibility of a community that cherishes the past, embraces the present, and inspires the future—naturally, authentically, and beautifully.

Author’s Note

This article was written by Douglas E. Fessler. The ideas and reflections are my own, drawing on decades of experience in IT, environmental monitoring, STEM education, and community initiatives. AI-assisted tools were used to structure and clarify complex concepts — a reflection, in itself, of the subject explored.