This episode is Part 1 of our three-part series about New Jersey Ghost Towns. By definition, ghost towns don’t exist anymore, right? No residents. No mayor. No town council. And sometimes, depending on the town, no buildings, either. Which makes researching their history a little difficult. It’s hard to ask people about a place that no longer exists. Well… anyone alive, anyway. New Jersey is the most densely populated state in the country, with roughly 1,263 people per square mile. But what is the least-populated town in the Garden State? That distinction belongs to Walpack Township, tucked into the Delaware River Valley. It covers 24 square miles but has just seven full-time residents. Seven! And while Walpack was never exactly booming, it was home to more than 300 people as recently as 1970. So Walpack might not qualify as a ghost town by definition. I mean, it does have a mayor and a town council. But it’s a far cry from what it once was. We could call it “skeletal,” if you prefer. To find out what happened in Walpack—and why the town is now so sparse—we sent producer Katie Feather to one of the few places where she could find a whole lot of former residents: Walpack Cemetery. On a recent fall evening, we drove west from Morris County on Route 80 then spent nearly an hour winding through the small towns of Sussex County. We were headed to the Walpack Cemetary, to an event called “Return of the Spirits” - what better way to learn about the history of a ghost town than from the ghosts themselves? Approaching Walpack on Route 206, we saw a sign for the Walpack Inn, which has been in business since 1949. Not exactly “ghost town” material. The road remained rough, riddled with potholes as if it hadn’t been maintained in decades. At last, cheerful fairy lights appeared up ahead - the only sign of human activity we’d seen in a while. The “Ghosts” of Walpack Cemetery Across the cemetery lawn, tents glowed with fairy lights, and little white paper lanterns guided visitors from one stop on the tour to the next. The atmosphere was surprisingly cheerful—except for the ghosts. At each stop, a historical interpreter portrayed someone buried there, standing or sitting beside the person’s grave as if it were their front porch. Some were knitting, some were working with wood, and one listened to an old phonograph. Standing next to it was a “spirit” in a dusty green shirt, and a worn, floppy brown hat. He had a rubber snake draped around his shoulders. The man was portraying Hiram Trauger, who was born in 1861. Trauger made his living raising rattlesnakes, black racers, and corn snakes, selling their meat and skins. Rattlesnake hides could be made into belts and shoes, while the meat was sold for people to eat. According to Trauger’s interpreter, rattlesnake meat was considered a delicacy. “He swore up and down that, uh, rattlesnake meat, he didn’t say it tasted like chicken, he said it was a good healthful food,” the interpreter explained. “People from New York City would come out and purchase it.” When Hiram wasn’t tending to his snakes, he had another passion: music. In his home, which had no electricity, a record player provided a welcome source of entertainment. Trauger’s roots in the valley ran deep. He belonged to a family that had lived there for generations. His father had served as a soldier in the American Revolution, and the family’s presence in the valley stretched back even further, to the earliest days of European settlement in the region. Eventually, Hiram moved away, first to Strasburg, Pennsylvania, with his daughter, and later to Gloucester County, New Jersey, where he died. But even after leaving, he wanted to return to the place where his life began. His will stipulated that he be buried back home. Hiram’s story was fascinating, but we had some questions for the man who was portraying him, who told us his name was Walter Colombo. What was the story of The Walpack Inn? We wanted to know. “They've been there for many, many, many, many years - generations now.” Walter said. “And actually, they're trying to sell it.” He quickly added: “With that being said, a little plug for the Walpack Inn. I've traveled the world. I've ate at restaurants in Italy, Spain, South America, and so on, and it is the best salad bar I've ever had.” What happened to Walpack? Walter was familiar with the Walpack Inn (and it’s exceptional salad bar) because, while he wasn’t a current resident, he used to live in the area. He explained that access to the Walpack Inn had become a major problem. A damaged bridge at Walpack Center and a rockslide that closed the valley road made it difficult to get in from certain directions. Other roads were in such poor condition that driving them could be an adventure in itself. “Do you have access to a Sherman tank?” joked Walter. “Cause you’re going to need it if you’re going to drive down those roads, they’re that bad.” The challenges facing Walpack Inn aren’t simply a matter of geography. They are tied to a much larger event that had changed the future of the entire Delaware River Valley. In August 1955, Hurricanes Connie and Diane drenched the region in a single week, triggering some of the worst flooding in New Jersey history. The storms swept away bridges, destroyed homes, inundated downtowns, and killed people across the Delaware River Basin. Small mountain streams became raging torrents, and major rivers surged far beyond their banks. Across the region, roughly 200 people died. The flood remains the Delaware River’s largest recorded flood. The disaster had consequences far beyond the immediate destruction. It helped persuade federal officials that the Delaware River needed a comprehensive flood-control plan. The Army Corps of Engineers came up with the Tocks Island Dam project. The proposal called for a massive dam and a reservoir stretching roughly 40 miles. It would provide flood control, water resources for New York and Philadelphia, hydroelectric power, and recreational opportunities around the lake. But there was a catch: the proposed reservoir would require the displacement of hundreds of families, including nearly everyone living in Walpack Township. The dam that never was In 1962, Congress authorized the Tocks Island Dam project, setting in motion a plan to transform the Delaware River Valley into a vast reservoir. To make way for the proposed lake, the government began acquiring homes and farms, sometimes through eminent domain. As properties changed hands, families moved away, and the social fabric of the township gradually unraveled. Then, in 1974, the project was shelved. The government had spent years buying up land in Walpack and surrounding towns, but no part of the dam was ever built. The project had been put aside for review, and the federal government stopped acquiring land. But canceling the dam didn’t restore the communities that had already been disrupted. As Walter described it, the federal government’s approach was focused on preservation. The land had become federal park land, and the goal was to preserve it for future generations rather than return it to its former use. But the government didn’t just stopped buying land in Walpack- they stopped doing pretty much everything else too which explains why broken bridges haven’t been repaired and the roads are so terrible. The result was a town transformed by a project that never came to fruition. The Walpack Seven Even after the dam project was shelved, a few private properties remained scattered across Walpack Township, including the place where Walter once lived. His former landlady had managed to hold on to her home. When federal land-acquisition officials came around, she told them she needed … This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hometownhistory.substack.com
