The Naikoon Park Motel never opened. Made up of a series of trailers, themselves transported from a logging camp that had closed down, they sit there and collect moss. There’s a peculiar quiet in the place, the linoleum tiles sag, a myriad domestic details, interrupted. Remnants of habitation.
Logging camp trailers mean something for me. I held a job for one summer as a camp attendant, years ago. I’d clean the trailer rooms daily, straighten things up. Had my own Atco room as well. It’s funny that now I can’t remember a detail of the space, but here in this abandoned site the details all jump out so clearly, desperately wanting company of ghosts. But even spirits of loggers would go nuts here. Better places to haunt elsewhere.