Wicked City

Though I often take issue with the editorial pages of The Leavenworth Echo, my home-away-from-hometown newspaper, I do enjoy the weekly “Along the Wenatchee” by longtime columnist/historian Pat Morris. She simply never disappoints. A recent column focused on Tunnel City near Stevens Pass, the “wickedest place in the world.”

Yep, incredulously, in Chelan County, Washington. Today, such a label conjures visions of Las Vegas, New Orleans and Miami Beach. But in 1900, as the Great Northern Railway tunnel in the North Cascades neared completion, Tunnel City attracted notoriety from around the world, thanks to a story by a reporter for The New York World.

Located just south of Glacier Peak (above) in the North Cascades, the “city," much like nearby Trinity, was basically an encampment. As was their custom in those days of yore, Eastern reporters tended to embellish their stories for effect. But even Wenatchee newsman Frank Reeves agreed: “Cascade Tunnel is indeed a wicked place.”

This far corner is remote. The nation's deepest snowpack smothers craggy slopes near Stevens Pass; winters are dark and foreboding, with only fleeting sunlight, and steep hillsides optimal for avalanches. In 1910, a massive avalanche buried a Great Northern train, killing 96 people in what remains the deadliest avalanche in U.S. history.

Reeves offered a qualifier, and some perspective: “I am not a sponsor for the good behavior of Tunnel City. Bad though it may be, I do not acquiesce to its unwarranted slander. Conditions there are favorable to the rough side of life and men and women are the same the world over. None is absolutely spotless or absolutely void of good.”

Unfortunately, its reputation as a town outstanding for its lawlessness would come to an abrupt and convincing end. A fire swept through the business district, incinerating the wood frame structures in Tunnel City. With no insurance, the frontier town, much like Sodom and Gomorrah, vanished from the face of the Earth.

Mountain Mania

If finding my Gramma’s family near Genoa compares to locating the Titanic, or discovering the remains of George Mallory on Mt. Everest -- all improbable and time-consuming, yet eventually doable, endeavors -- then finding my grandfather’s family in the Italian Alps would be like tracking Amelia Earhart, or perhaps even the Holy Grail.

In other words, my multi-year effort in locating the descendants of my great-grandfather, the Brichettos, in Liguria -- those who remained in Italy -- was a piece of cake compared to tracking down the Cargni side of the family in the Piedmont region. In the case of the former, at least we had clues and a general idea of location.

But looking for the roots of my grandfather, Carl Cargni, would be akin to tracking the Ark of the Covenant.

Carlo had two sisters but was the last male member of his family. What we know is that he hailed from an Alpine village near the Italian-French border. 

Always up for a challenge, daughter Gina and I have booked passage to Torino for an excursion into the Piedmont and Valle D’Aosta regions of the Italian Alps. With no expectations whatsoever of finding living family members in the little town of Chialamberto, we hope to at least find a Cargni tombstone in the local cemetery.

It’s mostly about experiencing this mountain valley near the Gran Paradiso National Park where my grandfather grew up, and witnessing the majesty of the Italian Alps, including Mt. Rosa, Mt. Blanc and the Matterhorn (below). Ever since I first rode the Matterhorn at Disneyland, I have wanted to see the real thing.

But first it's a week in Genoa and the Italian Riviera, with perhaps a boat excursion to Portofino, along with a visit with our newfound cousins in Isolona in the foothills of Liguria. Next up: a train ride through the wine country to Torino for a week of exploration, both of the Italian Alps and our Cargni heritage.