It was a sunny Monday afternoon when I decided to drive to Picher, Oklahoma, just 20 miles away from where I live. I’ve done a lot of research on this area and knew all about its history — the 2008 tornado that devastated the town, the toxic groundwater seeping from abandoned mines, and the enormous, looming chat piles scattered across the landscape.
Still, it had been many years since I last visited. On the short drive there, I found myself wondering what the land would look like now. Would the roads be blocked? Would there be anyone still lingering in this forgotten place? I’d heard stories about visitors being followed by locals or questioned by sheriffs and tribal marshals. At first, I was skeptical — I wasn’t even sure anyone spent time in Picher anymore.
As soon as you enter the town, the remains of neighborhoods greet you. Houses are falling apart, and in many places, only brick foundations are left — the rest of the homes long gone. Each one gave me a haunting sense in my gut. I could almost imagine the lives once lived in those houses, the sounds of daily life in what was once a bustling mining town. But the second an image entered my mind, another ruin passed by, and the process repeated.
Now that no one lives in them, it’s as if the memories these homes once held have been released into the world — swirling in the wind, waiting to be inhaled by someone nearby. Remind you of anything? That’s right — I’m talking about chat.
Enclosing these ghost neighborhoods and lining the streets are massive chat piles — toxic mining waste. At first glance, I thought they were just hills, some reaching 300 feet tall. But on closer inspection, it was clear: these were mountains of toxic metal, chaotically spread throughout the city. On a windy day, the air could easily become laced with lead, cadmium, and zinc. Most piles were fenced off with barbed wire, but not well — I saw footprints winding through the gaps, where someone clearly got curious and decided to take a stroll on a literal hill of poison.
What surprised me most was that a highway still runs through Picher — and it was busy. Cars zipped past like nothing was wrong. I exited onto a side road and started exploring deeper into the town, circling around Tar Creek, past skeletal buildings and contaminated land. After about 30 minutes of driving, I noticed a white pickup truck had been behind me for a while. Fifteen minutes, maybe more. I realized it had done a U-turn to stay behind me.
At that point, I decided it was time to go.
Green insights 