STRUCTURES : Stations of the Past : The county’s aging railroad depots are richly emblematic of Manifest Destiny.

Retracing the tracks of regional history via its architectural heritage can be a tricky business. You find meaning in the strangest places.

There are obvious, looming edifices such as Ventura City Hall, which commemorate a more gilded pre-modern age. Even more central to the city’s legacy, the Buenaventura Mission has its own tale to tell about the swelling of the Spanish empire and the roots of California as we know it.

But then, what of the lowly, obsolete, disenfranchised railroad depots, like those in Santa Paula, Fillmore and Santa Susana? These old wooden structures sit in varying states of repair and public visibility, in quiet neglect, stewing in metaphor.

These utilitarian, prefab depots were built to work, to shuffle freight and human cargo without excess style, unlike the more ornate depots to the north and south--the Art Deco or Spanish Colonial Revival motifs of the stations in Glendale, Los Angeles, Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo.

While designated as county historical landmarks, they have none of the fanciful flourish of other Victorian-era landmarks. But they are as richly emblematic of Manifest Destiny as any of their fellow designees.

These depots are steeped in symbolism that cuts to the core of their townships’ very beginnings. As the railroad made its inexorable path westward, it planted the seeds of towns along the way.

Towns like Fillmore.

Contrary to what some believe, Fillmore was not named after President Millard Fillmore, but after a Southern Pacific engineer who mapped the route from Saugus to Ventura. At the time the depot was set down in 1887, there were only three shanties and a ranch house in the vicinity then known as the Rancho Sespe land grant.

With the arrival of the railroad came human traffic and civic life.

As the coast route from Ventura to Los Angeles was established and passenger service on the Saugus-Ventura leg discontinued, the fate of these inland depots was up in the air.

In 1974, the Fillmore depot was saved from ruin, and moved from trackside to its current humble site on Main Street, where it now houses a small historical museum. Sitting next to it is an old boxcar.

A sign on the dull mustard yellow building reads:

TO SAN FRANCISCO 424 MI.

TO LOS ANGELES 56 1/4 MI.

ELEVATION 467 FT.

In this case, statistics--the precise distance between the two metropolitan centers--do a small town make.

Fillmore was not alone in its efforts to keep its railroad heritage intact. As railroads streamlined operations in the early 20th Century and smaller depots were cut off from service, preservationists have scrambled to salvage these way stations.

In Goleta, the doomed depot was moved across the freeway to the historic Stow House site, where it now sits in newly painted splendor.

The sizable two-story Saticoy depot, tucked unceremoniously away on a side road, serves now as a warehouse for Newton Building Materials. At least it still stands. A number of Ventura County depots, including Ventura’s own depot, couldn’t be rescued from the wrecking ball.

Of course, the Santa Paula depot is a shining example to the contrary. Designated as a landmark in 1972, the depot proudly flaunts the distinction of being the only depot in the county still on its original site.

Also, it was the first prefabricated structure in the county, shipped down in sections from Southern Pacific headquarters in Sacramento. In the late 1800s, “prefab” didn’t have the stigma is does now, and what might seem a dubious distinction today was the heralding of a new century at the time.

Unlike Fillmore, when the railroad landed in Santa Paula, the town had already established itself somewhat. But with the increased accessibility of rail, the town flourished rapidly, working toward being the “lemon capital of the world.” President Benjamin Harrison gave a whistle-stop speech from here.

In 1977, citizens rallied to the cause of saving the depot, which has been carefully refurbished and now houses the Chamber of Commerce, civic meeting rooms, and, in the long room where cargo was once heaved, an art gallery.

No one has shown such tender loving care and maintenance to the Santa Susana depot, which languishes in desolation in a remote part of Simi Valley off the Simi Valley Freeway. But, in some romantic way, it is the most intriguing--not to mention the largest--of them all.

When built in 1907, the original town of Santa Susana consisted of four buildings: the depot, a railroad section house, a warehouse and a small red schoolhouse.

Today, the area has not greatly expanded--especially by the mushrooming standards of development in Southern California.

In this neck of the woods, the illusion of rurality is impressive. Suburbia seems far away in this outpost, where the only nearby buildings are the Jolly Roger Tatoo parlor, Hide Out Wallies watering hole and the Olde Susanna restaurant.

The depot, a faded yellow with peeling brown trim, its windows boarded up and with nary a soul in sight, sits without fanfare or any inherent tourist appeal. One end of the building looks like a sad face.

But the structure takes on a kind of haunting monumental presence against the primitive patterns of rocks in the nearby hills. It looks like a funky, towering icon of American dreams that have been rerouted and rendered obsolete.

This depot, in particular, becomes a study of abandoned structure-as-sculpture.

Going depot-watching can be a fascinating and slightly depressing proposition. Nostalgia blends with a sense of innocence lost. Never underestimate the power of a collective memory.