Near the lower portal of the tunnel, a manhole cover seals the electrical connection for the streetcar line. Twin Cities Lines is the predecessor for Twin Cities Rapid Transit.
Looking into the cut made for the streetcar tunnel. It looks like there is a door in the wall, but it’s an optical illusion.
One of the few windows that escaped steel plating the last time the hospital was sealed tight to let nature roam within.
Looking up from the train shed. The building was consistently crumbling and I wish I had worn a hard hat in this area.
Looking through the dark door at Shaft 3, when my naked eyes could only make out a staircase lit dimly from above.
Standing on the fence barricade that used to keep squatters out of the tunnel, the size of the space is impressive. What you see here is the current length of the tunnel; I set up a flashlight at the end to illuminate the concrete wall that is the lower portal.
The view into one of the asylum rooms of Norwich Hospital. A long time ago, a window broke, letting the vines crawling up the bricks outside to move indoors and across the floor.
A broken television on the main floor. The remains of the plaster ceiling and walls are powdered on the floor.
Some parts of the doctor’s apartment in the Administration Tower were decidedly upscale. Look at the beautiful ironwork on that sink!
One of a pair of poles to hold the electric lines for the streetcars entering and exiting the tunnel.
The purpose of the concentrator was to separate the gold and silver-rich ore from the waste rock. You can tell from the design that the process relies heavily on gravity.
The Barker turning around before it backed into Tac Harbor to unload coal for Minnesota Power.
The rocket system used several cooling methods, once of which included an evaporation pond, pictured here.
After Wilson Bros moved out, a furniture company moved in.
Looking from the mill at the old transfer elevator’s steel tanks.
Part of a furnace control panel.
I found a historical photo of this room showing 10-foot high machines with wires hanging by the mile from looms and schematic charts.
The new concrete workhouse, as seen through chickenwire.
The cold air collided with the sun-warmed water on the floor, filling the ground floor of the Keg House with thick fog…
The primitive chair caught the falling plaster.
Fly ash, kicked up by downdrafts, rise again up the smokestack that is the signature feature of the plant. It’s a steel top hat.
Play on, Hunter. (Two keys worked on this thing.)
On this production line, the office was elevated far above the floor.
Freezing groundwater in the drain has created this ice wall in Buckingham Creek Drain, which is nearly all blasted natural stone. Lit with several LED panels. It was a cold night.
A sentinel stands watch over an abandoned Hannah, ND house. Medium Format.
The roof compromised, rain water rolls down the main stairway.
A natural stone floor in Brewery Creek’s upper path has been worn smooth.
Twin tracks exit a concrete wall below St. Anthony (Cathedral) Hill.
Lights over the emergency slides. A veritable overgrown city in the background.
In the middle of the foundry, an office is untouched by scrappers, legal and not. Inside, warnings and catalogs for machines that are gone, obsolete, and melted down.
Before developers saw to cut and cut the flour mills inside Pillsbury, they stood at the ready beside various purposeful chutes the traversed the floors of between sorters. These machines were belt-driven by the power of Pillsbury’s Mississippi headraces and turbines, the force of which notoriously shook the building’s foundations themselves. The wheels would change the grade of the flour, or the size of the dust produced from crushing the kernels.