Between the Old Crow and Old Taylor bonded warehouses are some of the fouled barrels, now the only ones left, which were left to rot in the elements. Nearby in a loading bay that has obviously been disused longer than the rest of the property, terra cotta roofing waits in crates.
Winter skies over Allouez Bay. From a distance, it looks almost fragile.
“This way,” then, “No, that way!”
Model: Devan. Instagram: sextmachine
HDR matrix panorama. Looking from the grain elevators, now doomed, toward the city between the flour mill’s water tower and tile elevator’s neon sign, the old and new economies seem almost united. Yet the financial centers rise in reality to shadow the now-abandoned industry and manufacturing. The way of things, I’m told.
A sign hanging near the shop office.
Footprints of houses past; tailings of mines past.
The old movie theatre sign was sitting right inside the sealed front doors.
The clock, which was sold after Amtrak dumped the building, was returned to the Waiting Room in 2005.
“But everyone I used to know was either dead or in prison
So I came back to Minneapolis this time I think I’m gonna stay” -Tom Waits
The neon lighthouse, seen from the top of one of the silos.
The cornerstone of the building, in Latin.
The rear of engine bay 13… according to the heavily faded sign.
I found a meth lab in this building once. (Yes, I called it in.)
Miners at the turn of the century had better taste in typography than the average person does today.
The main gate, as seen in 2005. It hasn’t changed much since then.
Kurth bears a ghost sign. Recently, its main sign was destroyed by graffiti artists in 2015.
In an era where smoking was ubiquitous and sexy, smoking stations had to be a part of the job, even at an explosives factory.
At sunrise the fog rose near the solvent recovery line. You can barely read the “XXX” warning.
A firedoor dating to the original car barn is roped off, anticipating demolition.
Because painted signs would not hold up in this spot–in between four ovens that were literally hot enough to melt steel inside. Solution: Cut the pipe labels into the sheet metal. Seems to have worked.
The back of the mill reads “Red River Milling Company”
Fire doors separate the buildings.
A look at another “Belt-o-Vator”. I like the sign.
A 8-foot-tall volume indicator that could be read from across the beet boiler floor–convenient when the controls are 20 feet away.
This building had no identity issues. My chief regret was not spending more time documenting the ghost signs around the complex.
The chalkboard in the filtering plant reminds new visitors of the last day.
Spare parts ready for this building’s reactivation.
The old hotel doesn’t like to show its age. Indeed, if it had a few paint job and soft remodel it would be fit to open–that is, if there was a need for it in this tiny rural New York town.
In the Lime House, the sunset picked-up the last light of day to make this image. Lime is used in the beet sugar refinement process to reduce the acidity of the beet juice mixture.
Inside the office was a small furnace and a collection of mechanical belts. You can see “SERVICE AT COST” and “POOL 168” in the background.
The corner of the original buildings still carry the Lemp logo!
To make sure the tourists aren’t scared off, the city painted the side of the elevator with one of its historic names.
Silverton’s elevator, pictured here, is still active.
The offices for the Five Roses elevator have long been boarded. To the left you can see the Manitoba Pool Elevator slogan, “Service at Cost”, meaning they would not make profit off farmers and dues.
From the street, it’s clear that almost every window and door had boards over it, but not every building had a roof. Silly priorities.
It is unclear when the ‘Superior Warehouse Company’ sign was put up, but it was likely around 1916-1917, when maps indicate it served as a dry goods warehouse, operated by Twohy-Eimon Mercantile Company. The Sivertson sign was likely added in the mid-1980s. In this image I tried to preserve the colors the bricks turn at sunset.
An abandoned gatehouse bearing the name of the former factory.
One of the four fire alarm panels in the power station.
A different kind of tree fort.
One thing I like about the oppressive globalist-wrought future is the idea of numerically subdividing spaces; my geek side sort of wants to live in a flat that can be sorted by as Dewey Decimal-like code.
The barracks are being reclaimed by nature.
A tore-up Colorado Southern Railway sign and the majestic (in an industrial sense) Argo Mill. Go. On. The. Tour. Leica/Summilux 35/Ektar 100
As photographed from a cement piling for Slip #3 poured in 1935, disconnected from land by erosion. How do I know the date? A pair of steamship engineers carved their initials and ranks into the wet cement!
A century-old ghost sign for Royal House Flour was preserved after a building is built above and through it! Looking from the north annex elevator toward the headhouse.
An old name for an older elevator, as seen from an abandoned rail spur.
Can you imagine workers in a food plant smoking on the job today?
No, it’s not your Mac’s desktop, it’s a beautiful Lake Superior night. Taken from near the former Pittsburgh and Reading Anthracite Plant. You can see the frame that used to hold the lifeboat that was auctioned in 2006 to the left of the Pilot House.
I don’t think we’re anywhere near maximum pressure anymore.
A long exposure under the trestle-like approach to the dock, under which trains still pass regularly.
The old No Trespassing sign, with the Peavey logo still on it.
Two signatures complement this gorgeous hand-painted sign. ‘Bowers’ from 1987 and ‘Normal’ from 1982. The blocking on the letters is still visible!
An old stoker in a power plant that was abandoned long before the mill next to it, by all indications. Sugar mills burned dry beet pulp pellets for fuel.
Behind a nurse’s station.
I couldn’t help but include this ghost sign for a demolished motel…
The warped floors caught my eye in this room too–a symptom of turning off heat and not patching a leaking roof in the midwest.
A view of the Harris offices, complete with great block glass.
Behind the main shaft is this familiar industrial sight… a running count of days since the last injury.
Two steel hoppers supported by counterweights and springs, which were used to weigh incoming grain loads before being deposited in the silos beneath this floor. Garner is another way to say “big measuring tank”, if you were wondering. I fell in love with all the tubes and chutes on this floor.
From my archives–the NorShor as an innocent gentleman’s club, called ‘the NorShor Experience’.
A bridge crosses the main street of the village; one that goes nowhere. Ambiguity intended.
The north side of the plant is modern 60s industrial architecture, meaning massive open spaces with no personality. This mirror is the most interesting thing I could find.
A handmade sign tracks the progress through the current beet campaign. For this factory, it was about 30 years ago. Perhaps the idea was to pit shifts against each other.
Isabella A (left) and B (right) were built in 1910 and 1913, respectively.
One of the prettier Humphry Manlifts in Minneapolis, in my opinion.
The mine was built with stone, wood, and steel. It’s in good condition.
The largest extant structure when I visited.
Looking up at the most conspicuous graffiti in the city on ADM #4.
Ektar 100/Mamiya 6. A ghost town near Martinsdale, where the market (pictured) served as the train stop.
This corner of the building was the coal room, used to feed the two big boilers inside. The steam equipment has been replaced with electric, so this section may not have changed much in the past decades.
The Peavey logo, before it rusted off and the offices were demolished.
Looking at the ghost sign from a rust-locked cement conveyor that linked the silos with a packing warehouse.
One of the generators, weeks before it was taken apart to be shipped to another power plant somewhere else.
The UP gets a lot of snow, making exploring its old mines a special challenge in the winter. The snow is more than 6 feet deep in this picture, and firm enough to walk on.
Looking at the top of the Washburn Crosby elevator from a mirrored window in the Guthrie Theater.
The view from the larry, looking out at the overgrowing coke oven top. Papers listed the order of the charges for each oven, noting the sticky doors and persistent leaks. Emergency respirators and rescue gear was stored close, as long exposure to emissions from the rusty hatches could make worker pass out on the top of the ovens.
Serve [unknown] Build… What do you think the middle says? Tell me in the comments.
The front of the Art Deco hospital, complete with Art Deco gears and Crosses of Loraine!
The old gate sign, leaned against one of the terminal elevators.
Looking out at the town water tower (which I love) from the sugar mill (which I also love).
Funny how sensitive modern English speakers have become to gendered language. I doubt the workers here–almost all female–were offended by this posting for ‘Workmen’s Compensation’.
Although most of the buildings were open and empty, a few carried signs.
The end of the new elevator. Line of bird droppings follow the fire sprinkler pipes and wires in the room.
A squat building with a rail scale. Taken between rain showers in late summer, when I seemed to be the only one at White Pine.
Zachary Taylor’s very own Scottish castle, spring-side in the Kentucky backcountry. Boarded and waiting, but in surprisingly good condition, considering the decades. I especially love the tower on the right side of the frame.
A little catwalk gives access to the most important gauges in the building. Behind them are huge vents and fans. I bet it got steamy in here.
Note that the back of Stockhouse #4 is missing. A year later, Fermentation was on the ground too.
I love the texture of the rust through the decaying yellow paint.
This is one of my favorite images of the year because of the color, light and textures. Someone told me once that the medium of photographers is not film or digital sensors, but rather shadows. This photo is evidence of that.
The control room for the whole of the plant. Sinterband here means one of the sintering lines. Temperatures, gasses, mixtures, speeds, and so on were centrally controlled here.
For some time, tugboats were stored next to the elevator.
Note the tiled floor between the bucket conveyors and an old mill.
Much of the mill is wooden–even the larger chutes.
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 pockmarked concrete sign of Substation #2 over the control room that faces the highway.
One of the covered rail loading docks. All of them were overgrown and rust-clad.
Watching the comings and goings of doctors, nurses and new patients was a mainstay of asylum routine; one can find it easy to imagine pale faces pressed against the block glass windows, staring out at the world moving past them.
Safety signs decorated every floor, machine and, yes, door. This message spoke to me for reasons my coworkers will understand; suffice to say, I need to take this message to heart.
A taste of Superior culture.
Kansas is known for tornados. Think ‘Wizard of Oz’. That, considered with the fact that the workers were surrounded by bombs and bomb making materials called for lots of earthen shelters, just in case.
Every elevator has sets of these conveyor switches. Grain comes down through the top chute and the bottom chute rotates to move the flow onto various belts around the plant by gravity. The cross belt is another switch and the bridge belt brings the flow to the other half of the elevator.
Detail view of one of the fermenting tanks, still set-up for the distillery tours that no doubt took place when there last were such things. Nevertheless, the capacity of this tank multiplied across these all over the distillery floor really shows the power this company once had.
I love the ghost sign across these two elevators, originally built as Superior Elevator. It’s looking pretty rough.
I love that the administration building–almost 100 years old now–still carries the original name.
In the steam plant, steam pipes bundled in canvas and asbestos criss-cross the walls.
Here, the concentrated gold (and silver, and zinc, I would guess) would be loaded into trucks bound for the smelter.
I assume this sign used to sit near the highway that snakes around the mine and town.
Shot on a Pentax 67 in monochrome and toned to match the set. For some time the marquee was lit at night to advertise the fact that the city bought it and planned to apply for credits to repair it.
A broken window looking through the First Aid Room and into the Control Room in charge of directing grain into ships. You can see one of the large conveyors on the right, clad in green. Chutes and staircases intertwine seemingly randomly through the big empty spaces.
One of the large barracks. All of them are overgrown like this.
One of my favorite signs. I imagine something like this happened when it was put up: “Wow, that’s a big sign.” “Yeah, you’re going to be putting it up in the elevator at the service door.” “Have you thought of may locking the door?” “What?” “You know, lock it so that there’s no risk, sign aside, of us going through and falling to our death.” “Shut up and just install the damn sign.”
Elevator B, used by a local farmer, stands behind an old farm truck at the edge of town.
Unit 4’s lower levels.
In the nitrating house.
I revisited the mill years after my documentary. Now it is even more destroyed and surrounded by new fences.
Carter Color used to occupy this block.
Before each warhead was crated, it was inspected.
Candy jar molds, in the far corner of the paint shop.
A buck-fifty shot for a postcard stand. Taken from the Stone Arch Bridge.
General Mills bought Consolidated Elevator’s “D” in 1943 and renamed it “A,” though no additional elevators have followed from that firm to date. Visible on the right is the first annex, built along with the elevator in 1909.
From a distance (here, Union Yards), you can still see ARMOUR spelled out on the smokestack in white brick.
Standing between pockets 1 and 2. You brought hearing protection, right?
Barrels were prepared across the street, then moved across the road with a special conveyor, seen crashed here. This is down the road from Old Taylor, and was probably a part of the Old Crow operation.
The sign room with glass letters, words, and numbers.
The laundry building, where many of the tunnels came to an end. It looks very East Coast industrial to me.
A sunset shot of the Western Cable Railroad depot in the middle of the Lemp brewery complex, with the malting house in the background. Western used to have an exclusive shipping contract with Lemp.
In the days before a centralized fire alarm system, coded whistle blasts would warn when and where a fire broke out.
In the basement were all the valves to control the flow of municipal steam through the building. This hasty hand letting was beside one such valve, near a carved brick with a name and ‘1934’ under it.
2005. Flavored beers are still popular. The flavor concentrates were stored in this bank of fridges.
Every timber pillar was numbered for maintenance purposes.
This bridge over Eagle River is beautiful.
A decaying door of the Medical Director for the unit. Because this is from one of the outbuildings and not Administration, I doubt that this was the Medical Director of Norwich State Hospital’s office.
Fake Fact: The term ‘stovetop hat’ was coined by Island Station’s architect while trying to explain why he wanted to put the steel chimney on the station. ‘Live Here’ was part of the advertising when the building was host to artist lofts. They weren’t kidding.
Four A.M. was the best time to be on the main assembly line. This was about shortly after most of the machinery was removed.
Shadows of the rusty trestle and cold control towers on the Barker. Workers are preparing to swing over the sides of the boat to help secure her to the Minnesota Power dock.
I like the fading stencil paint.
From factory to skate park to restaurant. This is in the skate park stage. The buildings to the right are demolished now, and in their place are hockey rinks.
My first night on Minneapolis’ Lighthouse–now an old picture and distant memory… I still remember the exhilaration and the view of the city off one edge of the roof and the Mississippi River over the other.
One of Martinsdale’s defunct businesses perpendicular to the depot. Recall that Martinsdale is a T-town.
Hales & Hunter sign, as it looks today.
If you’re an Astra-Zenica representative and want to use this for some magazine ad, I’ll charge you a reasonable $10,000. Email me (ha)!
Parking strictly forbidden. A sign in front of Cheratte’s former truck shops.
The original metal sign over the porticos.
Between lines of Number Sixes right after sun rose behind them. This photo shows how extremely lush the grounds are that make getting around in some places impossible.
A facade that tells the story of demolition and neglect. The sign on the garage door indicates that if one finds themselves there, that they enter the buildings at their own risk. If only property owners in the US took this philosophy!
“Ballistite is a smokeless propellant made from two high explosives, nitrocellulose and nitroglycerine. It was developed and patented by Alfred Nobel in the late 19th century.” -Wikipedia.
Outside the Chateau, where the fuel oil tank blocks the chapel.
The Western Elevator’s old moniker looks over Fort William (the neighborhood). Snow falls over Mount McKay in the background. This elevator is still active… the only active elevator in Fort William proper.
The guard shack protecting the Nike launch pad.
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.
A passing cloud almost looks like a puff of smoke from the trimmed smokestack of Consolidated D. In the lower corner you can see a little Stonehenge that someone with a sense of humor and heavy equipment built.
Each room is painted a different hue, so the light reflecting into the hallway carries those colors. The blue padding on the left is for one of the padded rooms…
After a religious conversion from actors to projectors, a rebranding was in order.
The most derelict of the old bonded warehouses. Note the barrel elevator on the side of it!
A long exposure panorama of Electric Steel and Kurth from the roof of Russell Miller B, days before it was demolished.
The fantastic red elevator that is Pool #61, built 1928.
One of my favorite signs, informing workers about to descend into the open-top grain bins about basic procedures. This was in ADM-Annex 1 (connected to the cleaning house via skyway), so it will never be seen again, unless the sign lands luckily when the elevator is demolished.
I wish I had the equipment then that I have now… I look back at these 10-year-old pictures and can’t ignore all the grain.
Fire doors and penis talk.
Shadows of the trees from the materials yard.
Part of a vintage neon sign. I hope it’s been preserved–it reminds me of the sign that hung over my grandfather’s tv sales and repair shop in small town Minnesota.
In the office at the end of the dock are two brooms. One is from the last ore train. One is from the last boat.
Devan setting up his 4×5 camera.
Around the corner from the old boiler room.
The control room for Manitoba Pool Elevator #3 was the most modern of any I saw in Thunder Bay. Apparently, 25 men were working on the day this elevator shut down.
The Osborn Block (front) and the Twohy (rear) at sunset. In the distance, you can almost make out Globe Elevators. One of my favorite photos of 2013.
It’s a straight view from the projection booth to the stage, but hell of a walk. At a fast pace, I think it would take 10 minutes to walk from this spot to the chair. Behind the curtains is a big white screen, so the theatre could be used for either stagework or moving pictures. The two projectors are set up for 3D movies right now–hence the little switch below the window–a Polaroid 3D synchronizer. Cool, huh?
Looking up at the LEMP malting plant elevator. Look at that BRICKWORK!
The historical entrance.
This building looked like some sort of office.
Heavy wood doors for keeping people in.
The side of the maintenance shops, still home to several disassembled electric carts.
The bits with handles are the filters with screens of different sizes. Larger grain particles would be stopped at the top for further reduction via the mills, while the powder at the bottom would be run through another bolter–one of the refinement stages in flour production.
The Brown Hotel still stands, but has recently gone out of business again. One of the nice things about historic buildings in New Mexico, though, is things tend to stay around a lot longer than if they were subjected to lots of rain and snow. It will probably be reopened eventually.
The stage of the theatre still holds hymnals and other vestiges of its time as a church.
Inside the Beulah elevator were all of the original notices and notices. These are instructions for filling rail cars with flour sacks.
Every fitting label in the stock department was cracked, curled, and blank.
The turbine hall sported a beautiful Whiting gantry crane.
These buildings were largely used as concentrators for the crushed rock, although I did spy some small mills inside these too.
A door covered in pen graffiti.
Different doors for different vehicles, I would guess. White Pine Mine used tire-based vehicles, rather than track-based, making it pretty different than other mines I’ve been to.
Shelves in in the coloring department, where hundreds of different mixer lids are splashed with hardened glass dyes. Color thanks to a yellow-tinted skylight.
With the maintenance door open you can see the buckets on in the vertical conveyor.
“The fresh snow mixed indistinguishably from the ashes of the half-demolished power plant.”
Somewhere between the grain elevator and the distillery.
When ‘men’ meant ‘worker’.
When it became “Hyde Park Hospital”, this portico was added onto the front.
Ruster at The Pool… employee graffiti about 100 above ground.
A walk-up service window on the side of an administration building of some sort. I have a feeling the buildings were color coded.
The top floor of the nitrating house was full of switches and breakers for the operation below, each bearing a label and number. Nowadays everything is printed, but when INAAP was built, all these signs were painted by hand.
Some warnings on the older battery which was visibly older than its eastern counterpart. This set of batteries had no railing between the side of the ovens and a long drop onto railroad tracks… I like this picture because it shows the effects of the heat and corrosive gasses on the area around the ovens.
Inside the main entrance to the depot. Through the ‘To Station’ door, you can see some of the news stands. Look at the floor!
Looking past the Osborn along the side of the Hughitt Slip, where there have always been grain elevators for more than 100 years.
An Old Crow warehouse, formerly federally controlled, near Old Taylor Distillery.
Construction in 2014 reveals a lost stone sign.
Asbestos rope isn’t something you can buy at Home Depot anymore, but it’s fire and heat resistant stuff; great for industrial work, like in a sugar mill.
In case one forgot… mounted behind the appropriate valves. Who hasn’t memorized the appropriate valve positions?
Frontier Gas is a former (?) gas station chain. Chain O’ mines reused a scrapped sign to mark their mill. Under the paint you can barely make out: GLORY HOLE GOLD MILL.