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 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 old gate sign, leaned against one of the terminal elevators.
When the ship loaders were added, a doorway was cut through the metal silo to make a room for the grain handling equipment. Note the dust sensor in the corner of the torch-cut archway.
A switchboard to control the flow of electricity into the plant from the city and generators.
This bridge over Eagle River is beautiful.
ZC was sure proud of his castle!
The sign room with glass letters, words, and numbers.
One of the former sanitorium common rooms. Its interior is at the end of one of the wards and is lined with glass brick.
The beacon was installed in 1938 and removed in the mid-2000s.
The laundry building, where many of the tunnels came to an end. It looks very East Coast industrial to me.
Unloading boats had the option to take on fuel at Taconite Harbor. This building, among other things, pumped fuel to the dock.
Looking out at the town water tower (which I love) from the sugar mill (which I also love).
Spare parts ready for this building’s reactivation.
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)!
The pockmarked concrete sign of Substation #2 over the control room that faces the highway.
At sunrise the fog rose near the solvent recovery line. You can barely read the “XXX” warning.
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.
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.
Only two machines sit on the rails in the roundhouse, both oil cars. It’s not clear whether there’s anything inside either, but they have to have been placed here before 1970, when the turntable outside these numbered doors was removed.
This sign was important when trains ran the length of the elevator.
Note the tiled floor between the bucket conveyors and an old mill.
One of the prettier Humphry Manlifts in Minneapolis, in my opinion.
An original stencil-brushed sign.
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.
In the days before a centralized fire alarm system, coded whistle blasts would warn when and where a fire broke out.
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.
Ektar 100/Mamiya 6. A ghost town near Martinsdale, where the market (pictured) served as the train stop.
Looking from the powerhouse across to the old Electrical Assembly side of the plant that manufactured products like thermostats. Most of the complex is connected by skyway and tunnel systems.
One of the covered rail loading docks. All of them were overgrown and rust-clad.
“The fresh snow mixed indistinguishably from the ashes of the half-demolished power plant.”
A door covered in pen graffiti.
A siren near the main road. Is it an air raid siren?
The bottom of the elevator in the new foundry.
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.
I assume this sign used to sit near the highway that snakes around the mine and town.
Global Trading remarked the building in the mid-60s, but far above the door is the old ‘Detroit Shipbuilding’ paint, though it’s faint nowadays.
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.
This is the far interior of the hotel, where the darkness made the shag carpet seem to move whenever the trees outside swayed. That is to say, constantly.
A long exposure under the trestle-like approach to the dock, under which trains still pass regularly.
Devan setting up his 4×5 camera.
Below Dock 2 is a set of fire pumps.
I couldn’t help but include this ghost sign for a demolished motel…
The fantastic red elevator that is Pool #61, built 1928.
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.
For some time, tugboats were stored next to the elevator.
An Old Crow warehouse, formerly federally controlled, near Old Taylor Distillery.
The historical entrance.
Elevator B, used by a local farmer, stands behind an old farm truck at the edge of town.
Standing on a caustic tank with my head out a roof hatch, I look at the sign of the last brand to be produced here.
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.
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.
When it became “Hyde Park Hospital”, this portico was added onto the front.
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 big sign marks where the elevated walkway is severed where Dock 2 used to meet Dock 3, now gone.
The old movie theatre sign was sitting right inside the sealed front doors.
A 8-foot-tall volume indicator that could be read from across the beet boiler floor–convenient when the controls are 20 feet away.
One of the storage bunkers was cracked open. I wonder how effective this heavy door would actually be… I expect, not very.
A bumper sticker with the usual tagline. Note the detail on the radiator!
The tallest dock structure is an equipment elevator that connects the many dock levels.
A few of the stalls in the older section of the roundhouse, the noon sky peeking in.
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.
I love the texture of the rust through the decaying yellow paint.
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.
Behind the main shaft is this familiar industrial sight… a running count of days since the last injury.
Ladders crawl the back of the signs. Graffiti writers’ right of passage.
It was obvious which parts of the hospital were the newest, by their relative utter self destruction. It’s comforting to the Cubical Dwellers, I think, to know that as soon as the power and plumbing are disconnected that all hell will break loose and dismantle their suspended ceilings, drywall boxes and fluorescent suns in no time at all.
The sign that greets visitors to the ghost town of Colmor. Nothing says ‘welcome’ like birdshot.
Looking up at the LEMP malting plant elevator. Look at that BRICKWORK!
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.
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.
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’.
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.
The Peavey logo, before it rusted off and the offices were demolished.
In the steam plant, steam pipes bundled in canvas and asbestos criss-cross the walls.
An old sign directed patients and visitors back to toward the central parts of the hospital.
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.
“This way,” then, “No, that way!”
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
Thick glass windows allow workers to check the beet juice levels in this steel tank. You can tell by the reinforcement that it had a lot of liquid and had to hold against immense pressure. Kodak Tri-X 400/Leica M7.
A misnomer that stuck.
A different kind of tree fort.
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!
In the corner of most of the factory floors, freight elevators flanked restrooms to leave more central space for machines and their masters.
A control panel that was mothballed, anticipating a time when the plant may be reactivated.
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.
This building looked like some sort of office.
The historic entrance of the mill, alongside the (relatively) new Great Western offices.
Hales & Hunter sign, as it looks today.
An employee lunchroom with every door and window covered in vented steel.
Winter skies over Allouez Bay. From a distance, it looks almost fragile.
Van Dyke Cab Company and Yellow Cab served the terminal in lieu of a streetcar loop downtown, which was planned but never built.
This building seemed like a pump house or compressor house. It was full of empty concrete mounts.
Bricks from the demolished buildings.
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 batch tag specifies some of the technical properties of the silk worked here.
Inside the Beulah elevator were all of the original notices and notices. These are instructions for filling rail cars with flour sacks.
Looking up at the most conspicuous graffiti in the city on ADM #4.
For some time, Purina ran a feed service out of the elevator. Inside and outside were signs of its past presence.
Above my head while taking this picture was the seal of the Department of the Interior.
This volume gauge could be read from 30 feet away, which is useful when the control panels and valves are that far away.
A long exposure panorama of Electric Steel and Kurth from the roof of Russell Miller B, days before it was demolished.
Standing between pockets 1 and 2. You brought hearing protection, right?
It remains unexplained what ‘serious results’ may stem from not reporting an accident, but when labor was cheap and unorganized I doubt anyone asked.
Looking out of the American diesel crane at the gantry crane that ran the length of the dock.
I found a meth lab in this building once. (Yes, I called it in.)
Looking up the tallest structure left at ACME.
No ambiguity here… miners, check in at this office.
I don’t think we’re anywhere near maximum pressure anymore.
Serve [unknown] Build… What do you think the middle says? Tell me in the comments.
To make sure the tourists aren’t scared off, the city painted the side of the elevator with one of its historic names.
All of the fire alarms had been triggered.
The chalkboard in the filtering plant reminds new visitors of the last day.
The Harrison flour mill, completed in 1897 and expanded in 1901 and 1902. The tunnel that I am standing on probably transported grain from the elevator to the mill. Medium Format.
The main stage and the retired (and in this instance, scrambled) marquee that will be repaired and reinstalled above Superior Street. A former manager of the building I used to photograph Nopeming with told me that the letters for the Art Deco tower are stored somewhere in the NorShor to this day, but I did not see them (and frankly, I doubt it).
This building had no identity issues. My chief regret was not spending more time documenting the ghost signs around the complex.
Here, the concentrated gold (and silver, and zinc, I would guess) would be loaded into trucks bound for the smelter.
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!
Parking strictly forbidden. A sign in front of Cheratte’s former truck shops.
The neon lighthouse, seen from the top of one of the silos.
A stencil instructs the first and third shifts to ask security for access. Security was out during all my visits, except one mishap where a strung-out local chased me with a truck. Having spent a decade exploring the U.P., I was not caught off guard.
If you know what BTI stands for, please leave a comment.
Outside the Chateau, where the fuel oil tank blocks the chapel.
Construction in 2014 reveals a lost stone sign.
Looking into the Argo Tunnel at its Idaho Springs portal. I was hoping to see tracks and a steel door, but found a busy crew of environmental workers installing a pipe between the bulkhead and new water plant.
Lit by the glow of St. Paul’s West Seventh bars, highlighted by the cool blue of the sleepy section of South Side. This castle-like tower can be seen for miles around town; a Landmark at the brewery that brewed a brew by the that name.
From my archives–the NorShor as an innocent gentleman’s club, called ‘the NorShor Experience’.
The office building was fancy compared to the utilitarian factory behind it. My favorite part was the logo crown.
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.
With the maintenance door open you can see the buckets on in the vertical conveyor.
The secret sweet-yet-salty center of the nameless factoryscape. Home base, tuned to rule the AC and turn out Product X at record rates, I’m sure.
Power-up to cool down… would have been nice on the hot day I climbed on top of this machine.
Solvent pumping buildings, designed to explode upwards rather than outwards in an emergency, are forgotten near the milkweed.
Two bin signs criss-cross in the North Annex.
An engine on display outside the Montana Territorial Prison in Deer Lodge, MT. This was a typical electric locomotive used by The Milwaukee Road.
Pillsbury from across the Mississippi River and Stone Arch Bridge from the roof of the Washburn Crosby Elevator (aka Gold Medal Flour).
Around the corner from the old boiler room.
Two signatures complement this gorgeous hand-painted sign. ‘Bowers’ from 1987 and ‘Normal’ from 1982. The blocking on the letters is still visible!
Part of the unremodeled hospital, above the Service Building, where employees would stay sometimes.
Looking toward Fort William (Western) Elevator from the top of Superior Elevator. Fort William is bordered on the south and east by this wide, winding railyard. Note the pretty and quaint brick offices of the Western.
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.
From Main Street, looking straight up at the A Mill, only the silence makes one think that nobody’s still inside, grinding grain into Pillsbury’s Best.
The back of the mill reads “Red River Milling Company”
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.
Fire doors separate the buildings.
The largest extant structure when I visited.
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.
A sign in the desolate cafeteria.
Looking out upon Mill City through the lens of FLOUR, highlighted in pink and low clouds. This sign has recently been converted into LED lighting.
From a distance (here, Union Yards), you can still see ARMOUR spelled out on the smokestack in white brick.
A buck-fifty shot for a postcard stand. Taken from the Stone Arch Bridge.
Silverton’s elevator, pictured here, is still active.
A big door into the fire pump room.
Some sort of materials handling building, judging by the construction.
Much of the mill is wooden–even the larger chutes.
The clock, which was sold after Amtrak dumped the building, was returned to the Waiting Room in 2005.
The back door into the old distillery building. Not castle-like at all, sadly.
I’ll remember the neon glow fondly.
The Dock 5 sign at track level. Probably as an aid to sailors reboarding their vessels.
The front of the Art Deco hospital, complete with Art Deco gears and Crosses of Loraine!
The Calumet Elevator offices used to be flanked on both sides by rails. Now, only one side has engines running on it.
One of the four fire alarm panels in the power station.
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.
Point me to the blast furnace.
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.
An abandoned gatehouse bearing the name of the former factory.
Looking past the Osborn along the side of the Hughitt Slip, where there have always been grain elevators for more than 100 years.
Isabella A (left) and B (right) were built in 1910 and 1913, respectively.
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.
Below the pressure gauges are rows of little pipe fitting drawers.
In an era where smoking was ubiquitous and sexy, smoking stations had to be a part of the job, even at an explosives factory.
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?
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.
The stage of the theatre still holds hymnals and other vestiges of its time as a church.
I like the fading stencil paint.
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.
“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.
The boiler doors are beautiful, and feature the name of the smelter and mine company. If you like these, check my article on the Mitchell Yards of Hibbing, MN.
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.
The shaft house, where hydraulic steel doors allowed or denied entry into the mine shaft. Overhead is a light and alarm. If it sounds, the mine is being evacuated, and you best not go in and best stay the hell out of the way. Locals dump tires here, now.
Behind a nurse’s station.
Vents in the boards over the windows helps prevent mold and animals from getting too crazy inside.
Canal Park (see bridge) and some of old downtown, formerly Duluth City Hall and Police Department (center-left). At least one star has appeared in the sky…
Every fitting label in the stock department was cracked, curled, and blank.
A caustic tank in one of the unremodeled brewhouse backrooms.
Fire doors and penis talk.
The flour mill (rear) and its elevators. The taller elevator was moved here in 1955, when the Harrisons bought it from Federal, who declared it surplus. The smaller elevator replaced an earlier smaller warehouse in 1926. Taken shortly after dawn. This one picture made the drive worth it, for me. Medium Format.
My favorite time to be in the brewery was sunrise. That’s the kind of light that made the brewhouse glow.
In case one forgot… mounted behind the appropriate valves. Who hasn’t memorized the appropriate valve positions?
A warning sticker on the interior of a dredge once tied to the old dock.
When ‘men’ meant ‘worker’.
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.
Miners at the turn of the century had better taste in typography than the average person does today.
A sign hanging near the shop office.
One level below where the cotton was nitrated, the fumes must have been powerful. This floor had several massive ventilation fans in its walls.
2005. Flavored beers are still popular. The flavor concentrates were stored in this bank of fridges.
A look at another “Belt-o-Vator”. I like the sign.
The headquarters for the plant was in the middle of it. It’s abandoned but well preserved–a strange sight in Gary, Indiana.