Before the clouds broke, I snapped this profile of the dumping control room and its spiral staircase. These are the colors that I dream in.
A cracked sign at dock-level, where loading boats would be tied below the taconite conveyors. All across the surface of the concrete dock were taconite pellets, like slippery little marbles. One wrong step could put a worker in the water, which is a bad, bad place to be.
In the distance, a semi truck kicks up fresh rain from the highway. As seen from the top of the steel blast door.
The perimeter fence still holds strong, 50 years after it was put up.
“Man has set for himself the goal of conquering the world but in the processes loses his soul.” Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Russian writer and historian.
For some time, Purina ran a feed service out of the elevator. Inside and outside were signs of its past presence.
The fiery side of a launch building, just is it began to rain.
Soft rain on Vulcan’s ashy pyre… Both of these peaks are dead volcanos, too hard to be totally washed away by storms. As a result, they seem to rise dramatically from the flat valley.
I found out some of my friends were going to be married while I was on top of Gold Medal one evening while it was snowing.
The blast pit carried the smoke and flame from the rocket motor away from the other base buildings.
The sun unzipped the clouds. Mist blew across the harbor.
Tornadic fronts duel over the retired missile launcher.
Snow flies across the frame as the sunken cribbing freezes bellow the concrete.
Knowing that a tornado just passed nearby is less distressing when you’re surrounded by nuclear-attack-hardened buildings.
As a storm moves across Lake Superior toward Duluth, an ore freighter anchors behind the Superior light station.
If you look closely, you can see the rain dropping into the building. This is the part of the chapel with the collapsed roof–not the carvings on the choir loft.
While squatting in the power plant a very powerful storm moved over unforgettable, throwing blasts of lightning across the countryside. The plant got a direct hit, in fact, and the sound of the boom reverberating through the turbine hall is something unforgettable.
San Luis may not be a ghost town, but it’s aspiring by all indications. Luckily, it’s close enough to Cuba, NM to hang onto life, unlike the other ghost towns down the road.
Connecting the Administration Building to the wards fanning out. Historical photos show cots lining this hallway when the hospital was severely overcrowded. Lit by lightning outside the grounds during a huge thunderstorm.
A typical summer storm on Lake Superior.
Frontenac’s shaft house is well preserved, compared to all other around it. Leica/Summilux 35/Ektar 100
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve been getting reports that several Yellow Helicopters have been seen hovering above town. We are all aware of the Black Helicopters, which are World Government, and Blue Helicopters, which are Secret Police, and the Helicopters with Detailed Murals of Diving Birds of Prey, which are the helicopters that took all the children in Night Vale away a few months ago (we still don’t know what those helicopters are but they did bring all the children back unharmed, and much more well-behaved than before, so they are deemed just as safe as the other helicopters) but these new Yellow Helicopters, no one quite knows.” – Welcome to Night Vale, Ep. 32
Wyoming has Montana’s ‘big sky’ reputation truly challenged.
A typical dwelling in San Luis. I could not tell if it was occupied, but most of the town is abandoned.
This picture is lit by a direct lightning strike of the building. It’s impossible to describe the feeling of being in this giant open building the moment it channeled an electric explosion into the earth.
As wind and currents moved the ice around between the ore docks, the sounds of crunching echoed through the otherwise quiet bar.
A failed squat at the plant. A massive electric storm (see photos) ruined this otherwise perfect flop.
Observing War City in the midst of an electric storm. This photo is lit almost entirely by lightning.
The command building and a coolant tank. In the distance, rain and hail pound Wyoming dirt.
Looking out of the Brewery Creek Drain outfall at night, after a storm had pushed piles of rocks up onto the shore.
Island Station, in the middle of the power house, in the middle of a thunder storm. Flapping pipe covers and sheets of ran penetrating one massive arched window and blasting through the other, as winds power through the building from the Mississippi. The sound of the thunder made every length of steel squeak under the pressure.
A dead work truck rusts near an outbuilding. Everything is marked with a code. Modernity.
Much of the circa-1950s buildings remain with few alterations, such as these long boring sheet metal ruststicks.