While walking out I snapped this last shot of the sunset drenching the castle-top watertower (staying with the theme), right before the sun dipped below the hill across the stream from which the whiskey was distilled.
Ducking the steam lines overhead between the mixers and compressors, a water tower says “good morning,” right past the slack power lines. This is the sleepy uptown of the war city.
The quenching water was reused over and over.
Grimy windows and the other half of the complex trade interests and stares.
In the days when steam locomotives required immense amounts of water, water towers such as this served the rail line as crucial rail infrastructure. This specific tower was built in 1903 for Canadian Pacific and is one of the last of its kind. Inside is a giant cedar-lined tank with a 40,000 gallon capacity. Note the rails are gone, but the filler spout remains.
The powerplant and its dedicated water tower supplied steam for heating and mechanical work.
Looking toward the power station at the edge of the explosives plant.
Everyone loves water towers.
Looking toward the museum from a broken window on the side of the concrete tower. The sign on top lights everything a dull pink-orange.
The the left, the nitrating line in War City. To the right, War City’s sole suburb, Charlestown, IN.
About a second after the explosives were triggered.
Looking out at the town water tower (which I love) from the sugar mill (which I also love).
The Clipper was one of the most popular Packards, but its production was cut short by WWII. Had they produced the car instead of Rolls Royce plane engines I imagine there would might be driving a Packard today, rather than a Ford.
In the distance, the San Haven Sanatorium water tower.
I wonder what this guy is thinking, walking through the complex.
Watching the sun set behind downtown Detroit is my favorite memory from the building.
Pillsbury from across the Mississippi River and Stone Arch Bridge from the roof of the Washburn Crosby Elevator (aka Gold Medal Flour).
SFAAP’s iconic smokestacks. You’d notice if you drove past this on the highway.
I was squatting overnight in one of the buildings and woke up with the sunrise. This is what I woke up to.
The “Inner-Urban Jawbreaker,” a one-of-a-kind, salty-but-sweet remnant of a bygone heavy-industrial period in this area’s history. A time when the walls were whole and the floors were clean, in other words, a time when people made things other than photographs inside the never ending corridors and factory floors.
Looking toward the Quenching Tower from the coal tower platform.
A massive water tower easily tucks into the shadow of Blast Furnace #6.
The sun lowered behind the dead flour mill, bending its image upon itself.
A long exposure panorama of Electric Steel and Kurth from the roof of Russell Miller B, days before it was demolished.
A wide view of the complex from a far rooftop.
No matter what environmental disasters industry throws at Mother Earth, she will bounce back.
The water tower no doubt made good scrap after it hit the ground.
If you look close you can see a figure on the water tower.
Showering red-hot coke fresh from the furnaces near the Coal Tower (in the back) was the Quenching Tower’s duty (front).
From the bottom of the skyway I looked back, my eyes tracing the vines from the marsh up the smokestacks to the perfect Midwestern sky.
This low brick building is interesting to me.
Not a wisp of smoke can be seen today.
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.