The powerplant and its dedicated water tower supplied steam for heating and mechanical work.
The quenching water was reused over and over.
I wonder what this guy is thinking, walking through the complex.
About a second after the explosives were triggered.
Everyone loves water towers.
A long exposure panorama of Electric Steel and Kurth from the roof of Russell Miller B, days before it was demolished.
Looking toward the power station at the edge of the explosives plant.
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.
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.
Looking toward the Quenching Tower from the coal tower platform.
Showering red-hot coke fresh from the furnaces near the Coal Tower (in the back) was the Quenching Tower’s duty (front).
This low brick building is interesting to me.
No matter what environmental disasters industry throws at Mother Earth, she will bounce back.
If you look close you can see a figure on the water tower.
Looking out at the town water tower (which I love) from the sugar mill (which I also love).
A wide view of the complex from a far rooftop.
Watching the sun set behind downtown Detroit is my favorite memory from the building.
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.
The water tower no doubt made good scrap after it hit the ground.
The the left, the nitrating line in War City. To the right, War City’s sole suburb, Charlestown, IN.
A massive water tower easily tucks into the shadow of Blast Furnace #6.
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.
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.
Grimy windows and the other half of the complex trade interests and stares.
I was squatting overnight in one of the buildings and woke up with the sunrise. This is what I woke up to.
The sun lowered behind the dead flour mill, bending its image upon itself.
In the distance, the San Haven Sanatorium water tower.
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.
Not a wisp of smoke can be seen today.
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 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.
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.