Ladders crawl the back of the signs. Graffiti writers’ right of passage.
After a short rainfall douses the mill in downtown Fergus Falls, the river next to the brick walls swells and the sounds of water overtakes the echos of the nearby bars. Reflections are on the foundation of the former distribution and rail building.
Shuttered windows on the side of one of the collapsing bonded warehouses.
A screened water wheel, presumably for rotating the dredge once it lowered its “foot” to pivot in place.
Looking into the engine works from the concrete addition.
When the building switched souls from booze to bread, these contraptions were mounted across the brewhouse floors… they’re not for hops, either.
Part of the Pillsbury tunnel that brought water back to the Mississippi River.
Short-stack remains of mounts for rod and ball mills, if I was to bet. The concentrator separated junk rock (tails) from the copper and silver ore, to such a point it could be smelted.
Across the walls of the brick repair shop, near where men and machine entered Shaft No. 3, vines, pipes, and graffiti battle unknowingly for visual prominence.