The sign that greets visitors to the ghost town of Colmor. Nothing says ‘welcome’ like birdshot.
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The first step of the filtering process is being spun through this tube.
The doorframes become more askew every year as the buildings slip downward into the gulch at different rates. This seems to be the part of the mine ruins where transients leave their marks. The graffiti dated back to the 1970s, at least.
The dry house is in the worse condition of the remaining buildings. This is where miners would change clothes.
A set of air intakes and exhaust pipes over the buried communications and control equipment rooms.
This mean-looking thing had a purpose, probably, but that function has been lost to decades of expansion.
Looking up the rock house.
“Crunch, crunch, crunch,” said the ground. “I know,” I replied.
From the street, it’s clear that almost every window and door had boards over it, but not every building had a roof. Silly priorities.
The side of the maintenance shops, still home to several disassembled electric carts.