Footprints of houses past; tailings of mines past.
An old handcart sits next to a rotting elevator.
The dock is still lit at night and it casts shadows over the rust-welded ore doors.
The mill was powered, in part, by water flowing through turbines under it. After the flow worked the industrial heart of the flour mill, it was exit to the Mississippi here.
The stone chapel sits beside the main house and received a particularly heavy dose of gothic architectural touches.
On the boarded-up first floor of the house proper near the door to the chapel, the last pew sites next to a wet box of Bibles.
Looking through the dark door at Shaft 3, when my naked eyes could only make out a staircase lit dimly from above.
This was taken before the top of the docks really started to rot-out; now this stretch past the crane is distinctly unsafe to cross. Still, you can’t beat the view of Dock #2 winding into the distance, where the approach is chopped-off before the yard used to extend.
At sunrise the fog rose near the solvent recovery line. You can barely read the “XXX” warning.