Paperwork litters the floors of the zinc mine offices.
A light-painted portrait of one of the few remaining carts that moved everything from fresh eggs to soiled laundry through the tunnels.
Hunter’s custom large format rig looks pretty cool, doesn’t it?
The holes were for men to poke reluctant ore with long poles, with the hope that a lucky jab would let the load slide down into the boat below. Now they’re just traps.
The small door leads to the offices, the large door leads to the shop. My back at this time is to the corrugated steel wall. At the time I wondered why there was just one steel wall, not knowing that 40 years before there was another spot for an engine here. This section of the roundhouse has become a sort of town dump–car seats, cans of paint and tires are piled into its corners.
The basement held a makeshift chapel.
Looking out of the American diesel crane at the gantry crane that ran the length of the dock.
Spare blankets still sit in the bottom of the dresser drawer.