Because there’s no Port-a-John underground.
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...based on the tags: carts, numbers, rusty, stencils, toilets, tunnels...
Interlocking bricks at the mouth of the stoker-less boiler.
When boiling beet juice accidentally spills from the gas-fired tanks two feet away, you better be wearing some of these, or bye-bye legs.
Because painted signs would not hold up in this spot–in between four ovens that were literally hot enough to melt steel inside. Solution: Cut the pipe labels into the sheet metal. Seems to have worked.
At sunset the light skips from puddle to stagnant puddle across the whole foundry room, playing with the classic sawtooth roof with half-hearted shadows.
Iron becoming dirt becoming birches.
These long curved corridors connected the wards. Locked doors on both of their ends were a security and comfort feature. Sounds and people would be sealed in their respective wards, as the hallways would act like beautiful airlocks; they were so long that it was unlikely that doors would be open on both sides at the same time. Portra 160.
Look at the floor–do you see the hole? That goes down a lonnnnnng ways.
The bricks routinely fell from the walls, like seeds falling from trees. On a smaller scale, new walls grew from the floors.
Through a section of the tailings boom where mountain winds tore open the sheet metal around the conveyor, I poked my head out.