The mostly-empty distilling room is easy to spot from the outside because of the distinctive round window.
A stencil instructs the first and third shifts to ask security for access. Security was out during all my visits, except one mishap where a strung-out local chased me with a truck. Having spent a decade exploring the U.P., I was not caught off guard.
A high-ceilinged room where kegs would be delivered for cleaning, before they were refilled with fresh booze.
In the back of the warehouse is the old incinerator, probably used to destroy kegs that could not be reused.
Catwalk crating, welded over the yard crane operator cab’s windows.
One thing I like about the oppressive globalist-wrought future is the idea of numerically subdividing spaces; my geek side sort of wants to live in a flat that can be sorted by as Dewey Decimal-like code.
Spots of yellow gravel mark gold mines with nothing left on the surface. Is this one of the drainage pipes?
The head distiller could walk out of their office to this balcony and overlook the whole fermentation process in a glance.
Two versions of Detroit. One where buildings stand tall and proud, and one where they wilt under the sun. It’s an amazing juxtaposition.