Sprouts of life in center of a smashed glass block.
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Andy Miller
A creek has cut through the middle of the mine property, washing away the loose rock and eroding the foundations of the Concentrator. It’s pretty, though! It’s be belief, though I cannot prove it, that some of the water here originates from inside the now-buried Santiago Tunnel, which is no doubt flooded to a great extent.
Little has changed inside the mill, but since it was built in 1916, many tanks and ancillary buildings have popped up around it.
A squat building with a rail scale. Taken between rain showers in late summer, when I seemed to be the only one at White Pine.
Shadows of the timberwork and cribbing are cast across cracked lake ice. My footprints follow cat tracks.
The note on the left announces that the spindles in the crates are dirty.
The nitrating house was a chemically dangerous place, so it had thick metal and concrete shield for every station right next to an emergency shower.
A light-painted portrait of one of the few remaining carts that moved everything from fresh eggs to soiled laundry through the tunnels.
What time is it?