Taken on a short trip where the whole floor of the roundhouse and engine shop was covered in fresh snow–thanks to the holes in the roof and open windows.
One leg of the headframe meets the hoist house. Two cranes are rusted in place.
It was obvious which parts of the hospital were the newest, by their relative utter self destruction. It’s comforting to the Cubical Dwellers, I think, to know that as soon as the power and plumbing are disconnected that all hell will break loose and dismantle their suspended ceilings, drywall boxes and fluorescent suns in no time at all.
A typical shower in the old section of the hospital. It looks a little horrifying in the harsh light of a camera flash on the thousands of little white tiles. One soap holder hadn’t been stolen yet.
Looking at the ghost sign from a rust-locked cement conveyor that linked the silos with a packing warehouse.
It seemed the only way to get a view of the room was to climb above the mounds of rotting donations, now not even fit to burn.
The hoist room, before it was used for storage.
Thunder Bay Elevator, now stands without a headhouse. Around the silos, a few shacks still stand.
A warped mirror in the rock crusher at the rear of the complex.