These tubes would bring cement to the top of the plant for storage in the silos.
A 24-hour clock that reeks of the 1970s. A ladder stenciled “LTV”–the failed steel company that built this dock. There is more, if you look closer.
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.
On the top floor of the former casket building is the finishing line for the coating section; on this section the final spray of plastic would hit the wood before a small furnace would seal the plastic permanently to the surface, making it more resilient, I assume.
One of the few windows that escaped steel plating the last time the hospital was sealed tight to let nature roam within.
Shadows of the rusty trestle and cold control towers on the Barker. Workers are preparing to swing over the sides of the boat to help secure her to the Minnesota Power dock.
Vents in the boards over the windows helps prevent mold and animals from getting too crazy inside.
A high-ceilinged room where kegs would be delivered for cleaning, before they were refilled with fresh booze.
A long exposure under the trestle-like approach to the dock, under which trains still pass regularly.