I don’t think we’re anywhere near maximum pressure anymore.
Circa-1960s graffiti. Someone got their ass kicked.
Frankie on the White Pine Mine vehicle access shaft. The mine was traditional inside… all room-and-pillar.
The oldest part of this mill had a wooden roof that rotted away long ago. Slowly, rust is dulling the edge on every cog left behind.
One of the cupola air intakes, rattled loose by the demolition downstairs, hangs stranded on the second floor. You can see that the floor I’m standing on in this picture used to extend all the way to the right wall. The blue paint on the wall made the climb absolutely worth it.
Inside this small iron clad mine is a couch and some clothes. It seems that for a short while, someone was living inside of it…
From the street, it’s clear that almost every window and door had boards over it, but not every building had a roof. Silly priorities.
Looking at the boarded exterior of the newer area of the orphanage from its 1914 section.