An open mine cars waits to be lowered back into Eagle Mine in front of the rust-locked modern mine shaft in the middle of Gilman.
There’s no way an explorer, much less a choir, could stand here now. Since this picture was taken the roof has collapsed onto the loft.
Grimy windows and the other half of the complex trade interests and stares.
Catwalk crating, welded over the yard crane operator cab’s windows.
Chutes connect the bottoms of the silos to a conveyor belt.
Local kids probably call this the ‘Shootin’ Shack’, judging by its war wounds.
Standing where the Standard Oil’s boiler used to sit; the coal room is on the right, and would have been filled from trackside.
We mark our world in unexpected ways… this is how patient possessions would be stored during their stay in the old asylum wards. It’s about the size of a shoebox, and this particular drawer has a name where the others do not. Its place reminded me of the hospital cemetery where more than 3,000 are buried and less than 1% of whom are recorded by stone or plaque in their resting place.
At night the city lights blast through the broken windows, casting crazy colors through the off-white interior of the mill.