The shaft house, where hydraulic steel doors allowed or denied entry into the mine shaft. Overhead is a light and alarm. If it sounds, the mine is being evacuated, and you best not go in and best stay the hell out of the way. Locals dump tires here, now.
Street lights and pavement are some of the obvious signs a town used to be here.
The basement held a makeshift chapel.
Disabled forklift… I think it’s a Clark.
Hotel Duluth from the roof of the Temple Opera Block, just before the sun dipped below Thompson Hill. The tires are a kind of calling card for the building’s former owner. Where my feet are in this picture used to be the third floor of the building (note the outline of the floors on the wall to the left).
A stack of tires, some of which are destined for the roof. For some reason, a hundred old tires adorn the roof of the Twohy.
The ice around the dock, compressed by the waves, was less clear than the open ice.
Many outdoor areas of the plant have become unofficial city dumps. The skeleton doesn’t care.
The moon highlights the contrails over the engine house in the middle of the night. Foreground light painted.