Dust, rust and spill

While out west I was more enamored than I should have been about the old uranium mines in the hills. Something about a deep dark hole in the middle of the dusty, red, untrackable land is both frightening and enticing, particularly when it is a direct pathway down to something that can potentially make the world go boom. For something that dates back to the late 1800s, there is more than just a shroud of mystery about them.

At the same time, there are mines much closer to home that I don't even think about twice. Or if I've been pointed to think about them, no more than two thought seconds go to the matter. Is it really that different: uranium or coal? Do miners have it any easier one way or the other? Doubtful.

James is sometimes fortunate that he has no sense of smell. It certainly worked to his advantage after our inadvertent dumpster-dive that morning, but I think maybe I got the full Sens-o-Matic experience at the giant coal breaker later that day. It was a hot one, warm and humid with a huge swollen sun and lovely god beams at dawn. Inside the main building of the breakers, however, it was very dark and very silent. Most of the windows are broken and the roof is intact, but some side walls are completely missing. Consequentially, there is a lot of water damage in this place; in a building such as this, that translates to severe rust and structural instability.

Construction of the building dates to around 1931, but when it closed exactly is left to speculation; Some say early 1960s, although scattered paperwork in an office dated into the 1970s. Obviously the business here was taking raw anthracite coal and breaking them into more manageable pieces. Dusty, loud work.

The staircase we climbed to get onto the first floor was a fine example of... uh, negative space. Not a real problem when you're just dancing around by yourself but with a backpack full of gear and a tripod/camera in one hand, it's a little tricker. Fortunately none of us died on the ascent… and that was just a warm-up. Upstairs, all the catwalks and staircases are made of the same metal grid work that rusts nicely into metallic crunchiness. Metal isn't supposed to be crunchy, but I'm sure this stuff would stay strong even in milk. Some panels were missing entirely, forcing the feet along 5-inch wide support beams to traverse the gaps. Or needing us to toss our equipment somewhere safe so we could use both hands to clutch-n-slide along wobbly railings.

Honestly, I thought I was gonna snuff it. But therein lies the fun! Gray dust coating everything, 4-stories of air visible underneath my feet, deceptive stability of beams and boards bridging holes... the very essence of this place screamed "Casualty!" Additionally, I could not hear James in the murk even though he was probably no more than a few hundred feet in any given direction, completely lost in the jungle of machinery. We were each in our own little photographer's zones, compounded (on my end) with the high-tension survival factor that comes with measuring. every. conscious. movement.



The size of this place was absolutely astonishing. (Schmoo shown for scale) I am not sure if it is bigger or smaller than West Harbor power plant because the architecture is so dramatically different.To get to the top of the Big Daddy coal chute we must have climbed at least 8 flights of stairs. Every floor was its own maze of passageways and obscure coal-processing equipment. When anthracite was actually being brought through here, the noise must have been deafening. There was even an abandoned woodworking shop, even though I couldn't imagine what use it would have in a coal breaker. In the cabinet of the shop an old flannel jacket and hat were slung over the door, perfectly preserved under a layer of dust. It was like the last craftsman had just put his tools away, hung up his shop coat and never returned. Having had a brief tour of the surrounding township, this is likely. While there are many different flavors of depressing neighborhoods in this country, even more depressing than drug-induced slums are the remnants of a once-thriving coal industry.

That said, this place was too expansive to capture in a few dehydrated hours. When you know that there is no hope in conquering something this big, part of you goes into panic mode with a machine gun shutter. Maybe the next time will be better.

For now, it's all here.