Forgotten Pennsylvania

Lancaster Stockyards

noreply@blogger.com (Al Ebaster) — Sun, 20 Apr 2008 00:38:00 +0000

Bluecapriethan told us about the Lancaster Stockyards a few months ago -- and funny enough, I actually pass it every day going to work but never noticed it before. Some explorer I am!

The Stockyards was founded in 1895, and grew to be one of the bigger livestock operations in the eastern half of the country. It was the site of tremendous cruelty to its animals, and Gene Baur has provided some dramatic first-hand stories about the treatment cattle and sheep suffered at the Stockyards, and he's featured in this video on the subject.

We (that is to say I) decided not to go poking around inside, as Lancaster was kind of busy awaiting Barack Obama's speech at the train station (why he spoke at the train station is beyond me). It would've been perfect though, as the police were all tied up with security duties. The site is very open; a drive-by is quite easy, and there's still plenty to see.

Thanks again to Bluecapriethan for this one!

The Warehouse

noreply@blogger.com (Al Ebaster) — Fri, 08 Feb 2008 21:58:00 +0000

A while ago, I think in November, Brian found this little critter. It wasn't something we could just walk into, as it's in the middle of a small neighborhood.

We're stumped on the second-floor garage doors. Any ideas?

Again, it's probably awesome on the inside but we may never know for sure.

Whitehall Parkway

noreply@blogger.com (Al Ebaster) — Tue, 15 Jan 2008 23:58:00 +0000

One of Pennsylvania's least-known abandonments is also one of its most interesting (and enormous). A great guy named Shawn emailed me about this site in November, and Brian and I only got to it two weeks ago.

Part of the Ironton Rail Trail, the Whitehall Parkway is the site of some of America's earliest cement plants, and has dozens of stone and concrete ruins in varying states of decay -- in some, only a wall or two remain.

Easily the best part of this abandonment is that it's legal to visit. The surrounding townships turned the site into a hiking trail, and we saw at least a dozen people biking, jogging (and snapping photos) on a frosty January day.

This would've been nice and eerie if my jeans weren't so damn blue.

Back in business

noreply@blogger.com (Al Ebaster) — Fri, 23 Nov 2007 17:55:00 +0000

Sorry for the month-long lack of updates, folks. I've moved to a slightly more urban part of PA and haven't had Internet access until now. But with the new location comes more stuff to explore -- pics will be up soon!

Ghost Suburb and a Random Abandoned Building

noreply@blogger.com (Al Ebaster) — Sat, 20 Oct 2007 21:22:00 +0000

We first found out about this from the guys at Rural Exploration -- a mess of modern homes bought up by the nearby Lehigh Valley International Airport. The airport has had a long history of buying land almost excessively, leaving the remaining homeowners wary of putting any work into their houses.

I can't recall how long it took us to get here. We got lost on every major step of the trip, starting with my directions bringing us all the way to the New Jersey border. It got worse from there. After we finally found 987, we were going the wrong way. We made it to Airport Road, and we saw a sign for Race Street. According to my directions, if we kept going on Airport Road, it would become East Race Street. Didn't happen. Turn around, get on Race Street, and miss the road we were looking for. Turn around, go down the road, and finally, we saw them.

The pictures were pretty terrible -- my work, natch. The best house, modern but crusted with dirt, sheer curtains blowing in the opened windows, escaped our camera.

Trespassing was out of the question here. The road was busy, the air traffic tower loomed on the horizon, and we assume the airport is pretty mean. If it's willing to kick out dozens of people from their homes, it's probably happy to prosecute simple trespassers.

On the way home, we found something almost as good as the LVIA ghost suburb -- a mysterious, random abandoned building.

The doors on this place were pretty entertaining. The side door's sign read "DANGER: Use front door." OK, we'll gladly use the front door! Except the front door had its own sign: "DANGER: Construction area." We're not sure just when "construction" stopped, but it has yet to start up again.

Corn fields. It's finally starting to look (and feel) like October.

Yet Another Centralia Trip

noreply@blogger.com (Al Ebaster) — Sun, 07 Oct 2007 06:50:00 +0000

Like every ghost town, Centralia is slowly falling apart. Even today, it wasn't the place it was when we first visited in July -- old 61 is much worse now. The fissures have gotten wider, dozens of new cracks have shown up, even in the median, and the entire left lane is starting to collapse.

That row home, Joe Moyer's residence until his death in 2004, was destroyed this summer. Fortunately, we got a few pictures of it on our first Centralia trip.

It's surreal and depressing. Centralia's fate was sealed a long time ago, but I love the place and wish it weren't being destroyed like this.

Austin Dam and Bayless Paper Mill

noreply@blogger.com (Al Ebaster) — Fri, 28 Sep 2007 00:39:00 +0000

After putting off a visit to my mother-in-law for far too long, I took a trip to the ruins of the Austin Dam waaay north in Potter County. From Wiki:

In 1900 the Bayless Paper company chose to construct a paper mill in the Freeman Run Valley (in Potter County, PA) and by 1909 the company realized that occasional dry seasons required the reserve water source. After finding a small earthen dam to be inadequate, the T. Chalkey Hatton firm built a large concrete dam across the valley. The dam was 50 feet high and 550 feet long and cost $86,000 to construct.

Within only a few months, problems were detected. The dam bowed more than 36 feet under the pressure and the concrete started cracking. The bowing was alleviated by using dynamite to blast a 13-foot space for the excess water to spill over. The cracking was claimed to be normal because of the drying cement.

On September 30, 1911, the dam failed and destroyed the Bayless Paper Mill, as well as much of the town of Austin, Pennsylvania. The damage was approximately $10 million dollars. It also resulted in the deaths of 78 people. The paper mill and dam were rebuilt but the papermill was lost in a later fire in 1933, and the new dam failed in 1942 with no loss of life.

It was pretty awe-inspiring to look at the dam, to think that where we stood was once 40 feet of water. The area is a park now, complete with hiking trails and a stage for visiting musicians.

Even better than the dam ruins, though, were the Bayless paper mill ruins.

We couldn't get across to it -- steep drops, heavy vegetation and venomous snakes do not mix -- but we're going back later in October. We'll rappel down the hill if we need to.

Ashley Coal Breaker

noreply@blogger.com (Al Ebaster) — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 22:13:00 +0000

The Huber Coal Breaker, often just called the Ashley breaker, is a popular spot for NEPA explorers. Is it hard to see why? Thirteen stories of tar-coated steel, tons of machinery, and more insight into coal mining than you can hope to absorb in a single trip.

Rather than trespass, we arranged a tour with Bill Best, president of the Huber Breaker Preservation Society -- he's in the bottom right in the pic below. With an old hard hat and a pistol-gripped lantern, he was better prepared for an urbex trip than we ever were.

We entered through an auxilliary building, then climbed through the cart shaft that connected it to the main building. Bill made us keep ten feet apart going up; I had a feeling this wasn't the only risky part of the tour. Looking up the shaft:

As we went from floor to floor, Bill told us about each piece of machinery; here, workers picked stones, wood and metal from coal on sorting tables. The coal then fell into a chute for further processing.

Miners' homes used to surround the Huber.

Storage for the dynamite. It was designed so that, if an accident occurred, the explosion would be directed away from Ashley and towards the breaker.

The view was incredible.

Looking down. On the top floor, we came across a half-full Turkey Hill iced tea bottle left by some visitor. Bill picked it up and tossed it over the side of the catwalk. For two full seconds there was silence, broken with a sickening thud as the bottle finally landed. We found it later in the tour; Bill offered it to me. "Thirsty? It's just a little shaken up."

Another sorting table, farther down.

This tank held water tainted with coal dust -- it was bright yellow inside from the acid solution.

The office door. There used to be furniture inside, but that's all been smashed and burned.

Looking down at the office from a floor up.

Despite the arsonists, a few work papers remained.

Miracle of miracles -- there was an intact light bulb in that hanging lamp.

There was quite a bit of damage to the building -- not only were there holes in the concrete, but steel steps were cracked and sunken, and yes, we walked across that sheet of metal -- you could see a long way down on every side of it, and it was "a little squishy," as Bill put it.

The sheet of metal in that last picture was how coal was sorted by size -- they were shaken by offset cams, and smaller pieces fell through, while larger ones stayed on top. The biggest pieces were called "steamers," as they were used on steam ships.

This was basically a whirlpool, shooting jets of water around so that dense rock sunk to the bottom, but lighter anthracite coal floated to the top.

A few from the laboratory, where coal was tested for purity before shipping. Every order was tested, so if a customer complained about the quality, the company could reply with lab tests.

A bit of trivia -- Huber's coal was dyed blue, mainly for identification, but consumers thought it was of better quality than plain anthracite.

When the Preservation Society formed in 2000, they cleared away all the trees and weeds that had intruded onto the site. All that growth is only seven years old.

A few somewhat ominous pictures of the outside, and we were on our way.

I want to thank Bill Best for showing us the breaker -- on a Sunday morning, no less. We're donating the pictures to the Preservation Society's collection; hopefully the group will find them useful.

Byrnesville Washhouse

noreply@blogger.com (Al Ebaster) — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 23:13:00 +0000

Centralia is best known as the town dying from its mine fire; what few people know is that the fire killed neighboring Byrnesville in 1996, when the last home was demolished. A decade earlier, Byrnesville was home to 75 people.

The only remains of this forgotten town is the miners' washhouse, where they would shower and change at the end of the day. It was also a lamp house, servicing the miners' lights, and the building was used for storage as well.

The building sits on the detoured Route 61 -- if you're driving into Centralia, it's on the left.

I really think they should have done something with the washhouse -- it could have been restored and put to use as a memorial, even a museum, for Byrnesville and the local mining industry. Instead, it's a popular place to dump trash.

The roof is in bad shape.

I hate to admit it, but I like the "Centralian Soviet Socialist Republic HQ" sign.

There are about four or five rooms in the washhouse -- this one was badly overgrown, with elderberries taking over the floor. It won't be long before the rest of the building is carpeted with weeds.

If you visit Centralia, don't miss the Byrnesville washhouse. It's a sad reminder of another casualty of Centralia's mine fire.

Joanna Furnace and Railroad Graveyard

noreply@blogger.com (Al Ebaster) — Fri, 14 Sep 2007 23:14:00 +0000

Driving anywhere in southern PA is something of an extreme sport these days: people don't stay on their side of the road, they go forty under the speed limit, and they drive trucks and massive farm equipment down winding 2-lane roads. I lost count of how many stupid drivers we encountered today, but it was far too many.

Joanna Furnace was our destination. After a bit of scouting, we happened upon this restored 19th-century iron furnace, owned by the Hay Creek Valley Historical Association. They hold a lot of festivals in Joanna, but visitors can also see the restored ghost town on non-festival days.

It's not much of an urbex destination, but for history buffs it's a treat.

The furnace, where workers spent twelve-hour shifts producing iron.

We got ourselves lost, and passed through this:

Then we ended up finding a graveyard full or rail cars and random vehicles, including a school bus.

Pennsylvania never fails. Even if you're not looking for abandoned things, you'll find them anyway.

Linfield Industrial Park

noreply@blogger.com (Al Ebaster) — Tue, 11 Sep 2007 23:37:00 +0000

The same weekend they visited Frick's Lock, Brian and a guy he met on the Internet went to Linfield as well. Again, I opted out. Just as with Frick's Lock, I can't provide captions for these, but I was generally impressed with how they turned out.

We don't know the history behind Linfield, but there was lots of interesting wreckage and a fair bit of graffiti.

Frick's Lock

noreply@blogger.com (Al Ebaster) — Mon, 10 Sep 2007 23:48:00 +0000

Brian and a friend of his went to Frick's Lock a few weeks ago. I opted out; I offer these photos without captions, as I wasn't there.

What I do know about Frick's Lock is that it's about 250 years old, and its heyday was long behind when PECO bought the homes in the 1970s. Supposedly, Frick's was an unsafe place to live with the Limerick power plant right across the river. There was talk of restoring the town into a historic site, but with (very) recent vandalism, Frick's Lock could end up like Demon's Alley -- completely demolished.

Ten Lonesome Miles: The Abandoned PA Turnpike

noreply@blogger.com (Al Ebaster) — Sun, 09 Sep 2007 00:20:00 +0000

Once a turnpike, now Mecca to road geeks.

This stretch of the 'Pike was abandoned in 1968, after the Department of Highways bypassed it to alleviate traffic problems. Much of the turnpike is barely recognizable as a former major highway; the top level of pavement is gone in many places, and the paint has disappeared. While the Southern Alleghenies Conservancy (SAC) bought the highway in 2001 for a single dollar, it hasn't done much with the site, as funding has been hard to obtain.

After walking for a little while, we came upon this tiny, well-paved lane. Of course, this isn't original -- it was paved in the '80s as a Safety Testing and Research (STAR) facility.

One of the first rumble strips ever!

There's a small overpass near Ray's Hill tunnel.

Ray's Hill, the shortest accessible tunnel at 3,500 feet long.

There was some hilarious graffiti -- not pictured is our favorite, "Only Wissy Ride Bikes Through Here."

It was cold in the tunnel, enough that we could see our breath.

There was a ventilation room on either end of the tunnel. These are from the far end of the tunnel, where the door was open.

We would've loved to have seen the entire abandoned PA turnpike, but neither of us had the energy to walk 20 miles in a single day. Maybe some day we'll come back -- with bikes -- and ride it all.

For more info on the Turnpike, Ray Plazek has an excellent FAQ and some good pictures as well. Ross Sieber has an incredible photoset, exploring seemingly every angle the abandoned turnpike has to offer.

Centralia at Night

noreply@blogger.com (Al Ebaster) — Sun, 02 Sep 2007 14:42:00 +0000

Every town becomes something different at night. Some come alive with a new, different life than in daytime, and others (especially in PA) simply shut down, frequented only by the weird and antisocial.

So what, then, is Centralia like at 1 AM?

"Not as abandoned as I'd expected," Brian said.

It was a whim that brought us out to the town that night; we talked about visiting Frick's Lock, then Concrete City, and finally we settled on Centralia.

"At least there won't be any tourists this late," I said.

We started out at the landfill, with smoke pouring into the cold night air from an opening in the hill. Flash photography was out of the question, as our camera put out more light than all those lampposts put together.

I managed to blur every picture as I was running on caffeine alone -- leaving the house took 20 ounces of fine Sheetz coffee.

Driving around Centralia's back streets was both enlightening and scary. The roads were narrow, so we had to back out from a few streets -- and Brian managed to turn us right around onto the impassable segments again. Branches were slipping through the windows, scaring the hell out of us.

Strangely enough, a few cars came out from the back roads we were just driving through -- were they following us?

We passed through to Mt. Carmel and stopped for some gas and coffee. We had a great conversation with the clerk, who told us that her town, in 1960, had 20,000 residents and a few big department stores. When she moved in (I can't recall the year), it was 4,000, and probably even less today. Market Street has been reduced to gas stations and a Dollar Store. Boarded-up homes dotted the streets, and we wondered how much time this little town had left.

On our way back through Centralia, we saw a car with its four-ways on. "Should we ask them if they need help?" Brian asked. "Sure, maybe they're urbexers."

So much for the lack of tourists -- a girl was hanging out the window, yelling "Can you tell us how to get to Centralia?"

We took the four of them -- three teenage girls and a 25-year-old guy named Nikolai -- to the abandoned stretch of Route 61. They were from New York, and had been driving nine hours just to get to Centralia.

They dubbed Brian and I "Jesus" and "Christ," respectively, for helping them out. They bowed before us. It was fun.

I was surprised, with the girls shrieking so much, that nobody called the cops. That they were running around topless for a while was, well, interesting. I spent the last of our journey looking over my shoulder at every car that passed by, waiting for a siren.

We talked about going to Frick's Lock with them, but Nikolai lost his wallet and had to find it instead.

Got one last shot of them before we parted ways -- and what a picture it was.

And as a fun conclusion to the night, we got pulled over. "You been drinking? I can definitely smell it," never mind that we'd only had coffee and energy drinks. It took effort not to say something wise-assed, given such an opportunity.

"He had anything to drink?" referring to me -- what, it's illegal to be intoxicated and not driving now? "What were you guy doing up here, anyway?"
"Taking shots of Centralia."
"Taking shots?" Freaking goon. "Why do so many people come up here this late at night?"

The real reason they stopped us was that Brian forgot to turn on his headlights in a well-lit area. Oops. Sorry officer. Once the two-cruiser hassle-fest was over, we drove off without a ticket.

Even with a bit of trouble at the end, it was one of the best nights I've ever had.

Six Great PA Ghost Town Pages

noreply@blogger.com (Al Ebaster) — Mon, 27 Aug 2007 20:30:00 +0000

Of course, we're not the only site that has info on Pennsylvania's ghost towns. I like to think we have good information and good photos, but there are a few other sites that no PA ghost town enthusiast should miss.

The Centralia Project inspired not only our trip to Centralia, but this website as well. Everything about the site is fantastic: the images, the background information, and the personal insights from the authors' visit.

GhostTowns.com contains lots of info on some of PA's many ghost towns. Each town has its own page, detailing location, remains, and even the best time to visit. Many of the towns it discusses are obscure and little-known, making this an excellent resource for ghost town hunters.

Landrus, PA, "home of the first electrified coal mine in the world," is long gone, but Sarah Gilkinson is keeping the ghost town from being forgotten. She doesn't diminish the town by calling it "just a bunch of foundations," as some choose to describe such places; she attacks Landrus with infectious zeal and an eye for photography.

Mike Hoderman's set of Frick's Lock photos aren't the stale, "here's the front door" stuff that we see a lot. This set trumps any we've seen so far.

Hopewell Furnace is a great ghost town you can visit with the family. As a restored ironmaking town and historical site, it's not dangerous -- or illegal -- to visit, and it's a fascinating look at one more phase in Pennsylvania's industrialization. Galen Frysinger's pictures give a good idea of what to expect.

Celestia, the town that was deeded to God, was built to await the return of Jesus. The town ran into tax problems, and eventually collapsed. There isn't much left of Celestia, except its remarkable history, which Hobbes' Place details excellently.

These sites are some of our favorites, but still only scratch the surface of PA's ghost towns. If you know of other great PA ghost town pages, be sure to leave a comment with a link.

Pizza World

noreply@blogger.com (Al Ebaster) — Tue, 14 Aug 2007 20:32:00 +0000

Driving around Pottsville, we passed Pizza World. I don't know why we didn't notice it before, but I was quick to remember the Abandoned But Not Forgotten page on the former restaurant:
"Pizza World! Pizza World!" I said.
Brian was slower to catch on: "What, are you hungry?"

I don't know why, but I really liked the roof on this place.

Yeah, not a lot to say about it. It was cool that we just happened upon the place, but there wasn't much to see.

Concrete City

noreply@blogger.com (Al Ebaster) — Thu, 09 Aug 2007 21:20:00 +0000

When most people think of PA's ghost towns, they think Centralia, Cashtown or maybe Frick's Lock. For some reason, few people talk about Concrete City.

Granted, it's not the ideal ghost town: the locals frequently use it for paintball games, and kids take beers up there once in a while and get drunk (and you'll see plenty of paint balls and beer cans throughout the city). But if you time your trip right -- a Sunday, weekday, or some time in winter is best -- you can have hours of fun at Concrete City.

Once Brian and I finally found our way through Nanticoke, we headed off on the gravel path to Concrete City. There were a few dead ends along the way, but it was so serene and pretty that we didn't mind.

The name is only half true: every part of every building is made of concrete, but there are only about 16 of them.

Concrete City was built in 1911 by Delaware, Lackawanna and Western Coal to house some of its workers. Two main problems left the town abandoned in 1924: the company did not want to install a sewer system, and the concrete held in cold and dampness. They tried demolishing one of the buildings, but dynamite had little effect on the poured concrete.

As you can see in that photo, some of the buildings are sinking into the ground.

Stepping in...

We were more than a bit scared of the first house, as it was quite dark (though my camera wouldn't stop flashing, so it looks brighter than it really was). It was one of the least damaged, and didn't let in much light.

That's more like it!

Can you tell the military used this place for training?

Every floor was built from the same blueprints, so the second floor has a flight of stairs that don't lead anywhere.

There were holes everywhere: in the floors, walls, even the ceiling!

Brian was brave enough to get this shot from what remained of the second floor.

The central courtyard used to have a playground, tennis courts, even a baseball field. Now it has paintball accoutrements.

One more -- if not for the unfortunate graffiti, this would have been a good shot!

There's more info on Concrete City, including a few pics of the town before it was abandoned. Check out Web Urbanist for an excellent article on ghost towns around the world.

Centralia

noreply@blogger.com (Al Ebaster) — Wed, 08 Aug 2007 20:16:00 +0000

All that empty space used to be a town.

Centralia, PA's sad story has driven authors, filmmakers, vandals and tourists to its vacant lots and streets. The 40-year-old mine fire started when an emptied coal mine became the town's landfill. Burning the trash ignited a vein of unmined anthracite, and after failed attempts at putting out the fire, Congress made $40 million available for relocating Centralia's residents. Most chose to leave.

There is still smoke rising from the landfill next to St. Ignatius Cemetery, and the fissures in the highway put up small clouds of it even in a hot Pennsylvania July.

The fire completely destroyed lesser-known Byrnesville, PA, a small neighboring village. The PA-61 detour leads through former Byrnesville; only the wash house remains.

Centralia's notoriety depends on a number of things: For one, there's the strange novelty of a mine fire that's been burning for nearly fifty years. It's not the classic Wild West ghost town, with tumbleweeds and saloons, but one created by a man-made disaster in the heart of PA's coal region, its remaining residents too determined or enfeebled to leave. The emotional side of the situation is wrenching, as highlighted by The Town That Was, a 2007 documentary featuring Jonathan Lokitis, Centralia's youngest resident.

Above all, Centralia is a fascinating place to visit. There are echoes of a pleasantly busy little town in the gridwork of streets.

Brian and I, along with my wife, my sister and one of her friends opted to walk the abandoned section of Route 61. The cracks and buckled sections were sending up smoke, even in the middle of July.

The cemeteries are more populous than the town itself; only nine Centralians remain.

Where the fire came through at one point. It's hard not to personify those plants, managing to survive in such a wasteland.

Brick buttresses to support the row home, now missing its neighbor.

One of the famous park benches, which John Lokitis has kept well-painted.

A few random shots.

The Centennial Vault, another symbol of the town's former hope and optimism.

Centralia's municipal building, and the door leading to the police department.

The whole post-apocalyptic feeling really kicked in when we got off the main road and wandered around the town's back streets. Stop signs still stood on every corner.

Back down old 61, and we were done for the day.

Ultimately, I could see why those who remain would want to hold on to Centralia. It's a dead town, to be sure, but it's also open and peaceful, and full of life in summer. Brian and I will be heading back in a few weeks.