I was back from graduate school and sitting 389 feet above the San Francisco Bay, my feet dangling from historic, 1930s-era steel. I never saw myself a bridge climber, to be honest. Why infiltrate something that you can see every day through the comfort of your vehicle? But this bridge was different. Its destruction was imminent. Nearby, the $6.5 billion eastern span gleamed in LED effulgence, its cables the bar-lines rising to a symphonic crescendo. As a musical score, the new eastern span seemed vaguely ceremonial, its own funeral march for the old, silver, earthquake-prone behemoth sitting next to it.

Looking West

If I’m being honest, I should also admit that I found the new bridge underwhelming given its price tag. Maybe it’ll save a lot of lives some day, but its design seemed to have little to do with the history or culture of the San Francisco Bay. The appearance of palm trees along its center divide, a quintessential Southern California symbol perhaps best reflected that.

But I was ready to get back in the groove with old friends. Stephen, who was a critical part of our Mothball Fleet team, was eager to photograph the span before it became inaccessible. The demolition contract was in the works and trucks began occupying the lower deck. Our window of opportunity was short. Because intrepid explorers before us tried – and failed – to visit the bridge without being caught, a highway patrol officer had positioned himself at the most convenient entrance.

To Treasure Island

Stephen and D, an experienced rock climber, were well into the scoping phase. The two had procured laser distance measurers and determined that the bridge was 191′ off the water. As the bridge approaches Yerba Buena Island, the distance to the precipice is shorter – approximately 130′ and well within the range of an easy escape via abseil if necessary. The bad news: activity at the  bridge had picked up. “Two cherry pickers. Several trucks on the span,” D relayed to us. “There is now nighttime activity on the decks and some lighting… One bridge light post was fully-lit on the upper deck and [J] says she saw two more portable lights on the upper deck… Might we have missed the window already?”

Despite these challenges, Stephen, D, and I decided to make a go for it on a clear winter evening. We parked a distance away and began our walk down towards the Art Deco pier dubbed “E1.” Plans call for the pier to remain as an observation deck for the new bridge. The gigantic concrete tower served as a tension tie-down for the cantilever truss. Basically, E1 is holding down – rather than supporting – the truss, which is designed to lift up on its ends.

A glint of full moon arose from Oakland behind the massive Yerba Buena pier. The East Bay crossing is often under-appreciated due to the more dramatic western span suspension portion. Nevertheless, it was a critical piece of what was – at the time – the largest bridge in the world. Only by looking at the bridge in the context of its Depression-era construction can one appreciate the elegant simplicity of its design. It has been heralded as a “marvel of utilitarian efficiency.” Even some of the cranes used in its construction were incorporated as part of the structure. At a cost of $77,000,000 (for the whole bridge, including the eastern and western span), taxpayers in 1934 paid 1/100th what we’re saddled to pay for the eastern span, largely through toll fees.

The East Bay crossing – now half demolished – is comprised of three different basic bridge types .First, closest to Yerba Buena is a series of two cantilever trusses, in the middle of which are 66 feet of pavement and steel. Between the cantilever trusses and the Oakland shore is a series of fourteen deck trusses.Finally, as the bridge makes its descent on to Oakland shore (from a maximum height of 389 feet above sea level), the bridge transitions to girder spans.

The true innovation at the Bay Bridge, however, remains invisible to all – that is, its massive caisson. The chamber was floated into the middle of the channel between Yerba Buena Island and Oakland, then sunk – 242 feet underwater. It remains to this day the world’s deepest bridge pier, and chances are it will remain there, forever, invisible to all.

300 Feet High

It was dark, and Stephen knew the best route – a testament to hours of scouting and preparation. We ambled through ivy and blackberry, passing by abandoned Coast Guard facilities along the way (one of which, what appeared to be a large barracks, is now demolished). At the angle of repose, we found ourselves tripping through dense brush and collapsing soil. Erosion netting was our best friend; the thick twine served as foothold as we passed under the new span to reach the footing of the old bridge.

Twenty feet above was the lower deck, now devoid of life save for a lone highway patrol officer facing the oncoming traffic out of the Yerba Buena Tunnel. The immediate challenge involved shimmying up a three-foot gap between the concrete footing of the bridge and one of its steel support columns. The process was easier than it looked. Stephen and I slipped over the Jersey barrier and leaned low to avoid attracting attention. We paused to collect our gear and made a mad dash away with the patrol car to our backs – nothing to hide the officer from seeing us in his rear view mirror.

We passed port-a-potties and piles of corrugated metal along the way. An army of cherry pickers, portable generators, and work lights lined the edge of what was – at one time – devoted to truck and train traffic (until 1958 when the lower deck was converted to general vehicular use). At the time, the lower deck was much too dark to photograph, besides the fact that we both felt exposed should anybody patrol. We knew that the upper deck offered a better long-range view of any incoming security, so we opted to climb one of the few maintenance stairs up to the second level.

Rivets on Old East

Eerie silence. That’s how I would describe the feeling upon emerging on the empty upper deck. It was like emerging from a cocoon. The darkness of the lower deck gave way to bright steel, engineering on display, beauty in design. Fifteen years of driving this deck, and I never imagined walking it alone, at night, devoid of traffic. There it was – the ‘utilitarian efficiency’ waiting to touch and examine, climb and muse over. Rivets followed patterns. Steel had logic. The only thing random in the experience were the scars of 80 years – places where the rubber of tires screeched along the bare asphalt; sites where accidents occurred, where wayward trucks managed to hit the tons of steel only to make negligible dents in its superstructure.

Disappearing Lines

Peering from the upper deck, straight down, was an exhilarating experience. The water took on a radioactive green appearance due to the LED lights projecting from the new span to the north. Like our adventure in Vandenberg, I knew that the side of the bridge would be our only refuge – should a security car approach. There was nothing else to hide behind at that point. I mentioned the possibility to Stephen. Bailing over the edge of the bridge would offer protection from being seen, but we would be entirely subject to our own judgement and footing. Other than steel girders about a foot across, there was nothing to stop our fall 200 feet to the water.

The two of us dropped our gear behind a portable generator light and took swigs of water. As I was sipping, off in the distance, I saw a lone truck approaching us – on the same deck we were on. “Stephen! Somebody’s coming.” We both looked off in disbelief; we expected the lower deck to be patrolled, but not the upper. We had little time to contemplate what to do. The truck would be in our sight within 30 seconds. All we could do was bail over the side. I chose a diagonal column – a thick, steel I-beam that allowed me to lay at an angle. Stephen chose a vertical column – gripping on to the sides of the I-beam with all of his strength so as not to fall in the water below.

Climbing the Cantilever

In the rush to hide we left our gear behind the portable generator. My camera was standing upright on a tripod. Should security recognize our gear, we would be had. The truck pulled up to the generator light and slowed to a stop. We anxiously anticipated the “Hey! Who’s here?” yell. The man fired up the generator and the upper deck was blanketed in new light. The truck resumed across the bridge to the next light, about 200 yards down. We hopped back on to the deck and contemplated leaving. We agreed to at least to take a few images first. Besides, an exit would be risky, should the truck make a round trip and return. The most prudent option, it seemed, was to climb the cantilever and take images from the top while waiting for the truck to finish its rounds.

Stephen got a call from D, who was supposed to join us later in the evening. “The Highway Patrolman has moved further back. I can’t make it in without being seen.” D would later return with Scott, Stephen, and myself for a final hurrah. But that would have to wait until later – just weeks before the cantilever was unceremoniously cut in half and the dismantled steel transported to the nearest scrapyard.

Then we climbed. Eventually, we found ourselves at the crest of the bridge, 389 feet above the Bay, contemplating all we had accomplished in the past hour. Stephen and I munched on granola, staring out on to the moonlit estuary in the distance. Barges filled with the scrap and detritus of construction stood in the distance. Beyond, the $6.5 million Treasure Island proclaimed the uniquely Bay Area gumption to do things that seem impossible – building islands, pyramids, underwater transit tubes, and bridges to set world records.

On the Road to San Francisco

Every time I motor across the new $6.5 billion bridge, I see the multitudes of pedestrians and bikers on the Oakland to Treasure Island bike lane. Without fail, they are all staring at one thing – not the gleaming white, single span suspension they’re standing on, but rather the old, grey steel to the South. It seems a shame that we’re losing this Bay Area icon. One wonders why its bones can’t become something new and uniquely Bay Area. The feeling was bittersweet; on the one hand, the solid structure on which we just touched the skies would soon be foggy Bay air. On the other, my return from graduate school marked the beginning of something new and wonderful. As James Joyce once wrote: “Now that the play was over, his nerves cried for some further adventure.”

Tonight I saw a video which reminded me of a moment eight years ago. I saw an officer of the UCPD, an officer at the alma mater for which I have always held high respect, senselessly beat a nonviolent woman standing her ground. The part that truly discourages me, however, is that I know the UCPD from personal experience, and that wasn’t the first time they resorted to such heavy-handed tactics. I was once part of the UCPD’s lowly student ranks of Community Service Officers; we earned a measly-but-much-appreciated $11 an hour as we paid our way through college. My job there was a much-needed source of funding for education.

Despite my love for UC Berkeley and all it has given me in life, I can’t help but be critical of its police department. It’s a department which, I know from personal experience, DOES NOT respect free speech, despite being located at the hearth and birthplace of free speech in America.

The beginning of this story goes back seven years: In 2003, innocent civilians were being firebombed in Baghdad by U.S. jets. The New York Times called such bombing “brilliant,” but I was among a small group of students at Berkeley who considered it nothing of the sort. It was unjust, terrorizing, wrong (not ‘brilliant’!) And we occupied the administration building in recognition of our heartfelt celebration of the free speech for which Berkeley is known. From the beginning, we were presented as the ‘radicals’, the ‘liberals.’ How radical is it to voice a reasonable opinion against senseless destruction and violence? Does “shock and awe” only belong to the saber-rattling jingoists? Many of us weren’t even liberals; we were libertarians, social liberals – maybe – but nothing of the drug-imbibing, commune-championing, hemp-loving, redistribution-believing hippies that Fox News would like you to think. We simply believed that Iraqi civilians didn’t have to die (115,000 and counting to this day).

Sproul Hall on March 20, 2003. I was sitting to the left of the man in the green jacket.

We walked into Sproul Hall, sat down, and chained our arms. It was a peaceful day in Berkeley, but far across the Atlantic Ocean F-16s were screeching through the sky about to deploy missiles. We felt helpless but hopeful. After all, we were part of an international movement of millions who voiced our disagreement with the Neoconservative agenda. We saw right through the doublespeak of Condy Rice, Donald Rumsfield, and Dick Cheney. We felt like patriots. We felt like we were helping others realize the exigency of the moment. Then the UCPD came in, along with the Vice Chancellor of the University. Leave or be arrested, they said. We stayed. “We certainly recognize your right to express your opinions about the war,” the Vice Chancellor said. “For those of you who decide you want to be arrested, we ask that you continue to do this in a nonviolent way.”

So we stayed nonviolent. The police put “pain holds” on many of us. We were dragged and carried away by two to three police at a time. One-hundred and nineteen of us were arrested that day. I felt good to be an American. But the unfortunate part is that it would be the first and last time I would put my future on the line for a political belief, for I now know that our constitutional right to free speech is not being protected as it should – and lifelong consequences can come of it..

A few days later, I was called by administrators at the police department. I was to lose my job. Later, charges of trespassing (602L)  were dropped, but that didn’t matter to the upper tiers of the UCPD. The Chief of Police, the lieutenants, and the captains in the department believed me to be another “liberal.” I had to go.

I came in, gave my keys to the Lieutenant Mitchell Celaya, and said goodbye to my job. Later, Chief Victoria Harrison apologized for the whole ordeal, admitting that there were many former military veterans in the department who didn’t like what I did. The damage was done. I lost my job for a political opinion, and I felt less proud to be an American the day that happened.

Vice Chancellor telling us we had to leave or be arrested - March 20, 2003, while bombs were being dropped on Baghdad.

Flash forward seven years and I encounter the video.  I recognize some of the silhouettes of the men. I’m sure some of the men swinging billy clubs are the same men who put the pain holds on me that day in March of 2003, the same men who worked with me before I lost my job. It’s amazing how little free speech is supported in this country today, some would say even less than it was in 2003. These bottom-up movements across the world, to me, are an effort to regain voice. For much too long, the average voter has felt as if her vote doesn’t matter. Our representatives answer to the “other” public – the 1%. It’s about time that our representatives in congress represent; otherwise, it’s about time that they lose their job too.

Detroit is probably best known for its cars. By many accounts, the first mile of concrete-paved highway was Motown’s Woodward Avenue. But all too often, the city is judged by its end products. Detroit is really best understood through the raw materials it relies upon: the rubber, chrome, concrete, glass, coke – its steel.

Above: A Map of McLouth Steel from a High-Resolution Scan of the Blueprint. To download the 20MB full-resolution scan, Click Here [Warning: It’s BIG]

The seven towers of Ford’s Renaissance Center and the smokestacks of River Rouge are still proud citadels of manufacturing. But step away from the modern-day hearths of production; curve south from the Detroit River along the Fisher Highway for about five miles and you’ll find the home of the cyclopean, abandoned hulk of McLouth Steel’s Trenton plant. This is where my story begins.

[nggallery id=7]

In the summer of 2009, six of us journeyed from Chicago, Illinois to Detroit, Michigan in search of the industrial patrimony of our country. Our motley crew was a cross-section of post-industrial America – we had a Texan turned Berkeley PhD; a web developer for a government agency; a renewable energy contractor; and a hedge fund operative. But for the week that we were together, we were all part of a collective organism testing our legal and physical limits to document what is left of our productive past. We spent five days maneuvering the bricolage of manufacture in decline. Massive mountains of solid sulfur loomed along the outskirts of Chicago. On the road to Detroit we descried the melancholic remnants of proud rail stations, civic buildings, and hotels.

In the two months that preceded our trip, we’d amassed a cornucopia of 200 abandoned locations, and highlighted in red was our “must-see” – McLouth’s Trenton plant. We were lucky enough to procure temporary lodging at urban explorer extraordinaire John Law and Julia Solis’s home in Detroit, which they bought in 2008 for the price of a Cadillac Escalade. A short distance away was the abandoned ten-story Boblo Island terminal. Across the horizon was the infamous Michigan Central Station. Surrounding the house were houseboats and pleasure craft rotting in the canals that lined the periodically vacant streets of Dearborn.

Our van bounced along the potholed roads as we joked about how long we’d survive the tough streets of Detroit. Gruff-looking Stephen Freskos, fellow traveler, was probably the main reason why we weren’t waylaid by 21st century, Motown pirates. But the truth is that our experience at Detroit was far different from our expectations. In many cases, Detroiters more than happy to provide detailed entry instructions on how to get into abandoned buildings; in other cases, they cheered us on (at one point, I was called ‘Spiderman’ while I traipsed up an 8-story building downtown).

The Group of us at McLouth Steel with Steel Mill Steve - Image Courtesy Amy Heiden

Despite the wild success of our first few days, we surveyed Trenton’s McLouth Steel plant with circumspect suspicion. Its fences were not kicked over or cut open and the fresh tracks of security vehicles were easily visible along the length of the 3/4-mile long factory. Still, it was a jewel. There was no getting around it. We had to do it.

McLouth Steel was once America’s 11th largest producer of steel, yet it only accounted for about 1 to 2 percent of the domestic market at its height. Its importance to the industry lies in its innovations: In 1962, McLouth was the first steel plant to use computer controls; it was the first North American plant to use the basic oxygen process; most significantly, it was the first steel mill to produce a completely finished product using continuous casting. So, with brazen braggadocio, our driver pulled to the side of the road near the plant’s slab reheat furnace. We promptly piled out of the car and under a gap in the fence. Within 45 seconds, a jeep sped up and screeched to a halt. A tall, thin man in his 20s hopped out of the car.

Now, we didn’t know it yet, but this man was well known among local urban explorers for his antics – the most memorable of which was the time that he reputedly fired a shotgun at explorers hiding in the shadows of the factory. Luckily, he was in a good mood the day he found us. He confusedly stared at the group of four men and two women ducked behind a concrete barrier near the fence and told us we didn’t need to go to such measures. “Heck,” he said. “I can give you a tour if you want.”

So there we were, stuttering in surprise, unable to comprehend how we went from being trespassers one second to bonafide steel plant tourists another. We accepted his offer and parked our car near the guard shack. We dubbed him, “Steel Mill Steve,” and other than serving as the 900-acre plot’s lone security detail he was moonlighting as an urban explorer. Steve utilized his access to fully document the grounds of the plant, record its history, and collect documents and maps before the plant’s inevitable demolition. Steel Mill Steve knew every minute detail of the plant and its functions; rarely do explorers have an opportunity to see such a place, let alone receive a full tutorial of its processes, functions, and layout.

The apogee of McLouth can probably be pinpointed to May 9-11, 1972, when the largest continuous cast slab of steel exited the production line of the Trenton plant – The slab measured 44” wide and 9,972 feet long. Derived from a record 75 ladles, it weighed 8,500 tons. But from there, McLouth’s downfall happened quickly – ironically because of the efficiencies that the plant helped herald. Cheap steel from Asia, along with the adoption of computer-controlled steelmaking in other countries and the intransigence of union leaders were part of the reason; the oft-cited decline of the American auto industry in place of Japanese imports also played a role. In 1977, McLouth lost about half of its revenue when General Motors cut its usual order of steel.

Unfortunately, American automakers were increasingly using plastics and decentralizing their supply chain.  Between 1980 and 1981 McLouth bled to the tune of $100 million. It didn’t help that steel executives were reportedly spending precious cash to feed the deer at their upstate retreat.

Four hours after introducing ourselves to Steel Mill Steve our time was up. The sun’s corona was barely visible over the low-rise buildings of Trenton, and a chilly breeze descended on the cold steel that surrounded us. Steve took us for a final walk out to the demolished portion of the steel plant – negotiating cement and rebar rubble on his way to a tower in the distance. I snapped a final photo of him from a lower vantage point. Steve looks like the lone survivor of apocalypse – he could have easily been in Nagasaki in 1945, or looking at the decaying remnants of Chernobyl’s disused high-rises. The sun dipped below the horizon and we said goodbye to Steve. We’d just explored what would probably be our largest factory we would see in our lives, though much of what we saw then is now gone.

Stephen Freskos and I were standing half a mile from the Suisun Bay shoreline with binoculars in hand. The sun was sinking into the western horizon, silhouetting the ships that stood before us. It had long been a plan of ours to visit these ships, but we knew getting on them with permission wouldn’t be the right way to shoot them.

“The security boat goes by once every thirty minutes,” Stephen mused. “We’ll need to time our exit from the slough right. We can’t waste time.”

The slough was a long finger of water that would serve as our sole route in and out of the Mothball Fleet. On our walk out, we surmised that it was as deep as six feet and as shallow as six inches. A trail followed the length of the slough for approximately a half-mile. After that, we reached an impenetrable blanket of reeds, moats, and muddy quicksand that extended another half mile to open water.

“We’ll have to time the tides,” I added. I knew that a fully loaded boat would drag bottom at six inches. Anything shallower and the boat wouldn’t move at all. Between our gear and our body weight, the boat would be carrying a cargo of about 700 lbs.

The two of us sat out there for an hour or more, ticking off checklists in our craniums; planning contingencies; confirming the security boats’ timetables. In urbex parley, it’s known as scouting. We wouldn’t be visiting the fleet then, but we were closer to realizing its potential that night. As it got dark, area lights on the rows of ships flickered on; security boats tested their spotlights. It would be risky, but we knew then that it was possible. The two of us packed up our long lenses and binoculars and followed the trail back to the road.

Once we knew it was possible, it was time to get a boat. Any simple boat wouldn’t work. In addition to tidal concerns, portability and silence were paramount. Though a gas-powered motor would have been preferable for its power and speed, we knew immediately that an electric trolling motor was the only way to go; and even though a solid skiff wouldn’t pose the problem of punctures, we knew that an inflatable raft was our only option. A solid boat, tied up along the rows, would have been highly suspicious to roving security patrols. We needed to take our boat with us, stow it away in a well-hidden locker, and re-inflate it for our return trip. We also needed the motor; relying on rowing would not only have attracted attention, but it also would have been impossible when tides were anything but slack. At its height, the tidal current at Suisun Bay was as fast as 14 miles per hour.

So, with a ‘perfect’ boat in mind I began sending inquiries to Craigslist postings for used boats. Then I found it, the perfect boat – a 12′ inflatable Fish Hunter with a Minn Kota trolling motor. At 48 lbs, the boat could easily be lifted up the keel of the ship, deflated, and stowed. For $220, it was a steal. Split between the three of us, we were only on the line for $80 each.

Two months later, we met at the entrance to the slough with our new boat standing ready in the bed of my truck. We pumped it up, threw the trolling motor inside, and walked with hundreds of pounds of gear down a muddy lot, across a pair of railroad tracks, and into the entrance of the slough.

Scott Haefner, the third member of our expedition, made a final inventory of our provisions. Stephen threw the rope into the boat and pushed it off from the shore. We were on our trepidatious journey out to Row F of the fleet.

Row F

THE Suisun Bay Naval Reserve Fleet is only one of many groupings of ships held in reserve by the government. In the 1940s there were as many as 2,277 ships, most of which have been deactivated, sunk as reefs, sold to foreign allies, or returned to service. Of the original 2,277 ships, a little over 200 ships remain today; out of those 200 ships only about 50 are in the National Defense Reserve Fleet at Suisun.

[nggallery id=6]

The three of us spent months pouring over aerial photographs, maps, and satellite images of the fleet. By the time we were chugging the length of our beloved slough, we were intimately aware of each ship in each row, their significance, and their individual perils. Our plans were kept secret to all except our loved ones. Nobody, other than my girlfriend, knew exactly where I was that weekend. For all intents and purposes, I was on a fishing trip with some friends.

In our myopic world of 7 rows and 50 ships, easy pickin’ was Row F.  It’s a direct, unencumbered route from the much-hailed slough. A complete journey to Row F is quick, efficient, silent, and surreptitious – making it well within the range of eluding the 30-minute security rounds.

Stephen pushed off, turned the throttle on our trolling motor, and we were moving through the slough at 7 mph, dodging depth markers and submerged fence posts. Once we were within range of Row F, we made a final confirmation of the security boat’s whereabouts and began the mad 800-foot rush from the entrance of the slough to the keel of the first ship. At one moment, we saw the green light of the security boat approach us. We had no idea whether these boats were equipped with infrared, but we assumed they had seen us. We floated immobile for 10 minutes trying to ascertain if they were still moving towards us. Finally, we decided just to head straight towards the row.

We rowed in concert with the trolling motor to out-power the strength of the outgoing tides. Within 20 minutes we were tied up between the Coast Guard cutters, Planetree and Iris. The deck of the Iris was about 12 feet above us. We could just barely reach the hand-holds by standing on the top of our raft. Scott boarded the ship first, while I nervously handed up our gear. Stephen maintained the boat’s position and watched for roving security patrols. Within minutes, all of the gear was on-board. We disconnected the motor and its battery, and handed it up, took hold of the rope attached to the bow and stern of our raft, and pulled its 48-lb hulk up the side of the Iris. Unable to make any noises in celebration we managed to shake hands and exclaim in whispers that we’d actually done it.

Initial Exaltation

Immediately, we broke open our cameras. Though initially, we’d agreed to stay together, it quickly became apparent that we’d want to go our own ways and reconverge at pre-determined times.  Row F, in particular, had some of the largest ships in the fleet.  The SS Esso Gettysburg – at 700 feet from bow to stern – was among the largest we explored (and would probably ever have a chance to explore). I split off from the group briefly to walk from ship to ship and test doors for entrances. At first, the sheer size of the fleet, and the potential for exterior shots in the moonlight was promising; however, I’d always been interested in walking around the insides, searching for hidden artifacts and clues to the lives men lived on these floating behemoths. And so, within a few minutes, I was pushing the others on an agreed-upon meet-up time. The three of us equivocated over tidal movements, sunrise, and a buffer over unexpected delays on the return trip. We knew that we had to be back at the slough by 5:30 AM in order to beat the sunrise. We decided on 4 AM to meet up for the departure. We had six hours of unencumbered, solitary exploration time. I knew I had to make the most of it, so I started with the SS Gettysburg.

Even the distant sounds of foghorns and fishing fleets were dampened by the fog. Finally alone, in the midnight mists of Suisun Bay, I felt completely at ease – as if all of the adrenaline and sweat burned in the braggadocio of the previous two hours was suddenly dissipated in the fog that surrounded me. Only the deafening screech of the gigantic steel ship keels rubbing against each other in the occasional wake of passing security boats kept me somewhat on my toes. When that didn’t occur, I appreciated the little moments of reflection, as when a red-tailed hawk, who made its home high in the 100-foot-tall crows’ nest of the USS Taluga (AO-62), squawked to protect its new-found, post-apocalyptic domain.

Moments of peace and reflection punctuated moments of fear – but all of it was an escape of a sort that I’d never managed to experience before. So, when I found the one open door on the SS Gettysburg, my lonely adventure somehow became heightened to exaltation. I’d found something that few people had seen in four decades. I was literally walking inside of a 700-foot-long, 38,000-ton time capsule. What treasures awaited me? It was all my own to discover.

Stephen and Scott were up top, photographing exteriors of ships. I knew, at least for a while, that I’d want this moment to myself – so I closed the steel doors and walked inside. I took my first breath inside of a Mothball Fleet ship. Oddly, I treated it as if I was sipping a fine glass of well-aged Chianti or Bordeaux. It was a fine sip, tinged with a mixture of benzyne, asbestos, black mould, and soggy newspaper. Why I still miss that smell to this day is beyond me.

The inside of the Gettysburg was dark – darker than any environment I’d been in other than a Titan silo. Most people would expect the ghosts of dead sailors to speak from the deepest recesses. I looked at it from a completely different perspective; I had traveled back in time.  When my flashlight flicked on, I expected to see the ship just as it was when it was abandoned in the 1970s, each cabin filled with sleeping engineers and oil-men who manned the forest of valves and ballast tanks that comprised this gigantic super-tanker. I was living their daily lives with them. Each door I opened was a glimpse into the life of another man; each cabin held the quirks that make exploration one of the most rewarding activities one could engage in.

Traveling in the Ship’s Time Machine

Facing the bow towards the bridge tower of the ship was a lounge with large portholes that donned colorful curtains of peacock proportions. At the time, this was a great place to work – in the world of ships. Most cabins were provisioned with television, their own head, and a large bed and desk. The hallways were larger than most hallways in most ships we came to explore. The Esso Gettysburg had corridors that were as wide as 10 feet across in places – lined with original posters from the 1970s depicting the proper way to conduct one’s job – especially when it came to battling a dangerous oil fire using foam-shooting monitors.

Once I had completely explored the main deck, I knew that Scott and Stephen wouldn’t want to miss out on it, so I searched them out and we returned to go from room to room. Eventually we found ourselves deep in the engine room, dodging spare valves, lathes, and pieces of conduit in the machine shop.  We captured a few shots of the parts and moved towards the central engine room.

Gettysburg was a steam-powered, 26,000 horsepower monster-of-a-tanker. The engine room was testament to its power. The three of us stood 50 feet above the massive boiler and peeked down at the empty space that surrounded us. We had no idea how big it was until we turned our high-powered flashlights on. It was, by far, out of the dozens of ships we eventually explored, the biggest engine room we’d see. Our voices echoed into the dark corners of the room, and each step on the steel catwalks and staircases that kitty-cornered their way down reverberated far off into the distance.

When we emerged from the Exxon Gettysburg (née Esso Gettysburg) it was 3 AM. Our time to leave was fast approaching. We sadly pulled our deflated, rubber skiff out of its hiding place, hand-pumped her up, and mounted the transom to the stern.  We lowered her to the water, quietly heaved our gear down using ropes, and returned to safety without a hitch. Arriving at our vehicles just after sunrise, each of us knew we’d need to return; by the next full moon we’d be back.

Row E

IT was on our exit from our second trip to Row F that we’d decided it prudent to test the possibility of Row E.  As the closest row to the Benicia Bridge, it’s probably the most noticed row, though certainly not its largest. The most interesting aspect of Row E is its unique historic ships, the USS Glacier (AGB-4) and USS Sperry (AS-12). Upon discovering a cutaway diagram of the Glacier, complete with labels for each of its rooms and their functions, I knew we had to tackle Row E. Normally we would have taken a straight shot trip back from Row F to our beloved slough. This time, we took a chance and let the tides carry us downstream to Row E from Row F – a full 200 yards to the North. We hadn’t seen the security boats in well over an hour, which made us uneasy not knowing if they’d begin their rounds any minute.

USS Glacier, from All Hands Magazine, December 1956

When we arrived at Row E, we’d discovered that entry was easy. A large wooden box – one of many used between the ships to separate their hulls – served as a perfect ladder to ascend the keel to the deck of the SS Wynam (T-AGS-34), an oceanographic survey vessel.  Upon boarding the ship we returned home, knowing that it would be ripe for exploration on a return trip (the sun was already rising and we didn’t have the time or provisions to last another 48 hours out on the fleet, even if it was a new, unexplored row).

Like clockwork, a month later, full moon high once again, we boarded Row E and spent 48 hours exploring its vaunted ships. Then, as was the case with Row F, we chose the Captain’s stateroom of a Thomaston-class landing ship as our accommodation for the weekend. Living on the ships was much easier and more comfortable than one would expect. Though the ships are cold, dark, cramped, and often stuffy inside, if one chooses the right spot in the ship (the captain’s stateroom in most cases), then plenty of room, fresh air, and light is available – especially if the portholes are preserved well enough so they still open (as they did on Row E).

Click on this thumnail to view the full schematic of a Thomaston-class LSD

Staterooms

Most staterooms still had complete furniture sets contained within them. We found that the pads of couches made excellent bedding below our sleeping bags. Considering the anxiety and stress we faced getting to the row; the extreme, cold, wet weather; the constant heaving and lifting of heavy cargo while boarding the ships; and the consistent, unfettered rowing we needed to do in order to reach the ships when tidal currents were against our favor – considering all of these things, a moldy, smelly, cushion (upon which one never knows exactly what transpired) looked like a nice, fluffy pillow of love and affection. Though tempting, we most often didn’t choose to sleep when it was dark outside; rather, we’d scurry from ship to ship, photographing features in the moon all night long. When dawn came, we’d sprint to our pre-chosen stateroom and sleep for a few hours before ambling within the interiors of the ship we chose to sleep in – cameras, and tripods, and flash units in hand – until sundown.

Our system worked well. In fact, it saved our asses more than once. We assumed, but didn’t count on the fact that MARAD employees had the weekends off. We knew that we should expect them to board any one of the rows at any given time during day. At night, on the other hand, we had prime shooting and scoping time. It was a time we felt free enough to walk from ship to ship and within the ships without arousing suspicion (provided that we didn’t use our flashlights when security boats were in our line of sight).

Close Calls

On our final day on Row E, at about noon, we made the almost-disastrous decision to walk from ship to ship during the day. It was something we’d rarely done before; given that we’d never seen MARAD employees on our row up to that point, we safely assumed it wouldn’t happen. We were wrong. When I saw the MARAD ferry approaching our row, I frantically searched for the others and told them they were on their way. The three of us tried to decide which ship we wanted to go inside and ran towards its entry point. MARAD employees were boarding our row, and we had no idea why. Within 30 seconds of the first orange life jacket appearing in front of us, we found ourselves inside of the USS Glacier. We narrowly avoided being seen.

The Glacier has a large central crow’s nest. This particular tower is unlike most crows’ nests because of the Glacier’s unique service as an Antarctic Icebreaker – there is an interior access hatch and ladder that extends the 70-foot length of the tower. About 2/3rds of the way up the tower is a pilothouse that serves as an auxiliary pilothouse in case the captain needs to control the boat from a higher vantage point. This 70-foot-high pilothouse was perfect for watching the movements of MARAD employees. I saw them board the ships and walk across the catwalks from ship to ship.

We never determined when – or if – they left. Finally, when the sun went down, we exited the Glacier and sighed in relief. We’d spent all day inside of the Glacier, largely waiting and listening to see if MARAD began boarding the inside of the Glacier (where we were). At times, we’d walk around and photograph the inside, but not without looking behind our backs in trepidation.

Our trip out to Row E carried much more risk than our trip to Row F, which we fully expected. We’d find out later that our trips would get progressively more risky, and it would ultimately culminate in our decision to cease going. Luckily, we had enough thirst for adventure to try another row. We knew that Row G carried two jewels of the Suisun Bay Reserve Fleet, the top secret stealth ship, Sea Shadow, and the World War II battleship, USS Iowa. I heard that the USS Iowa was one the only battleship fitted with a bathtub (apparently for President Roosevelt), and I knew that I had to see it. Scott Haefner was up for a challenge. Stephen was burned out – temporarily. We invited another trusted friend, Sean, along for our third trip to Row G of the Suisun Bay Fleet.

Row G

WHEN one hears the words, “stealth ship” it’s easy to get excited. Imagine our excitement when I saw the first one known to exist, abandoned, decaying, rusting away in front of my own eyes. Though this ship was small, at 164 feet from bow to stern, I couldn’t believe that we had infiltrated the row that held the IX-529 Sea Shadow. Perhaps more interesting than the Sea Shadow itself was the drydock it was ensconced within: HMB-1, the Hughes Mining Barge, built by the famed Howard Hughes company for the CIA in the early 1970s. HMB-1 was one part of a two-part structure used to lift the sunken nuclear Russian submarine, K-129, from the ocean Northwest of Hawaii. K-129 was 16,000 feet underwater, so Hughes built the Glomar Explorer, ostensibly as a Manganese mining ship. The real purpose of the Hughes Mining Barge was to submerge and serve as a purpose-built submerged (and hidden) drydock for any remains recovered from the submarine wreck site (including cryptographic code books, secret intelligence from the Soviet Navy, and nuclear munitions); the Glomar Explorer on the other hand, served as the cover story (manganese nodule mining) and as the powerhouse for lifting the gigantic, 2700-ton submarine from the depths of the ocean.

In the end, Clementine, the gigantic claw that was used to lift the submarine failed; the submarine split in half. Most of the important intelligence was lost in the process, and “Project Jennie,” as it was erroneously known by the press, was a failure. By 1983, HMB-1 was mothballed, but it oddly disappeared from Todd Shipyards, where it was being stored. Inquiries from the press reached a dead end – the only thing the Navy could say was that it wasn’t being used to lift a submarine from the water. The real story was that HMB-1 housed the top secret stealth ship, Sea Shadow IX-529. It was brought to Lockheed Martin facilities in Redwood City, California, where it remained until 1993, when the Sea Shadow project was finally revealed to the public.

Scott, Sean, and I didn’t want to risk our flashlights being seen by the nearby guard tower at MARAD headquarters less than 200 yards away. We forced ourselves to leave and head towards the USS Iowa. The Iowa is on the opposite end of the Row G from the Sea Shadow, so the walk out took about 20 minutes in the dark. We knew that if anything was monitored in the way of alarms or motion sensors, the USS Iowa would. In fact, it was only a few years prior that the title to the ship was formally transferred from the Navy to MARAD; in the meantime, it had become a highly coveted museum site which the Bay Area and Los Angeles have been competing to obtain for years.

Ship Security

We also knew that Scott found an important, albeit discouraging, clue that indicated to us some ships were alarmed. On our earlier trip to Row F he discovered a microwave sensor. Microwave motion alarms are the least friendly to explorers because such systems can tell the size and distance of an intruder, drastically reducing the error in telling the difference between, say, a hawk and a human. They can also curtain a very large area (e.g. a whole row of ships) with a blanket of protection.

The moment we walked on the Iowa, I pointed to a large, strange looking device mounted high above the bridge of the battleship. Scott noticed it too, and we both believed it to be a sensor. There was only one way to find out. We nonchalantly walked out on the Iowa, towards the three 16-inch guns closest to the bow. We set up our tripods and photographed these gigantic guns (the Iowa wasn’t known as the “Big Stick” for any small matter – its nine 16”, 50 caliber guns could hurl projectiles as heavy as a Volkswagon Beetle 24 miles out to sea).

Not more than five minutes into boarding the ship, a security boat arrived with its spotlights aimed directly on the Iowa. We thought we were had. The Iowa was flanked by a gangplank with direct access to the ship from the water. If MARAD knew someone was on the ship they could be on within a minute. We had to haul ass off the ship – quickly. Scott, Sean, and I grabbed our tripods and ran back towards the Sea Shadow side of the Row G, all while keeping our backs crouched to avoid being seen by the spotlights. It was the second time we narrowly avoided being caught – this time was too close for comfort.

We spent the remainder of the night exploring the USS Nereus (AS-17), a World War II-era submarine tender that contained its own small treats, including a brig for imprisoning unruly or off-the-rocker sailors. Whether it was because we were unruly, or off-the-rocker, we made light of the moment to do a photo shoot of ourselves. Obviously, we were trying to get the prospect of being caught off our minds by taking self-portraits behind bars in the Nereus. By morning, we were inside of our sleeping quarters in the officer’s lounge of the USS Kawishiwi (T-AO-146). After a few hours of rest, we returned to the Sea Shadow to photograph her in all her glory during the day.

Our trip out to Row G was both terrifying and exciting. We were getting more reluctant to test our luck and make a return trip. A full four months later, after much hesitation, we decided that we needed to return for one final trip. Row J would be our riskiest endeavor, and considering the proximity our boat would be to security HQ, I surmised that there was a 50/50 chance we’d be waylaid by MARAD security enroute.

Row J

TO this day, I look back at Row J as that eerie, memorable 48 hours that served as the denouement to 18 months of planning and execution. And like many conclusions, drama, excitement, discovery, emotion, were all heightened to the level of hyperrealism. Stephen was ready to get back in the game. Scott as ready as ever. We had to abandon our lovely, little slough for this particular trip. The length from the slough to Row J was much too far to be feasible considering the battery life of our trolling motor (over 1.5 miles). Most importantly, traveling our traditional route meant passing directly under the in-out route of security guards: a long cement skyway going across mudflats and shallow water to security HQ.  We would certainly be seen along the way, because the skyway is buffeted on each end by a long series of mercury vapor streetlamps that illuminate everything within 200 feet.

Route #2 was a thinner, shallower slough that exited on the upstream side of the skyway. We didn’t even know if it was possible to take our boat through it. In many ways, it was riskier than our original slough. This one required us heaving the boat over a salinity gate, dropping it back into the slough, continuing through the channel, and passing within 150 feet of the dock where the security boats embarked and disembarked with reinforcements – all well within the range of illumination. If anyone was at security HQ, the docks, or taking the security boat to make a stop at HQ, they would have easily seen us. We quietly went out, and rolled our 50/50 dice. Lady Luck was with us. We made it to Row J, disembarking on a floating barge that carried supplies and equipment for MARAD, which was tied up adjacent to the SS President Tyler.

While climbing the 15-foot distance between the deck of the President Tyler and the containerized barge a security boat came by – spotlights ablaze. Stephen and I dived on our bellies, hoping we wouldn’t be seen in the beams. Scott laid low at the bottom of the container, unable to find a sufficient hiding place if the boat happened to shine between the rows as it often does. Luckily our raft was deflated – otherwise they would have easily descried its silhouette and we would have been had. Once the boat was out of visual range, we continued on to Row J.

The silence between us was palpable. I think each of us knew this was going to be our last trip. Though we didn’t really want this to be the case, we also knew that our good fortune would be up if we continued our bombast. The urgency of the situation also meant that our creativity was heightened. Much like we did on our first journey out to the fleet, nearly a year earlier, we decided to split up as soon as we found sleeping quarters.

Cargo Ships and Passenger Lines

The great highlight of Row J is a large collection of cargo ships that doubled as passenger lines. The difference between a utilitarian ship and one intended to serve as a cruise line is like night and day. Passenger cruises, as the three of us knew well from our past illicit journeys to the SS Independence in San Francisco, have the features that photographers love: original artwork, unique design features, quirky room accoutrements, and dramatic verandas or lounges that offer panoramic views of the outside world. Row J didn’t disappoint in that respect. The sad fact of Row J, though, was that we had about half the time that we had on Row F with twice as many ships to photograph. It was unfortunate that we missed out on fully documenting some important ships, including the SS American Racer, SS American Reliance, SS Aid, SS Agent, SS Ambassador.

I focused my efforts on the SS President Lincoln. The importance of the Lincoln, which is now on its way to the scrap yard, is that it was a pioneer in the development of containerized cargo shipping. In the early 1960s, when the Lincoln was built, the problem of rapid globalization was barely being addressed. Shipping companies responded with containerized cargo, a revolutionary move from the traditional method of palletized cargo. American President Lines, a quasi-government, San Francisco-based shipping company built the President Lincoln to accommodate containers, but it also wanted to supplement its income by including a small, exclusive complement of 12 passengers per cruise. These ships were elegantly beautiful, with fixtures and murals inside that provided scenic surroundings for the wealthy passengers that once walked their decks.

Like rapacious scavengers, we sweeped the ships in search of photographs. Our eyes bloodshot, our sense of time completely distorted, we frantically went from deck to deck testing doors for the rare opportunity of entrance inside. I finally found a way inside of the President Lincoln and spent a few hours exploring it. I managed to return during the day when its interior spaces were best photographed and assessed.

Searchlights and Security

Our final night out on the mothball fleet was silent once again. Unlike our early journeys to Row F a year earlier, fog was completely absent. Sound traveled farther, as did the beacons of our flashlights when we happened to use them. We were much wearier of unusual sounds or movements on the water. The wind had ceased; the water far across the horizon – as far as eyes could see – was as glassy and calm as the sands of a vast desert. A single barn owl hooted from one of the tall stacks on the ships.

The silence, though peaceful on our first trip out, was unnerving on our last. I was continually waiting for it to be punctuated by a loud, intrusive wake accompanied by spotlights. The more we went out, the more often the spotlights seemed to appear – tenacious tendrils of light, an aspect least comforting among our journeys. The spotlights haunted our minds more than the security boats themselves, certainly more haunting for me than the thought of dead sailors or ghostly ship cabins while I waited alone in the penumbral darkness, waiting to re-emerge at night for photography.

Our egress from our final row was fraught with a comedy of errors that nearly had us caught. Exhausted and depleted of any remaining adrenaline, we lost our oars in a crack between the two container barges. The oars floated away on the glassy water, out of our reach. We lost the most efficient way back (it would have been impossible to use only the power of our trolling motor to get through portions of the mudflats); it was then that the security patrol found its way towards Row J. It scanned the water and shined its terrifying spotlights as if it knew we were there. We crouched tightly against the barges hoping we wouldn’t be seen. A short reprieve came; the security boat left towards HQ. We threw our fully inflated boat into the water and miraculously found our oars wedged where the water met the keel of the President Tyler.

It was at that moment – the moment we thought we were finally home free, when we were on brink of hooting and hollering – that we saw the fast approaching security boat behind us.  All I could think of was the impending spotlight… That much-maligned specter that fed the fear on my final trip out to the fleet. I hated the spotlight, but I knew it was coming. Scott and I were rowing harder than we’d ever rowed in our lives, while Stephen had the motor full throttle. We were moving at about 10 knots when the spotlights reached our ship.  The boat was about 200 feet behind our stern, and the spotlights were fixed directly on us. We were fully illuminated by the bright, white light. It was over. I threw my oar to the side of the boat in exasperation, trying to think of what we would say to the two security officers on the boat.

At that moment, something miraculous happened. The boat turned back towards Row J. Did they miss us? For whatever reason, we recommenced our epic rowing. We continued at full speed, reached beloved slough #2, threw our boat over the salinity gate, rowed home on a dead battery, and threw everything into our truck, away from Fleet HQ and on to safe anonymity among the city ahead of us.

Was it really over? Surely it had to be. The sun rose, bird-chirping heralded the dawn; strangely enough, it felt like everything was new that morning. We returned un-apprehended, 18 months after those first moments, completely exhausted but happy to be in our warm, dry homes. What we had those 18 months can never be repeated. Not again. Never. But in the beauty of those moments, among those lost relics of history, I think each of us learned something about perseverance and the overarching urgency of recording these strange, rotting, archaic things.

They were such beautiful, awesome, jaws-wide-open creations of humankind. Such intricacy and beauty; so much to save and show, share and celebrate. I love these places. I love them to the point of risking my life, limb, and reputation for them. I love the friendships that are formed in accessing them; and I’ll always love the supreme purpose behind presenting them as best we could, ourselves being imperfect yet adventurous artists.

These ships I’ve shown here are mostly dead now, but hopefully I’ve helped their story live on. It’s so sad to see their scarred, scrapped, disassembled hulls. From the sky they’re little Tonka toys or Lego sets, as if pulled apart by playful five-year-olds, their vast hulks reconverted into razor blades, or iPods, or cheap tchotchkes from third-world countries. One only hopes that a piece of them survives in a well-engineered bridge, or the embellishment of a gleaming, chrome skyscraper, or any human-designed machine that inspires others by showing the art inherent in function and form, form and function in one. All great creations of humanity are only appreciated when they are gone, which is the sad fact of living the life of an illicit explorer. We get to see them at the end of their lives, hoping that others appreciate them for what they were… for what they tell us.

Further Research

• Save the USS Iowa
• Sea Shadow (IX-529)
• Fleet Revealed (Our Exclusive Slideshow Event)
• Esso Gettysburg (1957-1973)
• Coast Guard Cutter, Iris
• Coast Guard Cutter, Planetree
• MARAD

Years ago, I – along with two other friends – laid the groundwork for one of our most daring explorations yet attempted. We knew the waters were fraught with the danger of being caught, but we arranged our plans to mitigate those risks. Though the news has been out for some time, the actual story is yet to be told – at least until May 7th, 2011, when four of us – including one photographer who gained official access, Amy Heiden – will be presenting never-before-seen images of the Suisun Bay Naval Reserve Fleet [RSVP Here].

I’ve written about the fleet here before – heck, I’ve written about it twice for good measure – and I’ll be writing about it much more in the future, given that there is now a treasure trove of images to reveal.  However, the full story will not be posted here today. I’m simply here to announce the event. For months, we’ve contemplated how to make our journeys public, and we wanted it to be done in person among the the link-minded.

Let the images below be your teaser. Come for the show to see them all. For less than the cost of a big-budget Hollywood thriller, you can see real adventure in action. Hear about our close calls, dangerous mishaps, and the details of the exploration that I’m most proud of.

The truth is, many of the ships that you will see in this show are long gone. The only record of their existence, other than in the memories of the men and women who served on these ships, will be the photos that we show on May 7th. Few photos or blueprints exist, and I’m proud to say that we served some small part in recording their history.

Under the cover of darkness, among the broiling waters of the San Francisco Bay, through a myriad of toxic ships – we’ve emerged from our adventures with a better understanding of where and who we now are as a nation. Come hear our stories, see the prints, watch the slideshow. I hope to see you there, so that you can share in our wide-eyed amazement at these intricate, well-engineered relics of mankind.

Saturday May 7, 2011 from 7:00pm – 9:00pm

$8 at the door

Workspace Limited

Press Release

Images

[nggallery id=5]

Click on the image above to see a full-scale [6MB], poster-size scan of a Japanese advanced boiling water nuclear reactor [ABWR]. Though the image above is NOT the Fukushima Dai-ichi reactor, it closely resembles the design of that plant. You can also download the PDF here.

A few quick notes (though the major point of this post was to show off this amazing cutaway). Japan is a world leader in utilization of clean, nuclear energy, and produces about 34% of its energy with its 50 nuclear reactors. To hop up on my soapbox for  a brief moment, allow me to say something about the tragic events in Japan, in order for us all to maintain a clear head, in spite of the destruction and pandemonium being played up in the media:

• The amount of radiation currently leaking into the atmosphere from Fukushima Dai-ichi is about as much as you’d get from eating 1-2 bananas a day for a year [source]. Granted, this could quickly change, but for now it looks relatively benign.
• Radioactive isotopes that are released do not last millions of years, as is commonly thought. The half life of the two most common isotopes from fallout (caesium and iodine) is 30 years and 8 days, respectively. This means that most radiation from a nuclear disaster will naturally decay quickly. [source and source]
• Burning coal for power is 100 times more radioactive than the radiation from nuclear waste [source]
• Litigation and regulation are stalling 351 U.S. energy projects that could create as many as 1.9 million jobs and increase the nation’s gross domestic product by $1.1 trillion. [source]
• The U.S. and Russia has a stockpile of outdated, dangerous plutonium from Cold War weapons. What would normally be stored as nuclear waste could be re-processed into fuel (MOX) to provide a low-carbon source of energy. Highly-enriched uranium in US and Russian weapons and other military stockpiles is equal to about 12 times the annual world mine production. [source]

Some of the most fervid of fans of Bearings may have wondered where the posts have been. I haven’t been entirely inactive, and the bulk of the time normally spent on Bearings has been spent gallivanting around in abandoned locations, figuring out a way to recover a hard drive, and applying for grad schools. But the one really exciting project I’ve undertaken lately is an in-depth look at Treasure Island – site of the 1939-1940 Golden Gate International Exposition.

The San Francisco World’s Fair of 1939 – known by aficionados as the “Pageant of the Pacific” – was held on what was at the time the largest manmade island in the world. The $50 million dollar Treasure Island became a symbol of hopeful optimism, Great Depression-era government largesse, and a fervent trust in science and engineering at a unique juncture in history. Treasure Island, Atlantis-like, arose in the middle of a metropolitan center increasingly aware of its influence in the Pacific Rim. And it foretold the impending war in ways that is often eerily prophetic. Famed sculptor, Ralph Stackpole centerpieced the island with a giant idol to Pacific culture known as Pacifica. Bearings favorite, Timothy Pflueger (who you may know through our post about exploring the Pac Bell Building) had a hand in multiple buildings on the island. Miguel Covarrubias painted gigantic murals measuring as much as 24 feet across depicting the Pacific Rim. It was there, on Treasure Island, that America hosted its first Michelangelo.

This post is the repository for an unprecedented collection of San Francisco World’s Fair images, memorabilia, artwork, architectural plans, and advertisements. It was a labor of love for a frenetic four months of my life last fall, and it is the product of days – nay, weeks – of aggregate time spent at the Bancroft, Richmond, Moffitt, and San Francisco City libraries. I thank the Bancroft Library for finally laxing their once-draconian requirement that nobody can take images of Bancroft materials. They now allow photography for a nominal fee.

I do not claim to own any of the copyrights on these images.  The truth is, many of them are nearing their copyright expiration; many are orphan works, whose artists remain anonymous yet have impacted my research in a big way. I’m simply here to bring these images to the light of day. In another post, soon (I hope) I’ll post the result of my research – a look at the corporate motivations in the propaganda and art of the fair, particularly in the remaking of the 1939 Golden Gate International Exposition as the harbinger of a new era of limitless consumption, leisure, and clandestine corporate imperialism in the Pacific Rim. We still live with that legacy today, but the exposition was simply a manifestation of its powerful crafters’ ideological ambition, so I don’t hazard to blame the exposition itself. Without further ado, I present to you the largest known collection of exposition material yet made available online.

The San Francisco Exposition Collection

More than two years ago, I photographed Grossinger’s for the first time. The iconic Borscht Belt resort was the crown jewel of the Catskills, but it had fallen into deep decline by the 70s. In the early 80s, it closed forever, and all that remains is its world renowned golf course and a few collapsing buildings. Immediately, I knew I had found something special in Grossinger’s, but – at the time – I was completely unaware of its connection to 20th Century Jewish-American history. I’m here to announce, after 18 months of rigorously poring over archival materials, photos, oral histories, and more, that Grossinger’s: City of Refuge and Illusion is officially a book – marking my first book in what I hope will be many more to come. You can read more about it and purchase a copy here.

Grossinger’s has been home to boxing greats and baseball stars, comedians, divas, and great impresarios of their times. I can also make a strong case that it was – at least in part – an inspiration for the birth of Israel. Supermarket shelves are still filled with its trademark bread; Dirty Dancing is still revered by cine-aficionados; even my great grandmother says it was on the tip of everyone’s tongue in her era.

Things change so quickly in this world – as has Grossinger’s. This year, Eddie Fisher, the star who was ‘born’ at “The G”, passed away. Every time I return, a different artifact is missing. The laundry building seems closer to complete collapse. The greenhouse’s withering weeds seem more dessicated than my last trip out. New pebbles appear on the gravestones of the Grossinger dynasty’s denizens.

Grossinger’s Resort has a deeper meaning to me, personally, which I hesitated to tell others as I interviewed them for the book. I am Jewish, but I am far removed from the orthodox lineage; and with each generation a bit of the genetic lineage leaves as well. The only reason I can call myself Jewish is because my heritage traveled down the female line, and I retain it based on the technicalities contained within the Torah. But I’ve always been deeply drawn to this aspect of my life, and I’ve endeavored to understand more about who I am (what little of it is in me) through research projects in the past. I can finally say (after 18 months of research and preparation for this book) that I’m not quite as ignorant about my ethnic heritage, and that is something I’m very proud to admit.

Most of my words of thanks are contained in the book’s acknowledgments, and I have many people to thank – not the least of whom are the readers of Bearings, who have helped me hone my prose, practice my narrative, and develop ideas for stories. You are truly part of this grand project that I have in my mind, and which I plan on continuing in graduate school. I would like to thank three people in particular here – though the list could go on.

When I first met John Iwanicki he had a pile of Grossinger materials splayed across his motel bed. It takes a special spirit to collect such ephemera, but it was invaluable to my research. John’s astute memory often shocked me. He was able to remember the tiniest details of the most minute features of the Grossinger property. John is a natural raconteur, and I’m eternally grateful for his contribution to the project.

Richard Grossinger met me at his front door, walked me upstairs to his deck, and told me about his times as a child at The G. He told me about Jennie and Milton Blackstone; he talked about the symbolic and transcendental connotations of Grossinger’s new state of haphazard, beautiful madness. He held in his hand a note signed by the Matron Saint of Grossinger’s, his grandmother Jennie Grossinger. It was a first-hand account of the G as nobody else could tell, and I devoured both of his books (New Moon and Out of Babylon), which I highly recommend.

Finally, I couldn’t have been encouraged to complete this without my significant other (and soon-to-be roommate), Carrie Whitsett (to whom I dedicate the book).

Richard and John brought Grossinger’s to life for me. It was paramount that I imagined myself there, and I wanted my prose to retell history in vivid detail. I hope I haven’t disappointed on that front. Now that it’s done, I’m looking forward to getting some exercise, eating better, and prepping for grad school. I have many stories yet to tell, and as time permits, I will try to keep this space updated with new stories. It’ll be great to get back out shooting in the moon again, and I’m also looking forward to showing some yet-to-be-released images of another high-profile site with challenging entry methods but a treasure trove of things to shoot. Although our photography at this particular embargoed location is over, I’ve amassed a collection of hundreds of images that need to be edited and posted. And, of course, it’d be nice to write about this new place, too. Expect another series! In the meantime, Buy the Book!

Over 100 years ago, before the Great Hetch Hetchy Valley was dammed to feed a water-hungry San Francisco, John Muir vociferously likened the place to a cathedral. To Muir, wilderness was his cathedral, his transformative oeuvre. Nature was his religion. Today, an entire national monument is named after him, and environmentalists around the world credit him for saving some of our most treasured national monuments.

Dr. Eghigian, as a well-trained and groomed intellectual, knows about Muir, but I’ll hazard to say he knows little or nothing about Richard Nickel. In fact, ask any American on the street today who Richard Nickel is, and I’m quite sure that you’ll get a blank stare (John Muir is another matter entirely!). Richard Nickel was an obsessive man, an idealist, who knew when to step over legal boundaries to salvage national treasures before their destruction. If Dr. Eghigian has a chance to visit Chicago sometime soon, I highly recommend that he walks inside of the Art Institute. Inside he’ll find the opus of Nickel, the one room that helped vindicate the risks that eventually took his life.

People like Nickel are rare. Urban explorers are rare. Despite the somewhat “cult” status that we’ve acquired over the last decade, there are only 36,791 members on the preeminent forum for Urban Explorers online. This means that there is approximately one of us for every 182,000 people on this planet! We are a minority — Some would even argue, an oppressed minority!

So how are we oppressed? I can count the ways. We face arrest, harassment, lawsuits, loss of job opportunities, loss of reputation, loss of credibility simply for what we love doing. We admit that what we do breaks the law, but to us “law” is a very malleable moral construct. Novelist Tom Robbins makes the outlaw his protagonist.

There were times in this country, of which I’m sure Dr. Eghigian is well aware, in which our own citizens (one of which was a gubernatorial candidate to be exact!) were arrested and jailed for reading the Constitution of the United States in public.

But I digress.

My point here was to explain to Dr. Eghigian what we do, and why we love what we do. I’m endeavoring here to speak for everyone else, but you all know this cannot be true. So I will speak for myself, in the hopes that it represents what others are feeling.

We love what we do because it offers us an alternative to the oppressive, institutionalized, corporatized, hum-drum world that modern society offers us.  This is not simply an American anomaly. Across the world, workers are being marginalized under fluorescent lamps, tipping and tapping away at keyboards to serve the interests of multinatonal corporations headed by multi-billion-dollar CEOs. We DON’T get angry-as-hell. We DON’T get subversive, like those dastardly “wobblies” of yore. We just escape from it, from time to time. It is our only form of dealing with the maddening demands that modern society places on us. If you want an example, ask Kevin Morrissey. Oh, wait, he’s DEAD.

Does that answer your question?

No, we are not voyeurs.
No, we are not vandals.
We’re just people with an innate love of discovery.

Discredit that, and you discredit Magellan, Sauer, Einstein, and Sir Edmund Hillary at the same time. Good luck with that!

To claim that we get “titillated” and “entertained” by this sort of experience demeans our purpose. Are you voyeuristically titillated and entertained while doing your archival research? I sure hope not! (though I admit that I often am)

Last but not least: I do not mean any malice towards you or the vaunted institution of the Pennsylvania State University. The fact is, I’m currently applying for graduate schools. Being an urban explorer, I’ll take any credibility I can get. I do apologize for desecrating the most respected and loved of American values – that of private property – but, then again, I see a Wal-Mart being built 15 miles from me via eminent domain with no protest, and an Indian gaming casino on city-owned property (even though the tribe it serves has never set foot on this territory). Are they not desecrating our current community by increasing crime and drugs? Are a few chuckling kids on a moonlight tour more of a cause-celebre to you than the paving over of our past and the usurpation of our common property for corporate interests? Say it isn’t so, Dr. Eghigian! I know it’s not the realm of psychology, but I have to admit: Wal-Mart and the egregious casino going up near my home (in place of gorgeous abandoned structures) is really unsettling my mind. Do you offer free psychiatric consultations?

In a sense, miniature golf is as artistic as the Louvre, Stonehenge, and the numerous statues, buildings, and monuments that tower over the Lilliputian greens. Like art, the design of a course changes in the realm of time, and attracts the people of its age. Like cinema, miniature golf is a variant of art for the masses. It is the greatest unknown art of the American landscape and its artists are the capitalistic craftsmen that satiated the lower and middle class of their appetite for culture. In support of such a claim, the various ages of miniature golf course design below will be corresponded with periods and figures in traditional art.

Romantic Era Emergence (REE) (1867-1916)

What is “essentially the oldest miniature golf course” is the Ladies’ Putting Club in St. Andrews, Scotland (Carlson). It was formed in 1867, and has a limited membership. Its highlight is the Himalayas, an 18-hole putting green. The club was initially for practical purposes since it was then “considered unacceptable for women to take the club back past their shoulder” (Emory 42). Though the purpose of the course was once for women, who comprise the majority of the membership, it is known as one of the most prestigious greens on the British Isles, and has been played by Ben Crenshaw, Peter Jacobsen, Tom Watson, Craig Stadler and George Bush Sr (Emory 44).

The early miniature courses, including the Himalayas, were one of three types: the pitch and putt, the regulation par-3, and the executive course (Gaylor 3). At that time, games of miniature golf involved the use of two clubs: the putter and a short driver. Courses were usually from 50 to 100 yards (“London” 16). They retained the architectural plans and landscaping techniques of the regulation course, with undulating hills, verdant forests, sand traps, and ponds (See Appendix A).

Appendix A: A miniature course layout from a 1927 book on golf course design and construction. The Par-3 course was the typical Romantic Era mini-golf course design. (source: Thomas)

These early courses imitated nature in all aspects. They reflected the Romantic era paintings of John Constable, one of the most famous British Landscape artists of his time (See Appendix B).

Appendix B: John Constable’s Tree Trunks. The Romantics focused on the fleeting and unpredictable aspects of nature, and, like Constable, captured changes in season, weather, and light. Similarly, the Miniature Golf course of 1867-1916 was like the typical golf course: naturally Romantic (source: Pioch).

Notice the curvilinear roads and random setting of the greens in appendix A. This was the typical American miniature golf course of the early 20th century. Most were located at hotels and resorts, and therefore were not yet available to the masses. The only artificial aspect of the REE course was the ubiquitous clubhouse. The clubhouse is the shrine and axis mundi of the mini-golf course, and it has remained as a common element of the course, even in contemporary times.

Post-Romantic Classicism (PRC) (1916-1926)

Following the First World War, Americans viewed industry much differently. Concurrently, the ‘city efficient movement’ was at its apogee. City planning was in full swing, and– it seemed– traditional classicism was returning, even on the miniature golf course.

In 1916, James Barber of Pinehurst, North Carolina, designed Thistle Dhu, the first quintessential miniature golf course. Word has it, that after having seen his finished course, Barber declared to his designer “This’ll do!” and an American icon was born (Margolies 14). The plan of Barber’s Thistle Dhu was as much Classical as the Par-3 was Romantic. The plan resembles the preeminent source of neo-classical landscape design, the Tuileries Garden at the Louvre. Geometric shapes are coupled with symmetric walkways, fountains, and planters (see appendix C).

Appendix C: The “Thistle Dhu” plan for James Barber’s estate, compared with a garden at the Louvre

DaVinci’s anatomical drawings closely resemble the anatomical plan of Thistle Dhu. Though DaVinci is widely considered a Renaissance artist, his work is highly classical in style. DaVinci reasoned that every natural form could be represented in geometric shapes. His sketch of Vitruvian Man is one of the most famous works of the Renaissance, though the overt geometric patterns in the sketch point to a Greco-roman classicism (appendix D).

Appendix D: DaVinci’s Vitruvian Man. This sketch by the artist and innovator, Leonardo DaVinci, illustrates the omniprescence of geometry in life and art. PRC miniature golf courses espoused geometry as a guiding framework.

The elements of the PRC miniature golf course– much like Classical works of art– were constructed from more artificial materials. Concrete stepping stones and artificial fountains were intertwined with endemic species and natural grass (appendix E).

Appendix E: A photo of Barber’s Thistle Dhu course. Notice the symmetry in the stepping-stones and path in the middle, as well as the integration of the natural and fabricated (source: Margolies 15)

No longer were miniature golf courses curvilinear and relatively spacious. By 1920, they became compact, efficient, geometric, and above all, Classical.

Sterile Minimalist (SM) (1926-1950)

The Great Depression coupled with a high demand for miniature golf resulted in one of the greatest “art for the masses” movements in American history. Miniature golf was less expensive than its counterpart, the picture show, and was also a more engaging activity. Though the artistic value of the depression era movies is often highlighted, miniature golf courses were equally artistic, in a sterile/minimalist sense.

The year 1926 marked the beginning of the most successful time in the history of miniature golf. No longer was miniature golf for the elite estate-owners or Scottish ladies. In 1926, “a pair of high-rolling promoters built a pocket course on the roof of a skyscraper in New York City’s financial district” (Bond, 120). It was not long before the Manhattan skyline was pockmarked with rooftop miniature golf courses. After the invention of the dyed cottonseed hull carpet that same year- a revolutionary step for mini-golf- Manhattan gave birth to around 150 rooftop courses; each one was highly successful (Bond 120)(appendix f).

Appendix F: A Rooftop Course in Manhattan above the Hotel White (source: Margolies 68).

Miniature golf courses were inevitably losing their individual quirks with the initiation of the first miniature golf franchise, Tom Thumb Golf, in 1929. It was estimated that the average prefabricated course could be installed and open for business within six days (Liebs 141). As the stock market took a dive, Garnet Carter’s Tom Thumb Empire boomed. Tom Thumb was becoming the McDonalds and Pepsi of the early ’30s. Of the approximate twenty-five thousand courses in the U.S. at the time, nearly 25%– or six thousand– were patented Tom Thumb designs (Liebs 141). The individual empire became a corporate one during the high point of mini-golf, and artistic assets were thrown out the window for quick output and maximum profit (appendix G).

Appendix G: During the bleak Depression years, Miniature golf was portrayed as a patented savior and emerging “Big Business,” rather than a means of individual expression and creation. The subsequent downfall of mini-golf in 1931 proves that it was perceived as more than it truly was. True art’s monetary value is volatile (source: Margolies, 32).

Appendix H: Sol LeWitt’s 1-2-3-4-5, 1980. Compare with the minimalist mini-golf plan below (source: MCA Chicago).

Miniature Golf historian John Margolies calls this era the “1930 Gold Rush.” It was a time when capitalistic individuals could use their ingenuity and creativity with the hope of striking it rich. With limited funds, course builders were apt to rely on scrap metal, cheap construction materials, and seedy locations. Therefore, it is no surprise that miniature golf courses were often associated with racketeering (Haller). Nonetheless, the makeshift fashion of the non-corporate, non-franchised SM most closely resembled Post-Modern minimalists, such as Sol LeWitt (see appendix H).

Appendix I: A late SM plan for a miniature golf course in a basement, ca. 1950. A good SM plan always allowed for a possibility of eagles (one stroke finishes) for every hole. (source: Popular Mechanics, June 1950).

Much like LeWitt’s sculptures, the superfluous elements of the SM course were taken out, such as landscaping, unnecessary hazards, and even benches. Courses reverted to indoor locations, artificial lighting was introduced, and a sort of Fordist efficiency reigned (appendix I).

Appendix J: The classic miniature golf minimalist feature: the ‘Loop-Di-Loop’ (source: Hulton Archive)

The loop-di-loop is the ultimate example of an SM course hazard. It is made from a metallic steel or aluminum, painted in monochrome, and presents a simple hazard with the least possible distraction (appendix J).

Similar to LeWitt’s sculptures, the “fluff” is omitted in most SM courses. A Smithsonian author aptly described the reason for MiniGolf Minimalism: “As the problems of ordinary life mushroom(ed) out of manageable proportions, (the miniature golf course) was a place where everything (was) brought down to less-than-size” (Bond 120).

Cultural Renaissance (1950~1990)

In 1931 miniature golf took a dive akin to the stock market, two years earlier. Though the most popular courses managed to stay afloat, the height of miniature golf was over. ‘Midget Golf’ was no longer the primary get-rich-quick scheme of the 1930s Gold Rush. It evolved into a competitive business that made meager profits. But what Chester H. Liebs calls mini golf’s “postwar reincarnation” changed the landscape of the putting greens dramatically (Liebs 145). Americans were driving more. Everyone had a car, and freeways became the arteries of America; they also became the salvation of miniature golf.

It was during the second half of the 20th century that mini-golf became widely known as goofy golf, crazy golf, and wacky golf. In order to attract the highway gawkers, massive monuments were the moneymakers for the new courses. The larger, the better, since size attracted the most attention. Equally important to size was shock. A fantastic monument, sphinx, castle, windmill, or gold mine were all common on the new courses (appendix K).

Appendix K: Miniature Golf’s Renaissance is undeniable. A photo collage of Renaissance Era creations is depicted below (source: John Margolies collection).

Though the religious following of miniature golf was not quite as rabid as it was during the Depression Era, it had developed into a full-blown art. No longer did it imitate the art of the past or present, but it defied the norms and created its own genre. Lint Hatcher, founder of Wonder Magazine, says about Mini Golf’s renaissance:

Somehow, during the Fifties, the classic form of miniature golf took hold. Mini-golf designers could unconsciously assume certain basics, a general atmosphere and approach. And that meant they could spend their conscious energy figuring out how to “do their own thing” with the particulars. They knew how to bake the cake, but what kind of icing were they going to use and how were they going to decorate it (Hatcher)?

Appendix L: An aerial view of a Texas miniature golf course. This photograph effectively shows the conglomeration of uses and aesthetic interests. A multinomic order is apparent in the sedimentation of various icons and designs throughout miniature golf’s history (source: “Houston, TX - Mini-golf course”).

With the inadvertent funding coming from suburban families and dating teenagers the covert artists of miniature golf sculptures had free reign over their creations. Less constrictive ordinances allowed highway-side adventure courses to be a conglomeration of business and artistic expression (Liebs 146-7). The more radical and out-of-this world– the more expressionistic their works were– the better. Their investors- 10-year-olds, teenagers, dad and mom- were more than eager to relish in the works along the tapestry of 18 greens. They were experiencing art rather than simply looking at it. They were dating, interacting, competing, and viewing cultural icons all at once. The miniature golf course was the essence of 20th century ‘multinomic’ order (appendix L).

It was art, but not only that; it was so much more-a reflection of economy, history, and society all at once. The two growing meccas of miniature golf, Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and Southern California, were indications of such multinomic order. Myrtle Beach is a tourist hub; Southern California is the hearth of American suburbia. It was in the suburban sprawl and tourist trap that miniature golf found its ultimate home, where it became defined as one of the greatest roadside arts of the twentieth century.

In the Cultural Renaissance era of miniature golf’s history, the transition from its status as ‘kitsch’ art into a unique genre occurred. Miniature golf no longer became pretentious imitation when artists after 1980 incorporated full-scale courses in art museums across the nation. Rather than imitation, it became art’s newest inspiration. It was a part of the “collective consciousness of America,” or part of our own unique habitus (Bond) (appendix M).

Appendix M: Miniature golf’s Cultural Renaissance has inspired a number of contemporary artists as adventure golf became part of America’s collective identity (source: Margolies).

As a facet of collective consciousness, it also became a tool for social change and education. In 1995, artist Ken Buhler toured “Putt-Modernism” throughout U.S. art museums. “Putt-Modernism” is described in a 1994 issue of Sports Illustrated:

Players are challenged to putt around or through, among other weird objects, a White House made of empty bottles of AZT and Zovirax (both are drugs used to combat AIDS) on the par-2 Blood on Your Hands 7th hole, the sole of a blue-faced homeless man’s shoe on the par-3 Hole-In-My-Soul Blues 17th hole, and the 20 waving arms of an inflatable Jesse Helms look-alike clown, into a bed of inflated breasts on the par-3 15th hole, Censorama. An afternoon of culture as well as a rousing round of miniature golf can be had for a mere $5 (Putnam 6).

Hatcher expounds on the artistic relevance of mini-golf, and summarizes the ultimate reason why miniature golf is not simply kitsch: “It’s seeing the Empire State Building the way the sun sees it, the way a hurricane sees it, the way God sees it: as an incredibly intricate man-made wonder that is to be treasured and appreciated not only for its grandeur but for its smallness, even its mortality.” From 1950 to 1990 miniature golf did just that. It messed with the American perspective of ‘Big’ and ‘Small,’ ‘Life’ and ‘Death.’ In the inanimate sculptures of mini-golf courses children and adults found a certain dreamy vitality. But, like the wings of a butterfly, the most aesthetically overlooked things are often ephemeral; Renaissance courses were going to the wrecking balls, and perishing in the final stage and end of its innocence. Twenty-first century corporatism was taking over.

Corporate Mini-Golf (~1990–>)

Appendix N: The corporate miniature golf ventures must take a variety of factors into consideration. Aesthetically pleasing locations are sacrificed for Interstate-side ‘locational advantage.’ Below is the proposed site of a miniature golf course in Maryland. Notice the freeway arteries that would support the course (source: Plecker).

The franchises of the SM period were peanuts compared to the current international conglomerates of mini-golf corporations. Golf-N-Stuff, Putt-Putt, Scandia, Goofy Golf, and Adventure Golf-all of these patented name brand mini-golf courses have become profit ventures. Entrepreneurs prosaically refer to most as Urban Entertainment Centers (UEC’s) or, more often, Family Entertainment Centers (FEC’s) (Hunter and Bleinberger 4).

FEC’s usually contain a hodge-podge of amusement attractions (bumper boats, Indy cars), video arcades, batting cages, and, of course, the mini golf course. The location of the FEC is no longer determined by the designer’s preference, but by demographical studies, case studies, and ‘locational advantage theory’ (appendix n).

The competitive environment of the FEC niche requires that initial investment be prohibitively high, sometimes as high as $500,000 (“Getting” par.9). Gone are the days of the mom-and-pop makeshift setups; no longer could a kid from Brooklyn turn up 1000% profit each week with an initial investment of $0.90 and pilfered or donated materials (appendix O).

Appendix O: Sidney Schoenbrun, a thirteen-year-old boy from Brooklyn, appeared in newspapers and magazines across the country as the “Brooklyn Boy” who made “good.” The photo below is of twelve-year-old Julius Hamilton’s course in Ozone Park, New York. Hamilton ingeniously chose the empty lot because it was below an illuminated billboard, and thus could be played at night. There were a number of such “pipsqueak” entrepreneurs who took advantage of the 1930s Gold Rush. Corporatism discourages such makeshift/individual operations and ensures their failure (Margolies, 55).

Money, Mini-Golf, Art, and Ahead

American consumerism has become miniature golf’s public enemy #1, indeed, Art’s worse nightmare. No longer is ‘trash’ turned into art, like it was during the Depression miniature golf craze; rather, our important and most overlooked art is now disposable, but not precious, given a value, but not valuable. Prosperity has been the death of miniature golf’s Renaissance. Ironically, mini-golf’s most successful years are during economic strife (Monroe 73). Perhaps this indicates that people place a different kind of value on miniature golf-something that cannot be expressed in terms of paper, green ink or gold.

Perhaps, mini-golf encompasses much of our identity as Americans, and when we drive by a dilapidated or demolished course, we think only of nostalgia for something that became part of us that summer day when we were 12, or that sultry night when we putted to the music of young love. Whatever the case, mini-golf has become something more than plaster and chicken wire; it is the repository of dead artists’ dreams and the hot seat of our heritage. However banal, violent, victorious, or artistic that heritage can be, miniature golf has captured it all.

SYNOPSIS

• Romantic Era Emergence (1867-1916): associated with romanticism, meticulously landscaped courses with lakes and trees. Built to resemble nature and to imitate the natural golf course-esque attributes, only smaller.
• Post-Romantic Classicism (1916-1926): Geometric shapes, time-saving, yet still artistic.  Made from natural materials (real grass, endemic species, stepping stones).
• Sterile Minimalist (1926-1950): Often constructed from material on hand, little or no landscaping, low overhead cost, constructed on rooftops and parking lots; can be prefabricated.  Once mini-golf became adopted by the masses, it became more of a packaged product than art.  Indoor courses. Scientific management. Mass Production/Fordist approach.
• Cultural Rennaisance (1950~1990): Creative cultural icons, courses reflected iconographic symbols of imagination, became more difficult and complicated.  Multi-leveled, complex, unique, synthetic, family-oriented, mom-and-pop/individual ventures. The apogee of mini-golf as an art.
• Corporate MiniGolf (~1990—->): Losing artistic aspects, but is dictated rather by surveys and demographics for maximum profit.  Like the movies, the funding goes to the money making venture, and not the most socially beneficial. Conglomerated with other mass-marketed entertainment ventures. Associated with amusement parks. Not an experience, but a game. With the downfall of the economy, miniature golf becomes more popular, but also less artistic. See articles on FEC’s and UEC’s.

WORKS CITED

Bond, Constance. “We couldn’t stop playing to save our soles.” Smithsonian,
June 1987 v18 p120.

Carlson, Todd A. “Our Trip to England and Scotland.” Personal Online Journal.
22 May 1999. 21 Mar. 2003.
<http://faculty.gvsu.edu/carlsont/trip/day10.htm>

Emory, Pamela. “The Ladies’ Putting Club.” Golf Journal. United States Golf Association. Sep 1996. vol 49-50.

“Getting Started: Miniature Golf.” CNN Money online. 9 Jul, 1999. 21 Mar 2003.
<http://money.cnn.com/2001/07/09/sbstarting/q_minigolf/>

Gaylor, Earl E. “Par-3 Golf: A Survey and Manual for Parks and Recreation
Departments.” American Institute of Park Executives, 1965. Bulletin No.
47.

Haller, Mark H. “Urban Crime and Criminal Justice: The Chicago Case.” The
Journal of American History, Vol. 57, No. 3. (Dec. 1970). pp. 619-635

Hatcher, Lint. “The Complete Illustrated History of Miniature Golf.” Rpt. From
Wonder Magazine. Winter 1994.

Hunter, Donald E. and Ernest E. Bleinberger. “Urban Entertainment Centers.”
Public Management. March 1996. p 4-9

Liebs, Chester H. “Main Street to Miracle Mile: American Roadside Architecture.”
Batimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1995. p 136-151.

Margolies, John. “Miniature Golf.” New York: Abbeville Press, 1987

MCA Chicago. 2003. 21 Mar. 2003.

“Miniature Golf: A Popular Game in Little.” London Times. 29 Aug, 1930. p 16.

“Miniature and Putting Courses: Insights and Opportunities.” Second Ed. Jupiter,
FL: National Golf Foundation, 1999.

Monroe, Sylvester. “Welcome to Putters Paradise.” Time. 11 Sep. 1989.
v134 n11 p 73.

Pioch, Nicholas “Constable, John” Webmuseum, Paris. 18 Sep. 2002. 21 Mar.
2003. <http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/constable/tree-trunks.jpg>

Plecker, Coleman. Coleman Plecker’s World of Golf. 1999. 21 Mar. 2003.

Thomas, George C. “Golf Architecture in America: Its Strategy and Construction.”
Los Angeles: Times-Mirror Press, 1927.