Austin Dam and Bayless Paper Mill

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

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

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

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

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

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







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

Ashley Coal Breaker

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

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





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





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





Miners' homes used to surround the Huber.



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













The view was incredible.



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



Another sorting table, farther down.



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



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



Looking down at the office from a floor up.





Despite the arsonists, a few work papers remained.











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









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









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



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









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



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



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







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

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

Byrnesville Washhouse

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

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

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









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

The roof is in bad shape.







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









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









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

Joanna Furnace and Railroad Graveyard

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



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







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











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





We got ourselves lost, and passed through this:



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



















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

Linfield Industrial Park

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

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

Frick's Lock

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

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

Ten Lonesome Miles: The Abandoned PA Turnpike

Once a turnpike, now Mecca to road geeks.

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





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



One of the first rumble strips.



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







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















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





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



Finally, our favorite bit of graffiti from the trip. "Only wissy ride bike through here."

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

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

Centralia at Night

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

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

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

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

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

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



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





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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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



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

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

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

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

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