Bearings » Roadside Architecture

Abandoned Gary – A Lost Metropolis of Indiana Industry

Jonathan Haeber — Sun, 07 Jun 2009 05:02:00 +0000

Making the drive from Chicago to Detroit, along Interstate 90 is a lot like traveling back in time. The modern roadside outside of Chicago slowly seems to recede into oblivion along the way. Factories and coal fired power stations crop up, and suddenly the hulking mass of the Gary Union Station passes your window – a blemished reminder of a once-grand past.

Though Gary is only 30 minutes from downtown Chicago, it could just as well be in a third world country. Drive through downtown Gary, and you’ll find yourself on a barren boulevard, buffeted on each side by abandoned social clubs, theater marquees, and beauty shops. In the span of about 1/2 a mile of Broadway Avenue, once an exemplar of Main Street USA, you’ll find the buildings to be nothing more than decaying time capsules awaiting their inevitable “demolition by neglect.”

I’m a West Coast native. Everyone with us on the drive to Detroit had never been to the Rust Belt before. Was this the American Hestia of steel we had been taught about in our high school History textbooks? Somehow, it seemed these books had become outdated in little more than a decade. Gary soon makes you realize the pitfalls of modern, free-market capitalism, unhindered by checks and balances, a boom-town driven purely by the motive of profit. What’s truly unfortunate is that Carnegie Steel is long gone, but the children and grandchildren of the men who built Gary are stuck in a place that has little in its future, and a rut of steel to try to dig out from.

Today, much of our steel is imported; our manpower is exported. Our unions no longer exist — at least not in the sense that they once did, when over 40% of the American workforce were members of a union. If Gary is our example, and steel work is the epitome of work, then we are no longer the “Workers of the World.” When I myself brood over our post-industrial lot, I often like to reflect on a little-known introduction by playwright Arthur Miller in a book about Cartier-Bresson. Miller says of Cartier-Bresson’s photos of the decaying roadsides of 1950s U.S.:

The very horizon is often oppressive, jagged with junked cars, the detritus of consumer culture, which after all is a culture of planned waste, engineered obsolescence. Whatever lasts is boring, what demands its own replacement energizes our imaginations.

After rolling up to a side street from Broadway, the five us found the mouldering marquee of a hulking theater on the corner. The lettering advertised the appearance of the “Jackson Five: Live Tonight.” Certainly in jest, the marquee held its own ironical ode to the family that made Gary famous — perhaps more famous than its steel moguls. We peeked inside of the theater to find a different world than the one just outside. Orange seats in the trademark hue of the 1970s stank of mold and rotting wood. The seat cushions themselves were strewn all around the theatre grounds, which had turned from wood or cement (whatever may have been there before) into a mass of organic, decaying dirt, all harboring its own garden of tenacious flora. A grand piano, sans legs, lay belly-down in the orchestra pit, and the original tapestry-like curtain still hung from its rods high above on the stage, itself depicting a lively mediterranean scene but darkened by years of decay.

It was no longer a theater of echoes, as it likely once was. Our voices carried off into the many holes that weathering had created. Towards the front lobby, up a set of grand, iron-wrought staircases, I fortuitously stumbled inside one of those holes to find that it was a passageway into a completely different building. The building that adjoins the theater is just as incredible as the theater itself. It’s a hodge-podge of apartments and doctor’s offices, connected by cavernous hallways filled with tumbled bricks and a thick, 30-year-layer of dirt. Trumble beds, long collapsed from their closets in the wall, appeared in the middle of rooms. Chairs and pieces of artwork still remained in the rooms.

Deep inside one of the kitchens of these apartments, hidden beneath a caked layer of dust, I discovered a single seashell, likely left by the flat’s last inhabitant in the 70s. It was perhaps the most eerie artefact I’ve discovered during my life as an explorer, simply because of its minimalist display of a life past lived in a place that is geographically distant from the sea. I was forced to visualize the building at its zenith, when young professionals flocked to these apartments, filled with big dreams and a bright future. The reality is that this building probably ended its life as a slum, only to decline into vacancy along with Gary’s entire downtown corridor.

I returned to the theater and hobbled among the cushions for a few minutes. Emerging out of the exit into the light, I felt as if my whole life’s outlook had been altered by a single, hulking brick structure. Everyone had a look of shock on their faces. But Gary was just the beginning of our trip. We had to find the next place to discover. So, with heavy hearts, we hopped into our rental van and departed for another abandonment, another adventure.

Holy Land: Religion Abandoned in Connecticut

Sean Fraga — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 02:07:55 +0000

There is a cross atop a hill in Waterbury, Connecticut. The cross is fifty feet tall and made of steel. Below it, ten-foot-tall neon letters spell out HOLY LAND U.S.A, a ‘testament’ to the religious amusement park, now closed, that occupies the site. The sign and the cross are still illuminated at night, the electric bill paid by the two nuns who live next to the property. Holy Land was an amusement park, built in the mid-1950s by a local lawyer named John Greco; the park was aimed at educating visitors in Christian doctrine by showing them scenes from the life of Christ.

Holy Land did not have rides or roller coasters — just an earnest desire to teach. This lofty goal was accomplished with simple materials — plaster, concrete, plywood, and tin siding. Since its closure in 1984, the park has slowly crumbled to become a ruin of religious proportions.

The entrance to Holy Land. The wood-and-plaster architecture is found throughout the park, as is the faux-ancient-Palestinian style.

Holy Land is easy to find and easier to access. Drive towards the cross, prominent on one of Waterbury’s tallest hills, or follow any of several road signs that local authorities still — after 25 years — managed not to remove. Then walk around the locked gate, hoping that the nuns don’t see you. (The nuns, part of the Religious Teachers Filippini, do not seem especially vigilant.)

Jerusalem in miniature. Each building is between eight and twelve inches tall.

Just inside the entrance is a set of archways, labeled “Holy Land — Jerusalem.” These lead to the heart of the park, a rocky hill covered in miniature buildings. It feels like the type of thing your wacky uncle might build in his backyard. The buildings, most made of plaster and wood, are meant to represent Jerusalem as it existed during the life of Jesus Christ. The original installation used a crude version of forced perspective, placing larger buildings closer to the path.

This building is about three feet tall.

The park seems to maintain a fine balance between between sincerity and kitsch: A building next to the path, about the size of a large doghouse, has caved in on itself. Across its front, the letters spell out “HEROD’S PALACE,” but the style of the letters suggests something your father might have picked up at the corner hardware store to nail the family name above the front door; really, that describes most of the park.

The tiny buildings are pieced together from plywood. Tin siding has been bent into columns, then crudely covered with plaster. House paints, in mid-20th-century colors, have transformed a motley collection of tiny shacks into a vision of the Middle East. Of the Holy Land.

The stainless-steel cross is different. In a clearing at the top of the hill, beyond the crumbling Jerusalem, it feels clean and no-nonsense, an architecture reminiscent of US military bases and mid-century hospitals. The welds are precise, the angles sharp. It is also new, the second such cross to crown the site. Its predecessor, replaced last year, was six feet taller and made of neon, but both were meant to last. They towered above Waterbury and were visible from the highways–I-84, CT-8–that pass beneath the park. From the top of the hill, Waterbury and the Brass Mill Mall stretch out beneath you.

The Hollywood-style letters were also renovated, by Boy Scouts in 1997. Together, the cross and letters burn bright in Waterbury’s night sky. That’s the paradox of Holy Land. It is abandoned, derelict, and falling in on itself, but still able to summon compassion and care from those around it. Every attempt to demolish the park has brought protests. The cross and letters remain lit at night because they are a local icon, a vital part of Waterbury.

We spent about 40 minutes in the park and left just after sunset. It’s a small park. It is also decaying quickly. The miniature sphinx visible in various photos online has lost its face. A life-size tin statue of Jesus holding a lamb has been lopped off at the shin, the upper part of His body now gone. The concrete rock garden built by Boy Scouts barely a decade ago–HONOR GOD, it used to read–has been vandalized, so that it now reads HONOR COD.

Inside the park, there are few hazards beyond underbrush and pricker bushes. The paths, like the rest of the park, are overgrown, and trash–mostly beer cans–abounds. The park’s existence is no secret, and it seems especially popular with local teenagers.

Holy Land is gone, but not forgotten. People still care about the park–the nuns with the electric bill, the Boy Scouts who replaced the sign, the photographers and explorers who still frequent its grounds. I’d like to be able to pin an adjective on my experience, to summon a word that encapsulates the park. But I can’t, really. The park wasn’t creepy, wasn’t thrilling. It had none of the drama or tragedy of Six Flags New Orleans. Despite the decayed statuary, there was nothing about it that summoned “Ozymandias.” Mostly it felt innocent. It is one man’s loving paean to a religion. It is a material hymn sung to Jesus Christ.

Further Research:

Roadside America has an entry on Holy Land, including photos and instructions for getting there.
Two relatively recent New York Times articles, here and here, detail the ongoing plans to save or restore Holy Land.
Roadtrip Memories has excellent collection of vintage photos of Holy Land, including construction shots.
More vintage photos and postcards are in this Flickr set.

Abandoned: Six Flags New Orleans

Sean Fraga — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 06:47:16 +0000

The Bus/RV entrance to Six Flags New Orleans. The barbed-wire fence was added after the storm. June, 2008.

Interstate 10 curves up and out of New Orleans, looping out of the Big Easy and chasing the Gulf Coast towards points east. About thirty minutes outside the city, just after the I-510 interchange, a set of faded blue structures rises on the southern horizon. These are the derelict roller coasters of Six Flags New Orleans, which closed in advance of Hurricane Katrina and has yet to reopen.

The park was not so much shut down as abandoned—sacrificed, almost, to the encroaching storm. Merchandise stayed on shelves, electronics remained in place, and the logs in the flume ride were left stuck halfway up their plastic hills. The sole preparation for Katrina seems to be a message on the park’s signboard, still visible more than three years later: CLOSED FOR STORM.

The empty and overgrown parking lot for Six Flags New Orleans, with roller coasters on the horizon.

The property opened as Jazzland in 2000. Rides such as the Bayou Blaster and The Big Easy Ferris Wheel were sprinkled through lands with similarly local-sounding names, including ‘Cajun Country’ and the ‘French Quarter.’ After low visitor numbers forced Jazzland into bankruptcy, Six Flags purchased the park in 2002. The park was rebranded as Six Flags New Orleans and expanded, but the expansion did little to improve the park’s profitability. Since Hurricane Katrina, the park has been derelict, with Six Flags claiming that insurance disputes are holding up the re-opening of the park.

The park as it appeared immediately after Hurricane Katrina. Photos from the online forums of Theme Park Review.

Six Flags New Orleans was flooded by Hurricane Katrina. After the storm, the park sat in water that was between four and six feet deep for several weeks. After the waters had receded, the parking lots were used as a staging area for FEMA trailer distribution. The trailers are still visible in the Google Maps satellite view of the park.

The Gator Bait Air Boat ride.

Since the storm, Six Flags has removed some ride equipment from the park, refurbishing it and deploying it to other Six Flags properties. “Batman: The Ride” has been rebuilt as “Gotham” at Six Flags Fiesta Texas. Awnings, light posts, security cameras, and other salvageable equipment has also been sent to other Six Flags properties, an invisible diaspora of amusement park ephemera.

The park’s Main Street Square, just inside the main entrance.

More interesting than what Six Flags has taken from the park is what they have left behind. The level of preservation is incredible. Parts of the park look as if they were abandoned only hours earlier. Stores, restaurants, rides were all still standing and unlocked when I visited this past summer.

An abandoned restaurant in Cajun Country.

In part, the park owes this level of preservation to its location in a desolate stretch of suburban New Orleans East, about half an hour outside of New Orleans proper. There was some graffiti and some vandalism—coin-operated lockers, vending machines, and cash registers had all been forced open—but overall, there was very little sign of human presence or activity, especially recent activity.

In a merchandise kiosk, Tweety Birds and Scooby-Doos await purchase by children who will never arrive.

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Video from the park while it was active.

Even three years later, Katrina remains the strongest presence in the park. The remaining merchandise approximates how high the waters rose: Everything still on shelves was above the waterline. The surrounding bayou has started to reclaim the park, and plants are encroaching on walkways and threading themselves through rides. This part of New Orleans is sinking, at up to 2 inches per year. In 10 years, Six Flags New Orleans may again be underwater.

I spent about an hour inside the park and covered most of the south side. What I found most interesting is how the park is historically flat: Most places, especially in New Orleans, have layers upon layers of history, capturing decades of construction, demolition, change, and reuse, each layer with its own story.

Six Flags has none of those layers: The park is so young—barely 10 years old, and derelict for the last three—that it has very little history. There was nothing before Jazzland but swamps; the park came from the swamps and to the swamps it will return. The ersatz theming of the amusement park heightens that feeling of emptiness. Not only is there nothing here, but what is here isn’t even real.

An abandoned photo kiosk, with computers, receipt printers, and sample photos still there.

The future of the property is complicated by the ownership arrangement between Six Flags and the City of New Orleans. The land is owned by the city, and Six Flags is committed to a 75-year lease requiring it to operate the park. Both Six Flags and the City owe money on a $25 million construction loan from the Department of Housing and Urban Development.

The Joker continues to survey his overgrown domain.

The city is loath to allow Six Flags to exit the lease, because it would have to assume the full burden of the HUD loan. Other companies have approached Six Flags about buying the property, with grand ideas about a water park or a full-scale resort, but none of these ideas have solidified.

A look across the park’s central lagoon, formerly Jazz Lake.

For the time being, the park remains caught in a post-Katrina catch-22: it is both too expensive to rebuild and too expensive to abandon.

Further Research:

The official Six Flags New Orleans website has carried the same message for three years.
Six Flags New Orleans has an unofficial fan site, SNFO.com. The website has maps, forums, a comprehensive photo archive, and ongoing updates about the future of the park.
Recent Times-Picayune coverage, here and here.
The park has spawned several tribute videos on YouTube, which show the park when it was active.
A collection of photos on Shutterfly, likely taken by a Six Flags employee, show the extent of the flooding.
A high-resolution satellite photo shows the park during flooding.

Fleishhacker Pool – A Strange Journey Through S.F. History

Jonathan Haeber — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 06:18:35 +0000

Drive to the San Francisco Zoo, and you’ll notice a fenced-off and decrepit building next to the parking lot. The “bath house” is all that is left of what was once the world’s largest pool. In fact, under the asphalt parking lot, the structure of the Fleishhacker Pool still sits, perhaps waiting to be excavated by future generations.

The year was 1921 and only a few years earlier, a grand scheme to bring water to the city of San Francisco came to fruition. Despite the protests of John Muir, the Spring Valley Water Company had succeeded in transporting fresh glacier water hundreds of miles from Yosemite to San Francisco. The Fleishhacker Pool was a final capstone in the symbolic “watering” of San Francisco, and the city of San Francisco had spared no expense.

: Landholdings of the Spring Valley Water Company

Spring Valley Water Company was the quintessential symbol of Pork Barrel Spending in post-Earthquake San Francisco. The company had used ruthless lobbying to derail John Muir’s efforts to save Hetch Hetchy. Spring Valley Water was so effective at reaping the rewards of politicians that they literally convinced Congress to turn what would become part of a National Park into the personal Bethsheba of San Francisco. To this day, the city depends on the water of Hetch Hetchy, but it came at a cost – the valley was considered only second to Yosemite Valley itself before it was inundated by the waters of the dam.

None of this controversy takes away from the beauty of the pool’s grand construction. There was little public discussion of the kickback made to Spring Valley Water for the land “given” to the city. The Fleishhacker Pool opened in April of 1925 to a crowd of 5,000. Butressing the edge of the the pool was the 450-foot-long Bath House — a Mediterranean, Italianate structure with three elaborate entrances, all surrounded by an Ionic order of pilasters. Inside were separate wings for men, women, and children. These wings were naturally illuminated by 22 skylights. Upstairs was a grand restaurant that looked out to the 1000-foot-long pool on one side and the Pacific Ocean on the other.

: Fleishacker Bath House Plans

How did this beautiful building and its record-setting pool come about? It was an eminent San Francisco banker, Herbert Fleishhacker, who decided to build it. In the 1927 book, Financing an Empire, he was called, “One of the most influential, progressive, and valuable businessmen of the Golden State.” Still others, including the author of a 1932 letter to the Editor in Time Magazine, had an entirely opposite view of the man as a “sugar daddy” to San Francisco Mayor Rolph’s campaigns. Fleishhacker, the man, was only second to Gianninni of Bank of America, when it it came to California Banking Dominance. His bank would eventually hold $200,000,000 in deposits.

: Herbert Fleishhacker, the Conceiver and Mastermind Behind the Pool

Whether he was acting with smart business sense, or if he truly wanted to provide a place of civic benefit we’ll probably never know. But as a result of his efforts as commissioner of the San Francisco Parks commission, Fleishhacker spearheaded the campaign to construct the pool. The direct beneficiary of the massive public project was the Spring Valley Water Company. The total cost of the project was estimated at $1.5 million – even for the roaring twenties, this was a huge sum of money.

Throughout its five-decade history as a public swimming destination, Fleishhacker would be the setting of San Francisco’s most unique lores and legends; there was the story of the shark being sucked in through the 200-foot-long intake pipe coming from the ocean, a stove discovered in the deep end of the pool when it was drained for maintenance, and the disembodied hand reportedly found by a gardener, floating in the pool. But the real amazing facts reside in the sheer size of the pool – 1000 feet long, over 150 feet wide, and 13 feet deep at its deepest point. The pool held 6,000,000 gallons of ocean water, continually cleaned once every six weeks by becoming completely drained and sweeped and pumped clean. It had a capacity of 10,000 people. Years after its construction, when Fleishhacker was asked by one of the pool’s lifeguards why he had built such a large pool, he responded by telling the lifeguard to swim the entire length. When the lifeguard returned, he responded, “Did anyone get in your way?” The lifeguard said no; and Fleishhacker promptly replied, “That’s why.”

The Fleishhacker Pool would be a place of rest and relaxation for almost five decades until an unfortunate storm had destroyed its outake and intake pipe. It closed in 1971.

I made my first pilgrimage to the site on a foggy summer day. Finding my way in, along with a fellow photographer, we discovered that the interior of the Bath House had turned into an elaborate tapestry for the local homeless. The grand staircases and rooms that once had been a dining room were partioned off and served as private quarters for the homeless. It was as if a mansion had been inhabited by survivors after the end of a nuclear winter. Natural light had brought out the mad ramblings of drug-induced artistic liberty. Purple and green paint, wherever the homeless could procure it, covered the walls. All matter of junk and detritus had found its way somehow through the tiny entrance. Once inside, this junk was turned to utilitarian purposes. A plastic bag became a lampshade. AN old, broken camping stove was the new mess hall. Huge trash bags were full of dried Marijauna; and 2x4s were haphazardly nailed together on a wall to create a makeshift bookcase – full of pulp novels.

Everything about the inside of the Fleishhacker Bath House seethed addiction and madness; yet it was beautiful at the same time, both for what it had become and what it once was. My fellow photographer, who had gone with me, said that one of the local homeless who lived in the bath house was recently pushed down an elevator shaft and had died. The door to his room was cracked open. Posted next to it was his last note (written before he passed away): “YOU HEARTLESS BASTARDS. DO NOT COME INTO MY ROOM. DON’T you have any respect for privacy!!!” Of course, nobody had paid attention to the note. Kids, probably recently back from a night out and in search of drugs or money, had rifled through his things. His pots and pans, his bed sheets and belongings were strewn all over – the leftovers of a fruitless search in thievery.

I will never forget my visit to the Fleishhacker Bath House. It was the most surreal experience among all of the buildings I’ve photographed. If you ever find yourself on the coast of San Francisco, you should pull off to the side of the Great American Highway. Walk around the bath house, and imagine what it was like, 80 years ago, when the pool hosted thousands a day, and swimmers went the equivalent of ten laps in a single, straight line South.

Abandoned Hotels of the Catskills Borscht Belt

Jonathan Haeber — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 09:38:46 +0000

Indoor Pool at Grossinger's

I had first read about the Catskills in an Art Spiegelman graphic novel. It was – perhaps satirically – depicted as a place of rest for the father in the story of Maus. The significance of the Catskills is not to be overlooked. Its history, its culture, and what it represents to our changing attitudes about the world, and our relationship with place — all of it could be made into a novel.

In fact, more than one novel has made its central subject the Castkill Mountains. It was the Borscht Belt. It was where Jewish Northeasterners sojourned. It was even where the Hudson School of Art began, and where Thomas Cole found his inspiration. What was its draw? What made it appealing to the rising class of Jewish immigrants who had finally achieved success in the shores of the Eastern Seaboard?

The Grossinger Terrace Room in its Hey-day

Today, such escapes can’t exist. They are no longer relevant, nor are they economically sustainable. When a JetBlue flight to Las Vegas costs about the same as a drive to the Mecca of early 20th-century Jewish leisure, one can easily assume that one or the other will fall by the way-side. Chances are, it’s the one that is closer to home that becomes disposable.

By the mid-90s, the vast majority of the 1100 Borscht Belt hotels had become history. Jerry Seinfeld, who was once a regular in the comedy clubs of the area’s resorts, had moved on to network TV. The areas of Sullivan County that were once the centerpiece of Jewish-American leisure could not compete with Florida, Hawaii, The Caribbean, or California.

It was at Grossinger’s Hotel that the very representation of this tragic loss became all-the-more-apparent. Today, the only thing being maintained on resort that dates back to the 19th century are the greens of the golf course. The sprawling complex of 35 buildings, 1200 acres, and once host to 150,000 guests a year, has become an eyesore of the past after closing in 1986.

The Outdoor Olympic Pool at Grossinger's in the 60s

The Grossinger Outdoor Pool Today

There is no longer an active hotel; no outdoor olympic-size swimming facility; no lounge that hosts the high-dollar comedians of their day. There is only a 1/4-full green moss-ridden pool, surrounded by invasive indoor ferns. The burgundy and white tiles are merely a vestige. Fern and freezing-and-melting water become the centerpiece of a once-grand swimming facility. Only the lounge chairs remain as they were 20 years ago, when Grossinger’s had closed its doors once and for forever.

Maus, Catskills and Spiegelman

An Abandoned Desk at the Jennie G Building in the Catskills

Reconstructing the Catskills

I have always held a high reverence for the Catskills. Few people I know had heard of the place. Perhaps it was the single frame that Spiegelman sketched of the place that attracted my imagination. There was something in the fact that it was a destination of escapism, and it was also a place – fantastical as it had become – that was the very antithesis of the horrors and the atrocities of Nazi Germany.

Drawing from old postcards, and trying to reconstruct in my mind the joy and the memories of these Catskills is a poor substitute to actually being in the place at its ap0gee. My journey to these mountains was limited to a few hours – for my jet flight back to the West was leaving the following morning. But the few hours I was there bended my mind and fractured my own notion of any sort of dimension.

Deep under the boiler house of Grossinger’s, for example, one of the largest of the Borscht Belt resorts, I discovered an intricate system of man-made tunnels that snaked and kitty-cornered under the grand dining room of the hotel. It seemed to be a massive, underground refrigerator or cold-storage area, but it literally occupied a football field’s worth of underground space. Walls collapsed into each other. Ceilings succumbed to the enormous weight of the hotel above me. In certain places, the floors above me had turned into empty holes where one could stare high into the empty spaces of the higher floors after emerging from the dark recesses of the cavernous cold storage room underground.

The Hidden Tunnel at Grossinger's

Walking up to the remains of the skating rank, I encountered a left-behind pair of ice skates, children’s mittens, and a cap – all of which looked to be at least 25 years old. And in the grand wood-paneled lobby, I saw the opulence reduced to a decaying mess of soggy drywall and mossy cement.

Grossinger’s was certainly a headliner among the Catskills hotels, but the Tamarack Lodge came in as an interesting mid-tier alternative.

Experiencing Grossinger’s Hotel After its Decline

There is nothing that will ever match my experience at Grossinger’s. I’m sure that I will never again see anything quite like it. Ironically, these resorts declined as a result – in part because of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Before the landmark declaration, many Jews were either implicitly or explicitly not allowed in upscale resorts outside of the Catskills. By the time this occurred, rail service began cutting service to the area, and the jet era was about to begin. A younger generation of Jews had chosen other destinations for vacationing, and the old generation found themselves largely retiring to Florida.

Video Documenting the End of the Catskills Era

And, as a final farewell, just this last spring one of the greatest hotels of the regions was demolished. The Concord was the largest hotel in the Borscht Belt region, and had closed after serving “sumptuous kosher dining” in its 3,000-seat dining room for five decades.Today, many hotels are slated to become Indian gaming casinos – ironically serving another culture just as they once had for half a century.

The Catskills Tamarack Lodge Pool

The Catskills may no longer attract sweeping artistic movements; these mountains my no longer be the sojourn of a post-WWII community battered by the horrrors of bigotry. Downtown, in Liberty, or East Falbrook, Kiamesha, or Bethel – you won’t see the glowing marquee of a matinee or the bright lights of kosher restaurants. But underneath the branches of pine and ash trees, you might just be walking on the old remains of a skating rink or olympic swimming pool. If you do, just imagine what it was like years ago, when this place was a seasonal escape from the crowded hustle of New York City.

Bucket of Blood Legacy Outlasts Route 66

Tammy Gray-Searles — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 05:20:09 +0000

Although by the 1920s Route 66 was on its way, and the Bucket of Blood Saloon had the appearance of a respectable establishment, sidled up to a general store and across the way from an early gasoline station, the saloon still captivated travelers, who stopped in to see the bullet holes in the walls and a stain on the floor that reportedly remained from the gunfight that gave the bar its name.

In the mid-1880s, the little western Arizona town of Holbrook was known as a place “too tough for women and churches.” There was no law enforcement to speak of and a group of cow punchers from the Aztec Cattle Company had moved into the area. These cowpunchers called themselves the Hashknife Outfit, and they soon became known far and wide at the “theivinist, fightinist bunch of cowboys in the west.” Rustling cattle from other cattle companies, as well as stealing and shooting were everyday activities for the Hashknife cowboys. They were major players in the Pleasant Valley Feud, one of the longest and bloodiest land and cattle feuds in the history of the United States.

The year 1886 was a notable one for the Hashknife cowboys and the Bucket of Blood Saloon. That year alone there were 26 shooting deaths in Holbrook, a notable number for any western settlement at the time, but especially for a town with a population of only about 250. Most of the shootings were attributed either directly or indirectly to the presence of the Hashknife Outfit. The Bucket of Blood Saloon rose to infamy that year when a brutal gunfight broke out between members of the Hashknife Outfit and a group of cowboys who accused them of stealing cattle.

Gunfights and even casual gunfire were common at the Bucket of Blood, in fact, a painting hangs in the local museum bearing two bullet holes from a target competition between two betting cowboys who both turned out to be poor shots.

But the gunfight that took place was like nothing that had ever been seen in the saloon before. Historical documents don’t offer a count of how many men died or were injured, but written records say that the result was “buckets of blood” on the floor. Thus, the name of the saloon was changed to Bucket of Blood.

Today the Bucket of Blood is boarded up, and sits in a lonely part of town. The trees hide the site where one of the bloodiest gunfights of the west took place. Residents of Holbrook haven’t forgotten about the Bucket of Blood however, and now embrace the wild west history, claiming to have a past “wilder than Tombstone, but made up of events that really did happen.”

The street that runs in front of the old saloon was renamed from “Central” to “Bucket of Blood Street,” a move that landed the street on a number of top ten lists citing the most unusual street names.

Travelers going down Route 66, just a block away, still take a turn off the America’s Highway to get a glimpse of the remains of a saloon that witnessed a time in history when the west really was wild.

The saloon has stood for more than 120 years, right next to the train tracks where the cattle rustlers of yore loaded their cattle for shipment to the east, surviving floods, fires and the constant vibration of trains that continue to pass by. Much of the building was constructed using local sandstone, which lends a rich red color.

And while the beautiful stonework on the front is still in nearly pristine shape, a protective layer of stucco on the back is falling away, revealing the stacked stone construction in the back that is beginning to give way to the ravages of time.

Guadalest – An Artist’s Vision

Veronica Shine — Sat, 26 Jul 2008 18:46:27 +0000

Video describing Guadalest Spain

Spain calls out to many for its supreme beaches, fine cities and cuisine. Although the terrain in Spain is developing rapidly, many hidden jewels still remain unspoiled and hidden. Guadalest is one of them. Situated in the Marina Baja region in the Province of Alicante in the Costa Blanca, Guadalest rises above the rocks and sits on an altitude of 590 meters.

The tiny village of Guadalest offers a spectacular sight perched high above green valleys lush with apple, cherry and orange groves.

Few places in the world can combine a pant as you approach Guadalest, which stands out kilometres away on the winding roads leading to her. When nearing the summit with its picturesque white bell tower perched on top, it sets the stage for a captivating monument. One can only imagine that perhaps the Guadalest Fortress may be where Hemingway was inspired for the title of his classic novel, For Whom the Bell Tolls.

The Guadalest Fortress

The Guadalest Fortress, which existed during the invasion of the Moors, was re-conquered by the Christians in the 13th century and ruled by several Aragon kings. Following the narrow streets upward and pass the simplicity of its buildings, you will come upon a spectacular square with an awesome view looking down to valleys filled with almond, cherry and orange trees, the stunning Bernia Mountain Range and the Guadalest River. On an especially clear day, even the Med is in view being only 11KM away.

In 1974, the fortress was declared an area of historic and artistic importance. The municipality meanwhile has remained small with a population of about 204 and is a popular day trip for holiday makers and residents alike.

There are several small museums, the most impressive being Casa Orduña, which belonged to a noble family in the 16^th century. It was completely restored by the family’s descendants, whose roots are of Basque origin. The family received the title of marquis of Guadalest in 1542 by the Admirals of Aragon. T he generation of the family members served of guardians of the fortress and governors of their states.

The house sits on an irregular plot with one half supported by and overlapping the jagged rock, while the other half is adjoin to the chapel and bell tower. The structure consists of four floors.

Some of the furnishings, artwork and linens are intact. During the month of July, worldwide artists display their works against this wonderful backdrop of this manor house. There are many galleries and even in the Casa Orduña, the third floor is dedicated to art work from world wide submissions representing Guadalest and its bell tower. It is unique to see hundreds of art work depicting similar scenes and yet all individually different.

The highlight everyone waits for is a fiesta to its patron saint, La Virgen de la Asuncion held from August 14 to 17 each year.

The surrounding areas throughout Spain are filled with folklore, history, delicious food, superb wine, brilliant art and breathtaking terrain and beaches. The beauty of visiting these old pueblos is that they are never too far away from modern resorts and casinos. There will be a town somewhere not to be missed and an auto is a necessity to allow you the freedom to visit these concealed treasures without the crowds.

Forever Haunted: Cheesman Park, Denver

Arrnica Dayannandan — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 19:16:55 +0000

Living a mile high can play tricks on your psyche. Even in Denver, a tranquil day in the park may not be what it seems. Especially in Denver, you’re very likely to encounter a park with a macabre stratum.

Denver’s Cheesman Park – despite its comedic moniker (it’s actually named after the 19th century water baron of Denver, Walter S. Cheeseman) – will call out to your need for serenity. The calming aura and collection of sombre trees can be a refreshing sight. You may think that you’re finally going to get off the busy streets of the city once and for all. Looking around, you might stop and wonder what kept this place so untouched? How could such a peaceful locale remain virgin and untouched by developers? Certainly, it isn’t the 150 miles of panoramic views.

From Congress Park to Cheesman Park

To really dig into its history, you’ll need to consider its life as and former name of “Congress Park.” Even before the location was known as Congress Park, it was an abandoned and disused cemetary, full of broken coffins and grave-robbed holes. Local landowners didn’t want an abandoned cemetery bringing down land values, so real estate developers determined a park would add more to property values. Colorado Senator Teller went to the U.S. Congress to have the cemetary converted to a park. In recognition of the swift approval in Congress, Denver named the place Congress Park.

Then came the dirty work. Families of the deceased were asked to claim their corpses. For those who went unclaimed, the city inked a contract to a local undertaker known as McGovern. McGovern’s contract was terminated as a result of unscrupulous business practices. His work went incomplete, and unclaimed bodies remained underground.

Over the years Congress Park was demarcated in half by a residential community. The sale of this land towards the end of the 19^th century, gave rise to an ordinance motion being passed and approved by the City Council, thereby preventing future sale of this park.

Heroes and saints were not interred here, but rather the first to be buried here were John Stoefel and the brother-in-law that he murdered. These are the two people who never found peace in the exact place where you might be standing. So now you need to ask yourself: Why were you led to Cheeseman? Was it the unclaimed souls who couldn’t find peace in a park?

Today, Cheesman Park is host to scores of unsuspecting tango dancers. Do they know that they could be dancing over the remains of past Denverites?

Today, Cheesman Park is bounded on all four sides by the historic districts of Wyman’s Island, Humboldt’s Island and Morgan’s Island. It is one of the first residential areas in the whole of Denver that has the honor of being classified as a historic district. Its controversial history, spooky stories and beautiful landscapes make it an enigmatic location of interest for locals and tourists alike.

Nooksack: A Washington Town Left to Decay

Amy Hengst — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 04:52:02 +0000

On the long road trips I took as a kid, my Father had this habit of pointing out the window at any dilapidated old barn we passed, saying, “Now that’s the house I’m going to buy for you when you’re all grown up.”

These days, I live in a city apartment, and I’m just waiting for my father to hold good on his promise and buy me a nice abandoned shack in some remote valley. I got the shot above in northern Washington, on a road trip of my own up to Vancouver, B.C.

Road Near Nooksack

The woods in northern Washington and the Pacific Northwest coastal region were once home to native American tribes, whose worlds were shaped by the landscape and the local wildlife. Their reverence for the animals is reflected in their art, in stylized drawings of salmon, raven, deer and other creatures.

The towns up there still bear native names, some of them funny to native English speakers – Lake Ketchum, Skagit, Chuckanut. I finally pulled off the road in a place called Nooksack, hoping to get a snapshot of the town’s name and its clunky green bridge.

I never did get that shot. The road wound down and away from the bridge into open fields. What I found instead was a sleepy rural community with the remains of better times – old, rotting hulls of homes with oddities still stuffed inside their sheds – mustard and ketchup bottles, napkins, machinery.

I also discovered empty fields littered with broken trucks and tractors, rusting and melting into the grasses.

Before and after the devastating blaze that destroyed half of Nooksack.

The city of Nooksack had a population of just 851 in the 2000 census. Although it’s named for the Noxwsa7aq tribe that originally lived there, the city itself has only a small portion of Native Americans left. Nooksack experienced growth in the early 1900s, but a fire at one time cut through and left the town devastated. It was never rebuilt, and quickly declined. The post office is no longer operational, and the town now contracts major services from a nearby rival city.

Video slideshow of a March walk in Nooksack, courtesy ostosp

Today, Nooksack’s only attractions are a couple gas stations, churches, a drive-in, and a graveyard near the edge of the city. I found an abandoned home sagging into the mud beside a field of old machinery, overgrown with vines, mosses, and lichen. A rusting barrel collected rain droplets, and I regretted that I couldn’t capture the patter and plop of the rain with my camera.

Rust and lichen

Living in Oakland, California, I’ve seen decay and age, but they happen differently here. I’m accustomed to dirty houses with mold slowly creeping around their foundations. I often bike by boarded-up storefronts with aging signs and wonder about the stories of each. But in these cities, it’s often wind and vandalism that wear away the abandoned facades. With so many storefronts plopped side by side, and the roads still vibrantly rumbling with cars, nature doesn’t stand too much chance to grow right through the abandoned structures.

In the countryside, there’s more room for objects to sit just out of sight, forgotten and left to decay. Plants, fungi, and insects play with and overtake them — letting them melt into the landscape and transform. In Nooksack, I spent somewhere between an hour and three, walking around and snapping pictures, and I didn’t see another person. It seemed possible that no one had set foot in those fields for years.

At the time, I was shooting with a little 2.5mp point and shoot I’d bought in late 2002. It was just a snapshot camera, to record memories of vacations. Eventually as the air misted, and rain began falling again in earnest around me, its brave little screen finally fizzed and went dead. Back in my car, I opened up the camera, pulled everything out, and left the parts out to dry.

Since the camera was dead, I didn’t get any pictures from Canada that day. But I don’t regret visiting Nooksack – it was more surprising and rewarding than any urban trip led by a AAA Guidebook. In fact, this became one of my motivations to finally get a dSLR and learn the art of manual photography. I haven’t gone on a long trip since then, but I’ve spent a lot of time exploring the Bay Area and capturing local treasures of growth and decay.

My story from that rural town isn’t complete yet. One of these days I plan to return to Washington state, Canon 30D in hand, hop out into its muddy thoroughfare, and get the snapshot of the sign that says “Nooksack.”

Jackrabbit Trading Post: A Long-eared Remnant Along Route 66

Tammy Gray-Searles — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 03:24:04 +0000

Standing tall above the fence and the vintage cars in the background, this Route 66 icon waits day after day for travelers to venture off the nearby freeway and have their picture taken.

In the golden days of Route 66, the Jackrabbit Trading Post was a popular stop. Located conveniently between the Grand Canyon and Petrified Forest/Painted Desert National Park, it was a perfect place to stop and get a refreshing drink, let the kids stretch their legs, and peruse the turquoise jewelry and wool rugs for sale from the nearby Navajo Reservation.

Today, the original Jackrabbit still stands tall, the store is still stocked with Native American jewelry and art, and ice cold cherry cider is ready to cool down weary travelers, but instead of stopping in droves, travelers whiz by on the “new” Interstate that replaced the two-lane Main Street of America.

For those willing to take the road less traveled, a charming, if worn, surprise awaits. As soon as you leave the interstate, and turn on to what is now known as Jackrabbit Road, you are traveling on Old Route 66.

After traveling about a half mile down the original Mother Road, experiencing what it must have felt like to travel through the empty and desolate desert, a large billboard rises into view, featuring the Jackrabbit logo and the trading post’s famous “Here It Is” slogan.

The giant Jackrabbit and trading post on the south side of the road show signs of their age, but are charming and inviting nonetheless. It’s easy to slip back in time in your mind to the time when roadside attractions were the rage, and unique outposts like this were an integral part of a vacation and not just another quick stop in the rush to reach your destination.

Rabbit designs are tucked everywhere. Look for little wooden rabbits on the fence posts, wrought iron rabbits near the ice machine, and even a giant rabbit covering the entire far end of the building. Inside, if you look carefully, you might even find a fabled “Jackalope,” a mythical creature that resembles a Jackrabbit with the horns of an antelope.

After leaving Jackrabbit Trading Post, travelers can venture down vestiges of the original Route 66 from the store to Joseph City, which is about 10 miles to the east. The road is still maintained, and in good enough condition for travel by car or even motor home. Simply turn east (or left) from the parking lot of Jackrabbit Trading Post, and follow the road. It will lead you right back to Interstate 40 at Joseph City, where, after stepping back in time for a short while you can rejoin your fellow travelers on the fast-paced modern freeway.