photo by Jon Haeber

We live in a post-industrial world, and our connection to the modes of production, our infrastructure, and the cogs of society is becoming more and more disembodied from day-to-day life. This guide is meant to be an introduction to one of the fastest growing hobbies our modern time: Urban Exploration.

Why?

The definition of Urban Exploration may be different for every adherent, but most urban explorers call themselves modern historians, discoverers, archivers, documentarians, and architecture buffs. Some explore for simple aesthetic reasons because they find the crumbling edifices of society to be perfect artistic subjects. Others find a certain level of adventure and excitement in exploring off-limits areas or skirting the law to reach places that most people can’t see. Still others have a purely historical interest in a specific building or complex.

Whatever the reason, Urban Exploration is something that can be traced back hundreds of years, even back to 1793, when an oft-cited “explorer,” Parisian cataphile Philibert Aspairt, became famous for his untimely death in the Catacombs under Paris. To this day, the Paris Catacombs attracts a subculture that descends underground for regular socializing and fraternizing.

How?

The methods of urban exploration, much like the motivations of its adherents, vary. Extensive research is essential for any “virgin” finds. This may often require visits to your local library or archive. Topographic and historical maps, especially Sanborn maps, provide a perfect starting point. Google Earth, Wikipedia, and Wikimapia are vital tools if you wish to get a more up-to-date snapshot of your target location.

Some Urban Explorers have a penchant for Google Alerts; by setting up an alert on Google Alerts for specific keywords, an urban explorer is continually aware of new abandonments. Geotargeted key phrases matched with the word, “abandoned,” or “vacant” also work especially well in researching new “finds.”

The best way to start exploring is to pair up with a buddy.  Much like scuba diving, urban explorers are safest if they explore in small groups. Established communities online, including uer.ca, Infiltration, and Deggi5 allow you to become acquainted with like-minded explorers, some who can provide you with a valuable list of new locations to explore.

Above all, the late Jeff Chapman (who passed away in 2006 after a battle with cancer) published a posthumous book that has become the de-facto Bible of Urban Exploration. Chapman’s book, Access All Areas, provides a full summary of the basics of “Building Hacking.”

The Gear

The hobby is known for its extremely low barriers to entry.  All one
needs is a flashlight, some water, and a passion to discover. Of
course, if you prefer to photograph your finds, a camera always helps,
but the lighter you travel, the better off you are. Certain treks may require more extensive gear-packs – see the Health & Safety Section for more on that.

The Methods

Image by forklift

Methods of entry are important to decide prior to entering your target. Consult with other members in the group.  Lay down ground rules as to how much climbing, crawling, and razor-wire you wish to encounter. Some groups may turn back at the first sight of a fence. Others may jump at the opportunity to try their hand at nine-foot razor-wire. Be absolutely sure of the risks you’re taking and the laws you may potentially be breaking.

Health & Safety

Urban exploration is a dangerous hobby, and it should be treated as such.  Some of the more common hazards include:

• Falling from, or within, multi-story buildings.
• Inhaling dangerous fumes, gases, or particles.
• Stepping on or accidentally touching hypodermic needles from illicit drug use.
• Encroaching on the territory of gangs, drug-users, or hostile vagrants.
• Cuts, scrapes, and bruises — ensure that Tetanus shots are up-to-date.
• In the case of draining, flash floods, or even small amounts of rain could prove deadly if one is confined in a storm system.

Specialized Gear for Health & Safety

Unwritten Codes of Conduct

There are a few unwritten rules in Urban Exploration, and one should be cognizant of the protocol in order to be fully accepted and trusted as a new member of the sub-culture.

The most common and oft-quoted rule follows the mantra of the Sierra Club: “Take only photographs, leave only footprints.” Though not all urban explorers follow this directive, the vast majority do. Many abandonments possess a treasure trove of esoteric objects, unique contraptions, rare industrial components, or special antique items that could sell for a handsome profit on eBay. Despite all this, the community has decided to officially condem taking any object from a building.

Graffiti and vandalism are generally condemned, but there are exceptions. It should be noted that urban explorers are a diverse group of tens of thousands, potentially hundreds of thousands. The diversity of opinions falls in both extremes, but the moderate and mean consensus generally follows the rule of law except for the very notable exception of Trespass.

As of now, there is no officially sanctioned urban exploration moral codex. In fact, “following the rules” would run counter to the central principle of exploring. For this reason, urban explorers have a general understanding of the community’s moral compass and make of it what they will.

Documentation

Most urban explorers consider the documentation of the structure or location to be their prime concern. The most notable method of documentation is by still photograph. Video, sound, and architectural sketches or rough maps are recorded to a lesser degree.

Most explorers are astute photographers, and the artistic liberty taken inside of an abandonment results in a dramatic collection of architectural photography that has only recently been possible. To most, this is the central purpose and goal of their hobby – and they hold it as a very sacred duty in order to record pieces that are often lost within months or years due to the wrecking ball.

The Law

Urban explorers are breaking the law, but it’s generally assumed that such laws are antiquated or unjust. The most notable law that is broken by an explorer is trespass, but others may come into play as well, including:

• Invasion of privacy
• Either purposeful or inadvertent destruction of property
• Certain broadly interpreted anti-terrorism laws
• Liability for the injury of others in your group

In general urban explorers are liable to be prosecuted for criminal and civil judgements for trespassing, but publishing the photographs themselves is considered a separate issue. The only exception is invasion of privacy. If an explorer publishes photos that infringe on the likeness of someone, or put them in a negative light, then he or she may be held liable for that action in civil court.

Conclusion

Urban exploration is, by nature, a very dangerous and illegal activity. At the same time, it can be a very rewarding and engaging pursuit. This guide was meant to inform you of all the safety and legal concerns so you can make an informed decision whether or not urban exploration is right for you.

Resources

The Urban Exploration Resource (Forum)

Author’s Site: Photos and Stories of Historic Architecture

Top Floor of the Key System Building

About two years ago, when I began going into old, run-down buildings simply to photograph them, I had more than my share of fear of being caught. Now, after dozens of dashes into the spaces of historic structures of all shapes and sizes I can say with confidence that I no longer pump quite as much adrenaline as I once did.

It’s been replaced largely with a confidence and a brazenness that sometimes scares even myself. For in my day-to-day life I rarely possess such confidence. To reflect back, 30-seconds after making a mad dash across razor wire and security cameras – it all just seems so insane. For what? A few snapshots?

But when I question these things; when I think to myself how incredibly useless (and often stupid) it is, I think back to the day that I first found myself possessing that confidence.

I was about a year-and-a-half out of college and somewhat lost – as I still am – in the great confusing whirlwind of post-college soul-searching. It was only a few months after I entered my first sanctuary of sorts, but I had never tasked myself to what I was about to do that night.

Key System Building – Daytime

Earlier in the day I had scoped out a grand, Beaux Arts building that first housed Gianninni’s famed Bank of America, eventually becoming the headquarters of the Key System (the pre cursor to all of our modern mass-transit systems in the U.S.) Her tall, imposing hulk stood guard – like a spectre of the past – over the modern high-rises and hotels that surrounded her.

Interior of 1100 Broadway in Oakland

Her windows were littered with a chromatic representation of 30 years in Graffiti history. I’m sure many of the artists are long gone from this world. From the street, the Key System Building is not just imposing, but also a subject of curiosity. Sit down across the street from 1100 Broadway and you’ll find that passerby glance momentarily at the 8-story brick tower. Cars reduce their speed. Kids on skateboards take a quick detour for a better view.

I myself took 20 minutes to admire its horshoe-shaped positioning, the ornate, carved frieze. I took notice of its weathered brick. All of it began to look like a giant birthday cake that was a photographer’s dream.

The unique situation with the Key System Building was its difficulty to infiltrate. Most places that urban explorers tend to frequent are easily accessible. In fact, parking in front and squeezing between the bars of a fence is often all that’s necessary. But the Key System Building – she was well secured and well-watched.

Getting inside of her meant being noticed. The front door was layered behind a fence, and even the door itself was locked. On the western face was an opportunity – a small opening in a second-story window with a decent-sized water pipe protruding from the wall below it. Still, I’d determined it to be impossible – even with the assistance of the pipe.

Two hours later, a friend and I returned. I had bought a ladder at Home Depot. My heart was racing. We walked straight up to the window as 30 onlookers (soon to be bus passengers) watched us from across the street. “Are You Crazy?” One of the passengers shouted from across the street.

My fellow explorer and I paid no attention. We scampered up the ladder and looked out from the dark recesses of the window to see the crowd boarding the bus. But there was someone else – an Oakland police officer walking straight towards our lowered ladder. His eyes were gazed intently in the distance, and then he suddenly turned away. We peeked out the window to see that he was frantically trying to put out a fire in a trash can. We took the opportunity to pull the rope attached to our ladder into the platform.

As we looked down into the lobby of the Key System Building our eyes widened in amazement. The explorer next to me was an archeology major. Before us was detritus buried under a century of soggy asbestos and drywall. The quietness of the space was only punctuated by the dripping of a leaky ceiling. Below us stood a classic 1940s-era desk with a swivel chair, covered in dust. The pillars in the center of the room – thin columns of concrete – were frosted like a cake on their top 15 feet by broken and cracking plaster in ornate design.

Pillars in Lobby

Luckily, we had the ladder, because there was no way down into the lobby from our high platform. After descending, we walked to the grand entrance. The remnants of what was once a crystal chandelier (but had morphed over the years into a thin wire hanging from a rusty chain) hung ominously from the ceiling. The address – backwards – read 0011 yawdaorB. Pedestrians walked by,  paying no attention the two dark figures photographing in the shadows of the building.

Grand Entrance to 1100 Broadway

I would like to say that the building was filled with all kinds of trinkets and bric-a-brac from the 1920s. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the case. Despite the fact that the wrought iron staircase remained intact and as beautiful as it ever could be – there wasn’t much to see within the building.  On the top floor, however, were fliers from an 80s rave . I could only imagine college kids and recent high school grads, sneaking into this dark building without being noticed. The top floor windows were covered with black plastic – perhaps to prevent people from noticing the flashing lights, lighters, and glow sticks spasmodically gyrating inside to the beat of the music.

We made the final ascension to the top of the building and looked out towards the Tribune Building. We could see the movement below us – out – far into the distance of the Bay. It was such an eerie feeling to be in the middle of it all – yet so separated. All around us was activity. And there we were, in a building forgotten by bustle and resistant to modernization – a quiet building that had lived her days in glory only to see them end as a silent, graffiti covered bone of a time-gone-by.

I stood my camera on a tripod and set the timer. The two of us got in position for a final photo, looking out from the darkness of the Key System roof towards the bright Tribune Building lights. Descending, our steps were slower, and a bit more contemplative. We exited the window when nobody remained on the city streets. I tossed the muddy ladder into the back of my truck and bid farewell to my fellow explorer.

Tribune Building, Oakland

When I returned home, the sun was rising in the East and I could hear birds outside. My eyes were bloodshot, but I couldn’t sleep until the photos were imported into my hard drive. The final photo appeared on the screen. Because my camera’s shutter had been open for a few seconds before the two of us took our positions, our bodies had appeared semi-transparent. Ironically standing on a ghost of her own merit, We looked like two living ghosts considering the threat of modernization ahead of us – with its lights, and progress, and fearful-yet-mesmerizing technological breakthroughs.

There was something to be said for the simplicity and the raw idealism that the Key System Building represents. I couldn’t quite make out why it had such a profound effect on me. For me, it was a turning point. I may still not understand who I am, or what I plan to do from here. In fact, I probably know less about that than I did when I graduated from college. But at least I feel a bit more comfortable knowing that’s okay, because if there’s anything that’s worth celebrating it’s the absurdity and beauty of life, no matter how forgotten or dark it may become, and how bright and promising everything outside of you may seem.

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.

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. Buttressing 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.

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.

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.”

Image Courtesy: San Francisco History Center, San Francisco Public Library

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.