The First Big Step

We’ll call this place “NH”. “NH” was the third official abandoned place I went to, but I think of it as the place that started it all. I use the word “official” because everyone’s driven by or at least glimpsed these places as they surround us hiding in plain sight, but what differentiated those times from just slyly glancing at these empty places was that  I would have an active interest in the abandonment. Abandoned places become so much more vivid when you express more than a cursory interest in them, and you begin to realize that they represent living, shifting history, and a dialogue of the eventuality of all things. You have the chance to learn from the things that others have left behind, and the mistakes that they have made. 

That being said, the path that lead to NH was rather symbolically devoid. I don’t believe that my dad and I drove through the near town on the way there, so on the first trip all we got treated to for ten or more miles was flat nothingness, all dry farmlands with a couple of aging farms haphazardly strewn in the fields, like sentinels hidden in the tall yellow prairie grass. Although it was February when I first visited, I don’t seem to be wearing a jacket in any of the pictures, so the weather must have been nice. Every time I’ve gone here it has been like a dream of spring or summer envisioned in winter, with the clearest white-blue skies and radiant, warming sun to frame the symmetry of the land. 

The last five miles or so of the drive there I spent squinting, trying to make out NH in the distance. I could definitely tell when I was close; it was the only building to be seen in any direction, and moreover, the only building for many miles that had its roof almost entirely collapsed and sweeping over its exterior.

 

I ducked under the roof and climbed on top of a spring mattress that carried me on a sea of debris into the house. I felt nervous. This wasn’t the first time I had been inside an abandoned house, the summer before my friends and I had explored a couple of long forgotten houses in the remote mountains, but this felt like an entirely new experience. 

 

I waded through the tumbleweeds and broken boards, while carefully checking the floor for rusty nails. This is such a striking contrast to the way it’s become now-instead of slow caution, it’s become all about the conquest, strike these places fast and hard and be out in a heartbeat, treat these buildings little less than objects, subjects to photograph. It can be a struggle to find that balance between explorer and photographer. Both traits need their equal ground, which can be easy to forget when you’ve just found the perfect shot. 

And you know what? The very last time I went to this place, after I had exhausted every shot from every angle, I set my camera down, listened to the sounds of the birds gathering in the dead trees, and just let myself be there, and it was one of the most peaceful moments I’ve had at an abandonment.

I really look back on those first couple of trips fondly. Everything was new and exciting, and all I could think about in those weeks was “When am I going to go again?!” I could not wait for the weekends. I had some really great road-trips with my dad. They were long and tedious, and at times frustrating, especially when we didn’t find the places, but for the most part they were a bonding experience. Now that I have my own car I do a lot of exploring myself or with friends, but I still look back on those days and smile.

I love this picture of me. It captures perfectly what I was feeling then- totally happy, caught up in the moment and the ambience, the thrill of the danger. The thrill I used to feel has been somewhat nullified now. Of course, this is still my favorite hobby, and though I don’t go out as much as I used to, I still get excited when I do go, but the experience has changed.

It used to be that right after I would visit an abandoned structure, I would feel so fulfilled that I wouldn’t want to go exploring for days or, later, weeks after that. I would be totally contented. Then I would just continually wonder-when am I going next? Where am I going next? And everything would be building up to the next high; the next journey.

I don’t feel that high anymore, but the journeys haven’t stopped and I don’t suspect that they will, not for a long time to come. 

 

After I had walked up the wooden stairs and peered over the edge of what was once the roof and was now inside the house, I expected that I was done here, that I had seen all there was to see. Little did I know what awaited me across the street…