rooftops of Boston, pt. 1

Boston at night is quieter than most big cities, and this lends itself to certain brands of nightlife that don’t include $14 drinks and bouncers grabbing your junk.  Our destination this evening was not under the watchful eye of a bouncer or a security guard, rather, the only thing between our party and us was an ancient fire escape precariously bolted to the brick of the Boston Wharf building.  We found our stairway with the building owner’s shiny car parked nearby, but no matter.  We were on a mission this night.

Jackpot!

With a quick glance down the deserted street, we maneuvered a tripod into position, and down came the fire escape staircase without so much as a squeak.  The four of us ascended up the stairs, chuckling as a trio of drunken frat boys walked down the previously deserted street to their next bar, oblivious to the fact that the four of us were climbing higher and higher up the aging steel above their heads.  Enjoy your expensive drinks and syphilis-ridden bar sluts, lads, we’ve got something a bit different in mind.

monkeying around.

At the top of the fire escape, we moved like ninjas in the shadows, stalking a rival clan across the rubbery rooftop.  We found what every rooftop explorer loves to see: a giant, dazzling neon sign illuminating the city below.  Boston from this angle was different, sleepy, but still awake, with police sirens piercing the muggy air every so often and taxis crisscrossing the maze of streets below.  From our perch, we sprawled out under the red glow of the sign and listened to the sound of the breeze blowing across the rooftop.  No techno beats pounding in our ears, just the wind and the sounds of late night commerce in Boston; the screeching of buses, the occasional shouts of drunkards and bums, and the chatter amongst the four of us as we slinked about the roof, setting up shots and reveling in our perch.

not a bad view, eh lads?

We eventually made our way back down the antiquated stairs, dropping the last flight of the fire escape quietly and swiftly.  And just like that, we were back on the ground, with nary a frat boy or a bum around to witness our descent.  Practitioners of ninjitsu we may not really be, but being back on the street only left us hungry for more.  And more is something Boston eagerly offered us.

Cascades 510

Amtrak is an oddity in the US transportation system, some considering it an anachronism, a holdover from days long since past with the advent of air travel.  A voyage by train is not so much about swiftness as it is about the journey.

All aboard!

After a few days in Seattle, I ventured aboard Amtrak’s Cascades service destined for Vancouver, BC, and my first foray out of the country.  After a brief sprint from breakfast to Seattle’s King St. Station (if I had been like Top Gear’s James May and refused to run, I would certainly have missed my train), train 510 departed on time and began to wind its way northward along the Puget Sound.  I’m used to seeing Amtrak’s California Zephyr arrive in Denver 5 hours late, so this (and I mean this term in the traditional sense) railroad efficiency was a pleasant, if not almost ruinous, surprise.

The tracks that the Cascades runs on are right up against the icy waters of the sound.  As the train speeds northward towards Everett, one can look out from the observation car across the sound, with only mere feet separating them from the astonishingly clear waters.  Since Amtrak does not own the track that it runs on, freight traffic has the right of way, and knowing this, I had expected to be waylaid by BNSF trains several times by now.  This was not the case, however, and as 510 continues northward through Washington, the train moves at a good clip towards the sovereign nation of Canada.

510 makes its run up along the Puget Sound.

So far, this trip has proven two myths wrong: that travel by train is never on time, and that it is painfully slow.  It certainly does not lack for scenery, either, for as the train turns back from the low forests south of Bellingham and back towards the Puget Sound, one can see so much more than possible if traveling by air.  Don’t get me wrong, I can’t sleep on airplanes because I’m too busy looking out the window, but this is entirely different.  I-5 doesn’t get anywhere near this close to the water, so travel by train is the only way to see this kind of scenery.  It’s a view that no wide-angle lens can do justice to, and it might even fall into the category of the Grand Canyon, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the Pacific Ocean.  No matter how many times you see pictures of it, you can never truly know what it’s like until you’re looking right at it.

Train 510 now rolls past the busy US-Canadian border south of White Rock, BC, and I watch and chuckle at the long line of cars queueing at the crossing.  A passenger next to me strikes up a conversation.  Her name is Monet, like the painter, and she’s here from Seattle visiting friends who are attending an archaeological conference in Vancouver.  She’s originally from Florida, but tells me that in the two years she’s been living in the northwest, she’s gotten used to the persistent cloudiness.  We stare out the window at the forests and the Canadian flags every so often, still taking in the experience of train travel and a journey to another country.  It’s her first time in Canada as well, and she tells me her friends know a good pho restaurant on Granville Street.  Customs forms get passed out, we crack jokes about Canadian customs: “I wish I had $10,000 Canadian to declare!”  and finally, train 510 rolls over the Fraser River and into Vancouver’s Pacific Central Station.  Monet and I deboard the train, exchange numbers, and head through customs and on into the great white north.

musings on the emerald city, pt. 2

Just a short walk from the smell of fresh caught seafood towards the center of the Pike Place Market is a spectacular view of the Puget Sound.  From up here, you can see the container ships come and go from the port, and the Washington State Ferries vessels leave for the other side of the sound.

The Bainbridge Island ferry is a good way to spend an afternoon.  It leaves just down the Alaskan Way from Ivar’s Acres of Clams, and for $6, you get a great view of the city, the sound, and the mountains.  Being from a landlocked state, the experience of the ferry ride was something that was fresh and new to me.

Large bodies of water amuse me.

And while Bainbridge is a bit of a resort town, similar in a few respects to a place like Aspen or Vail, the crossing itself is reason enough to take the trip.  The salt air of the sound is even more present when you’re on it, and the gulls hover around the ship, waiting for the tourists to feed them.  The wind out here is a brisk one, but it soon subsides as the vessel reaches either Eagle Harbour on Bainbridge or returns to the pier in downtown Seattle.

The cyclists are always the first ones off the ferry at Bainbridge.

Seattle is a city of neighbourhoods, too.  The people and the landscape change from one end of the city to the other, from the International District to South Lake Union.  The University District is a bit of a trip from downtown, but it’s well worth the ride out.  Visiting in early October, I was introduced to a hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant in the U District by one of my friends. Tom Thai is cozy and great on cold days, since the fires of the kitchen range are mere feet from the counter.  You can watch the cook mix together a cocktail of sauces, add freshly chopped veggies and chicken, and cook your order right in front of you.

Mmm, tasty.  Photo by Chona Kasinger.

Over a plate of excellent, just-right-peanutty pad thai or panang curry, one can watch the denizens of the U District go about their business.  It’s cash only, but well worth the trip from downtown.  Further south is the Seattle Center, home of the famous Space Needle.

The Space Needle was built for the World’s Fair, and is one of the few remaining buildings from the expo.  It’s unmistakably Seattle; a visitor can’t help but be impressed by it the first tome they see it.  It pops out like some bizarre tree, part of a futuristic vision we dreamed would come to pass one day.  It’s prominence is only heightened by the otherworldly curves of the Experience Music Project, right nearby.

A trip on the monorail will take you directly through the EMP. A hot spot for photographers, the EMP looks like someone took a normal building and had a giant squeeze it, morphing it into a gorgeous mass of folded metal.  The concrete rails of the Seattle Center Monorail pass through the EMP like some alien form, utilitarian and plain in the midst of the strikingly different building next to them.  Every few minutes, another 60s vintage monorail car zips into the end of its line near the Space Needle.

Like something straight out of the Jetsons.

The monorail is yet another thing that is uniquely Seattle.  Like the Space Needle, the monorail is a remnant of the World’s Fair, and has been a tourist draw ever since its construction.  There have been on and off attempts over the years to use monorails on a larger scale, for mass transit purposes, but none of the proposals ever got past the design phase.  While the monorail is certainly a convenient way to get from Westlake to the Space Needle, $5 seems a bit steep for the one way mile-and-a-half trip.  It may be something best left to the tourists, but the monorail is still a reminder of the 60s, when we thought we’d all be in flying cars by now.  Alas, instead of flying cars, we have Priuses.  Tradeoffs, I suppose.

To see more of my photo work from Seattle, click here.

musings on the emerald city, pt. 1

Step off the plane in Seattle, Washington, and you are greeted (more than likely) by the rain that the city is so well known for.

On approach.

The stereotypes are true, it does indeed rain a lot in the Emerald City, but that’s part of what makes Seattle what it is.  Seattle without the rain would not be right, but to a Coloradoan such as myself, a few clear days are welcome, since it’s a bit more of a pain to photograph in the rain.  On a clear day, you can see giant Mount Rainier to the south, and the Olympic Range across the sound, getting a reminder of just how varied the city is.  The ever-present hills of San Francisco seem to have found a second home, albeit without the cable cars.  Trolleybuses take their place, whooshing quietly past you on their way in and out of downtown, and at the light, the locals always wait for the signal to cross.

Trolleybuses!

The most outwardly Seattle of things is, of course, the Pike Place Market.  Much different from a typical farmer’s market, Pike Place is a hodgepodge of artists and artisans, restaurants, grocers, the first Starbucks ever, and the internationally known fish market.  On the way down Pike to the market, you can smell a mix of the fish and the sea air coming off the Puget Sound that sleeps just beyond the row of buildings in front of you.  The big neon sign declaring this the ‘Public Market Center’ greets you, and then you hear the ruckus of the fish market.

Incoming!

These gentlemen have the throwing of fish down to a science.  They’ll call out the variety and number of the fish or other soon-to-be dinner to be tossed, and then, with tourists’ cameras flashing, the seafood starts flying.
Once in a while, they’ll throw a third large fish into the audience, but don’t be caught out by the fake salmon flying towards you.  These men are jokesters, and have a real passion for what they do.

This is Ryan.  He likes his fish.

Every day, the tourists come, and every day, these guys put on a show.  They’ll ship a fish anywhere in the world via UPS in 48 hours, in a box that’s been sealed so that your tasty purchase doesn’t seep through the cardboard.  During the day, the men of the fish market draw a big crowd, similar to the legendary first Starbucks just down the block.  This is where the coffee giant started, and it’s worth going to if only to say that you’ve been there.
Coffee is practically a religion in Seattle, full of saints like Peet’s, Tully’s and of course, Starbucks.  There’s a green awning on nearly every block downtown, but for myself, local places are the hot spots.  The thing about Starbucks is consistency.  The cup of coffee that I get in North Platte will be the same as the coffee I get at Pike Place.  Not necessarily a bad thing, but for the real experience, a trip to a place like Zeitgeist or All City Coffee is in order.  The local places are staffed by people who know their joe, and in this city, you can ask them almost anything about the coffee they brew, and they’ll know it.

I’ll post the next in this series soon.  To see more photos from my work from Seattle, go here.

forty eight hours in San Francisco

San Francisco was my next stop after the four days of Monterey.  We caravanned up Highway 1 to SFO so the other journos from the trip could catch planes back to the Mile High City.  My Monterey roomie Dana and I, however, decided that we needed MOAR, so after bidding our comrades farewell, we had our first experience with the most noble of city things, public transit.

BART in Oakland. No earthquakes occurred during the making of this image.

In this case, that meant BART.  BART is difficult to classify, both metro system and commuter rail, but it does have its distinctions.  After the Loma Prieta quake broke part of the Bay Bridge in 1989, BART’s unscathed transbay tunnel was the savior of the city, connecting the East Bay with downtown.  It’s carpeted, upholstered, and makes funny noises when braking.  Pretty swank for a public transit system.  Be warned, though, it is rather expensive.  I’m getting to that.

We boarded a train destined for the city, and I watched as the hills around SFO transformed into a landscape of houses that appeared to rise out of the valleys as if they were built on top of each other. In the seat across from us, I spied a passenger toting a Lowepro bag.  Being the photo nerd that I am, I struck up a conversation with her.  As luck would have it, Rebecca is a photo student (surprise!) at the Academy of Art in San Fran.  We talked shop, and she invited me to give her a call the next day for lunch.  After my spot of luck, she left the train, and soon after, Dana left to find his hotel.  I continued on to the place I was staying, in Richmond on the east side of the bay.  Remember that part about BART being expensive?  A ticket from SFO to the East Bay cost me $6.40 one way.  Ouch.

I made it out to Richmond and gleefully lugged my rolling duffel (I never knew I could fit so much into so small a bag) to the apartment of my friend and fellow photographer Tunnelbug, whom I had met a year previous when he came to Colorado to photograph some of our juiciest abandonments.  I then proceeded to roam about his complex for an hour looking for the wrong apartment before finding what were, indeed, my accommodations. Much rejoicing ensued, and then I grabbed camera gear and set out for my first night in the city of San Francisco.

I rang Dana, and plotted out a meetup spot.  The iconic Pier 39, where he had found a story to shoot.  My ears popped as my train accelerated under the waters of San Francisco Bay, and I emerged into the futuristic, double level Embarcadero station.  What followed next was a moment I look forward to in every new city: that moment when you emerge from the metro to breathe in the air of your new surroundings for the first time.  The smell of the city was upon me, and I set out navigating my way to the pier.  A long walk ensued, but I arrived, met up with Dana, and shot a graffiti artist doing his thang.  Dinner followed, and I bade my friend farewell and headed back out to the East Bay.

Sprayin’ and prayin’.

The next day started with the BART routine, this time to Powell station, where Becca met me.  She took me to a Japanese restaurant nearby that did a sweet $10 lunch special: miso, 4 rolls, teriyaki chicken, and a seaweed salad.  Nice.  She asked if I wouldn’t mind helping her with a shoot the next day, and I agreed, I can always use more shooting time, right?  Nay, this time I would be on the other side of the lens.  The horror!

Chinatown beckoned, so we parted ways and I headed to the original corner of the US that Chinese immigrants made their own.  I’ve been to Chicago’s Chinatown, but this was a completely different beast.  Everywhere I turned, I was surrounded by a completely different culture from the one I just left.  I saw a fish market that had tourists staring at the array of choices before them, and as I watched, a live fish jumped down from the display.  Without missing a beat, one of the employees of the shop scooped up our scaly friend and got him back on ice as the tourists marveled at the flopping fish.. The storefronts spilled out onto the sidewalks, and the smells of seafood and produce piled high in the backs of pickup trucks filled the air as I trekked north toward the waterfront.

Only the freshest ingredients.

After Chinatown, I headed toward the most well-known of San Francisco landmarks, the Golden Gate Bridge.  It was my intent to walk the length of the bridge, but time was running short, so I snapped a few pictures at sunset and began my trek back to Richmond, but not without another stop at Pier 39 for a bowl of the legendary clam chowder I had heard of.  The bread bowl is a curious thing.  Once you get down to the chowder-coated bread, you can’t figure out how to eat it without getting messy.  I’ll bet the locals often have a good chuckle at all the out-of-towners looking quizzically at their bread bowls.

Yeah, yeah, kitschy tourist shot.

The next day was a bit of an eventful one.  I had received a voicemail from home when I woke up telling me that United had called in the middle of the night to inform me that my flight to my next destination had been cancelled.  Great news!  I decided to deal with it later and head into San Francisco for my shoot.  Off to Berkeley, coffee, and BART with the Snuggl-I mean Tunnelbug.  My ears popped under the Bay for the last time this trip as we made our way into the city.  My shoot beckoned, and I met up with Becca for the short walk to the Academy’s studio from the BART station.  I gawked at the large assortment of DSLR and medium format bodies in the equipment room, and then proceeded to the studio to have my picture taken!

Photo courtesy of miss Rebecca Daniels.

During a pause in the shoot, I made contact with United, and kindly asked that they get me on another plane the same day.  They did, with less trouble than I would get from scheduling at my university, and not only that, but with the shooting I was doing with Becca, the later time of my new flight meant that I’d no longer have to rush to the airport.  The shoot concluded, and as usual, shenanigans followed.  Shenanigans with a camera, that is.

Hey Farva, what’s the name of that restaurant you like with all the goofy shit on the walls?

I bade my new friend farewell, and caught my ride to the airport.

That’s my ride.

This trip was the first time I had been to the city of San Francisco, and my experience was one of new friends and the thrill of a new city to explore.  It’s a great city, one of many, many cultures, great architecture, and good effing clam chowder.  It’s a city I intend to return to, but for now, another city beckoned to me.  The Pacific Northwest was calling, and when it calls, you answer.  So I picked up and left the city by the bay for another…by a bay.  See you next time.

Monterey Days, pt. 2

The light of day three poked its way through the drawn curtains in my room, meaning that morning crit could not be far off.  Shaking off an interesting night in the club scene of Monterey, the gang got a dose of scrambled eggs and hash browns from the Denny’s down the street and headed back to the ‘executive conference room’ for morning crit.

After a pep talk from the profs, we split off into a group of five.  Myself and another photographer, two writers, and another whose assignment for the day was to document the shenaniga- I mean, stories that the rest of us got into.  We had something picked out already: a wild animal park near Salinas.  After the requisite 4 or 5 U-turns, we happened upon it.  The owner of the park appeared in a welcome video that we were shown, this gent appeared to be a cross between Fabio and the karate guy from Napoleon Dynamite, complete with a real live lion to pet!  Much eye-rolling ensued, and we made our way out to the park, half expecting to see the owner riding by on the back of a proud lion, his hair blowing in the wind.

I refrained from getting out my camera, as I would be acting as a writer on this one.  Kate, my photo counterpart, made with the clicky-clicky as I gathered notes from the irritated tour guide.  After she had to tell us FOR THE LAST TIME to not stray from the group, the compound manager (what is this, Jurassic Park?) rescued us.  She’s worked at the park for over 20 years, and talked about the animals as if they were her children.  We dutifully recorded the stories she told us and bade farewell to the park.  The sun beat down on us as we retreated to the car and plotted another adventure.

The racing Mecca known as Laguna Seca was up the road a bit, so we decided to pay it a visit.  After entering the park that Seca is included in, two of us left our car and driver for a roadside trail which I suspected led somewhere.  Sure enough, at the top of the hill, the sight of one of motorsports’ most storied turns greeted me: the Corkscrew.  As if on cue, a bright green Lamborghini ran the turn, followed closely by a pair if 911s.  I paused a moment to pick my jaw up off the ground, and went to go find a place to shoot from.  There are two fences at the top of the Corkscrew, and there was a man with a very long lens going through the nearest fence.  We asked if perhaps we could go up to the track fence to shoot cars coming into the turn, but no, of course we mere mortals can’t shoot inside the outer fence.  But our new photographer friend kindly offered us a lift into the paddock.  Whee!

Oh, I’d never dream of going in there…

The sound of everything from finely tuned Italian V10s to 600cc motorbike engines filled the air.  It was employee appreciation day for Mazda, the title sponsors of the track, and vehicles with both 2 and 4 wheels were welcome.  We found ourselves a gent who was racing his Porsche 914.  He had a trick up his sleeve, namely a 911 turbo engine shoehorned into a car that weighs a lot less than grandma’s station wagon.  We developed a story on him, got some shots, and basked in the glory of the track that you’ve probably driven on in Gran Turismo.

The black sheep of Porsches has teeth, apparently.

The final night consisted of the editing orgy we had come to know and love, and an opportunity to get some portrait practice in on the beach with Hayley and Bill, another photographer.  After playing reflector bitch for a while, it was my turn to shoot.  The sun was getting pretty low on the horizon, but I snuck in a few frames.

Not a bad way to end four days in Monterey.

Dinner came in the form of a brilliant Chinese place down the road, and another sake-infused run back to crit, a fitting end to the awesomeness that was Monterey.  Tomorrow morning, the bulk of the class would depart back for Denver, but I would head up to San Francisco for the next leg of my journey.  Don’t touch that dial!

Monterey Days, pt. 1

Monterey was an experience.  Fifteen or so student journalists on their own in sunny (but surprisingly cold) California.

After checking in to our motel, we had out first class meeting, outlining the usual rules as far as critique times and such.  The deal was that we could do pretty much whatever we wanted, provided we brought back two stories a day.  Easy enough, right?
The next day, we set out to find our stories.  My group of four headed over to the fabled Cannery Row, where, while wandering around, we happened upon a culinary school.  Not being ones to pass up a story when it fairly slaps us in the face, we jumped on it.  Surrounded by the sights and smells of a restaurant kitchen, myself and the other photog who was in our little group hit our grooves and shot, dodging the flames and flying molten sugar.

Nina Justamonte of the Culinary Centre of Monterey finishes up a game hen.

Our reporters got their story, and we celebrated with a gourmet lunch on a patio overlooking Monterey Bay.  After the lunch, the pull of the beach to four normally landlocked people from Colorado was too much to resist, and, giggling like schoolgirls, we made for the beach until our professor could rein us in.

I’ll climb that.

The next day started interestingly enough.  My reporter, Hayley, and I had been in my room, waiting for a call back from a contact for a story on haunted buildings in old Monterey, and had planned to catch a ride from Bill, another one of the photogs on the trip.  We had five cars among 16 journalists, so some creative wrangling was involved.  I went outside to check that Bill’s Saturn was still in the lot (it had appeared so before), but upon closer inspection, the Saturn was not really a Saturn.  Apparently silver, mid-size four doors look quite similar.  It seems we had been marooned!
Lucky for us, the public transit system in Monterey isn’t exactly rocket science.  Plus, hey, getting left behind is only cause for adventure, right?  Hayley and I found ourselves a bus headed to Monterey (our digs were almost in Seaside) and made our way to Church St., where a few, rather photogenic old churches awaited us.

Jesus H. Tapdancing Christ, I HAVE SEEN THE LIGHT!

We made our way to Fisherman’s Wharf, but nothing grabbed us the way the culinary school had the day before until we heard strange grinding noises coming from the marina.  As it turns out, another story had fallen into our laps.  Doug Campbell, a regular at the marina in Monterey, was prepping his boat, the Manawahi, for the racing season.  Again, the two of us transformed from college students into journalists, the camera and notebook flying out and the story started to take shape.  We seem to have a knack for this sort of thing.

Drop canvas and hoist the colours!

After the boatworks, we continued along the path towards the middle of Monterey, when we saw what appeared to be a diver saving someone from a rip current.  Being the journos we are, we rushed to see what the matter was.  As it turns out, the two were divers working on Master diver certification.  Being divers, they are trained to save a flailing companion caught in the icy grips of a California rip current.  A story, methinks.

See?  Told you I’m not drowning.

Critique was fun that night, after some exceptionally good sushi and a sake-assisted run across the street to the critique.  Fashionably late, I’d say.

More soon.

going back to cali

Monterey, California is a place of contrasts, of reinvention. After the virtual collapse of the fishing industry that supported the town for so long, Monterey had to turn to other means of sustaining itself. There are as many stories to tell as there are people in this town, and that is what brought my social documentary class to California. Or it honestly could have just been the fact that it was California. In either case, I’m not complaining. IT’S CALIFORNIA.

How’s this for a welcome?

The group of us left Denver on the 19th of March, flying out to San Francisco to meet up and obtain rental cars for the jaunt down Highway 1 to Monterey. The flight was eventful in the sense that it was a miraculously clear day over much of the flight route. Being the photographer that I am, I gleefully exchanged the inside aisle seat I was assigned for a last-row window. As the 767 cruised on westward, the landscape of Colorado, Utah, Nevada, and California flew past below me. The sky was a startlingly clear shade of blue near the horizon, moving into an almost black hue as my gaze moved toward the edge of space.

Gettin’ high. No, seriously.

Somewhere over Nevada. Or Utah. Or something.

Finally, my plane got to where it was going. Kind of. We spent a half hour circling over Modesto, but that simply gave me more flight time for my money. Again, not complaining. Eventually, the huge traffic jam of planes trying to get into SFO broke up, and we darted in. Down at 1000 feet, the waters of San Francisco Bay looked like a wavy brown mirror, getting ominously closer and closer until *poof*! An airport! Off the plane, greeted by the likes of 747s from New Zealand, Australia, and China, I ventured to find the far-off rental car terminal that had been decreed to be the meetup point for our motley band of journalists. We found each other, procured cars, and navigated our way to Highway 1 and off to Monterey.

Stay tuned…

there’s an update coming, i swear!

I’m currently sorting through the 6 or 7 GB of images I took on my trip to the west coast.  Where on the west coast?  Well, you’ll just have to tune in to find out, I suppose.

soda and spiders and redbrick, oh my!

In the industrial part of north Denver resides the oldest drain we’ve found in Colorado yet. This product of the post-Depression Works Progress Administration was found a few years ago by a legend in Colorado draining by the name of Akron. Crystal Pepsi got its name from the fact that, according to draining lore, before the defunct beverage went under, 55 gallon drums of Crystal Pepsi were stashed in the drain for posterity. It also might happen to do with the close proximity of the Pepsi distribution warehouse, but seriously, when has draining lore ever been wrong?

CP had been a kind of rumour in Colorado draining for a while, as it was talked about as a giant, old redbrick drain that went for miles beneath the soil of north Denver. Subciety, being lethargic as we usually are, put it on the backburner, and thought little about the legend.

Fast forward to June of 2 double oh 7. Construction was proceeding on a drainage addition to the lake in City Park, and secretdestroyers, our resident eastcoaster, had heard rumours of a big redbrick drain that was having surgery done on it, so after he and orogeny used their extreme ninja skillzzzzz to check it out, they summoned the drainers.

The team for the second expo consisted of myself, lexiphoto, SD, and orogeny. Arriving at the museum in waders and festooned with lights and camera gear, we made our way over to the hole in the drain. 4 people with gear walking through City Park at 4.30 in the afternoon garnered a few odd looks from little tykes and their parents, but no matter. At least we aren’t the crack dealers and psychotic hobos I’m sure some of them are accustomed to seeing in the park. Over to the lake, where lo and behold, a drain in a hole!

lexiphoto and orogeny prepare their pants for the trials ahead.

Entry was a cakewalk, until we realized just how slippery wet, old redbrick can be. Various forms of profanity filled the musty air, stale from age and the concrete dust of construction, until lexiphoto and I regained our footing and proceeded into north Denver’s intestinal tract.

Ambient light in a drain? No wai!!!!11

CP’s main pull is the fact that it’s big. Really big. Most of the redbrick drains in Denver are 6 or 7 footers, max. Rivergate Hollows, Colorado’s finest, is a 15′ bored concrete tunnel for a good length. CP is nearly as big, ‘cept it’s made of bricks. Absolutely maaaaad for a local drain. For a good 2 and a half hours, we slogged through this beast, the monotony of our splish-sploshing boots broken periodically by turns (which were even more slippery), and a few odd rooms where the RBP had been cut away and intersected by 10″ steel pipes of some unknown purpose. A very odd manhole was also encountered, one which is now an inside joke of epic proportions.

Zoo access? Hope it doesn’t open into the tiger enclosure.
(image courtesy of secretdestroyers)

(image courtesy of lexiphoto)

Eventually, a break in the monotony: a junction! This provided the opportunity for much needed rest for our heroes, as well as plentiful photo ops. A date of build was also found here, which proved quite difficult to capture, as it was written upside down, and I had momentarily forgotten that Photoshop existed.

This drain brought to you by: the Works Progress Administration

From my second expo. Light assists by orogeny, RFBTesla, and Tesla’s companion. Click to view larger.

The outfall was a curious structure, with a corrugated steel roof with low hanging, rusty bits dangling from it like sharp icicles. Then came the real test: the spider gauntlet.

I have one weakness when draining: evil, evil drain spiders. I hate them. It’s my opinion that nothing on this earth should have more than six legs. So it was much to my dismay that the last 60 or so feet were a minefield of very big spiders and their drooping webs, threatening to cling to hair, camera bags, and whatever else they could get their spindly legs on. We managed to coax the valiant SD into using his tripod as an anti-spider device and charged through the gauntlet like a quartet of NFL linebackers, cursing like sailors as we went.

Upon exiting the drain, much to our chagrin, a solitary Denver Police officer walking his beat heard our stream of profanity directed at the spiders, and as we climbed up the embankment to our waiting chariot (we parked one of our cars at the outfall), he simply walked away chuckling to himself.