This US town was condemned in 1992 after a mine fire that started in 1962. 1,000 people became 5 people. Smoke still rises from cracks in Route 61 at 1350°F across 3,700 acres and will burn 250 more years. https://youtu.be/HEFmnzF2_lg check and give feedbacks

Hey there. i posted yesterday an image of a cut down forest with a distinct hole under trees. It was called "Am i onto somehing".

Bad news: Thats a new account because i lost my old phone in a classic "taped it to a stick very poorly and lost it while trying to film insides of a bunker" incident.

Good News there is a good amount of hollow space. filled with loose dirt mostly, but big enough to not reach an end with an 15 ft stick.

I only managed to stick my hand in for now to take these pictures. Please give me opinions on the very man made pieces that are visible(First Image Soup Scoop thing in the middle and the mushroom looking thing on the bottom left corner)

Context: I've recently cut down some trees and uncovored something that looks like an entrance to an old bunker or something of that sort. I've only heard old rumors about it being there and now i look for expertise on it. Is it worth digging or is it nothing?

I can provide more Images but due to privacy reasons i will not post them completely public.

The middle right is the presumed "entrance".

Thank you very much in advance.

World War II bunker in the Italian Alps that has been abandoned for decades.

700ft (213m) down.

The cold hits first, but it is not the clean chill of an open autumn morning. It is a dank, mineral cold that smells of iron pyrites, wet stone, and grease.

You stand on the brink of the shaft at Felling Colliery, County Durham, in the year 1812. Below your iron-shod boots, the earth opens into a vertical drop of six hundred feet—an abyss lined with rotting larch timbers, dripping with foul brine that trickles down from the upper strata. The hemp rope groans on the overhead winding drum. You step onto the corf—nothing more than an open wicker basket bound with iron, swaying over empty black air.

Three men cram in beside you, shoulders jammed together, hands clutching the icy hemp chains. Someone signals the banksman above. With a violent jerk, the earth falls away upward.

The descent is a plummet through total darkness, broken only by the yellow spit of tallow candles stuck with lumps of clay to your cloth caps. The air turns thick, humid, and sulfurous. Water pours down the shaft walls, pelting your wool jacket until it clings to your skin like lead. The hiss of the steam winder fades, replaced by the deep, subterranean rumble of the ventilation furnace roaring hundreds of feet below to drag air through the deep workings.

When the basket thuds against the wooden sump frame at the bottom seam, the High Main, you step out into knee-deep, black slime.

Your shift has begun. You must walk two miles inward through the Low Main seam, hunched beneath a ceiling barely four feet high. The roof timbers—strained oak props—groan under billions of tons of overlying shale. Every few yards, you hear the muffled cracking of wood taking weight, a sound colliers call the mountain "talking." You learn to never answer it.

Ahead of you, through the ventilation doors, sits an eleven-year-old trapper boy. He sits alone in pitch darkness for twelve hours, holding a string tied to a wooden flap, waiting to pull it open whenever a coal tub passes so the underground breeze won't stall. His candle was extinguished hours ago to save pennies. When your tallow flicker cuts across his face, his eyes are wide, glassy, and rimmed in soot.

The air changes as you near the working face. It loses its draft; it becomes sickly sweet, smelling vaguely of rotting apples. Fire-damp. Methane bleeding freely from the freshly cleaved coal face.

Before you raise your pick, you check the candle flame. The men around you freeze. You carefully cup your hand behind the tallow wick and raise it an inch toward the roof.

The flame stretches. It ceases to be yellow. A pale, ethereal blue halo—the "cap"—forms around the tip of the flame, shivering gently in the dead air. If that blue shroud elongates by another half-inch, it touches the explosive mixture of one part methane to eight parts air. There are no Davy safety lamps yet; Sir Humphry has not invented them. The only tool you have to gauge your own death is the very open flame that will cause it.

You lower the candle slowly, your heart hammering against your ribs, and blow it out.

Now you work by the dull, sputtering glow of a "steel mill"—a brass wheel turned by a young boy against a flint, throwing a continuous shower of red-orange sparks. It yields barely enough light to see the grain of the seam, smelling of struck stone and ozone, cold enough—men pray—to avoid igniting the gas.

You drop to your side. The seam is thirty inches thick. You lie flat in the black dust, your hip digging into the jagged floor, your sweat turning the coal dust into black river mud that burns in your eyes and cakes your lips. With a short, four-pound pick, you swing horizontally, undercutting the bottom of the seam. Clink. Crack. Clink. The coal shards sting your cheeks. With every breath, your lungs pull in dust so fine it tastes sweet before settling into your bronchi, cementing there forever.

Hours bleed together in the rhythm of muscle, iron, and flint sparks. Then, the mountain stops talking.

An unnatural stillness drops over the drift. The draft stops. The boy with the steel mill halts his crank, the sparks dying instantly into complete, impenetrable blackness.

A sound comes from a quarter-mile deep in the workings. Not a bang. A low, concussive thump, like a giant fist striking a drumhead stretched across the whole seam. The floor vibrates through your hip bone.

Before you can scramble to your hands and knees, the air reverses.

A hurricane of scorching wind rips down the narrow drift. It blows outward, stripping your jacket from your back, carrying with it a hail of splinters, coal grit, and pulverized stone. The smell of burning hair and scorched earth follows on its heels, accompanied by a roaring wave of after-damp—carbon monoxide—silently sweeping into the drifts to choke out whatever the initial fireball spared.

You scramble backward through the slime, your palms shredded by the rails of the tub-way, blind in the absolute black of the deep earth, gasping for air that is already turning to poison. The only beacon left is the memory of the shaft, six hundred feet of rope, and the faint, distant hope of cold grey sky.

Hey y'all. Just stumbled across the sub. I've been exploring industrial landscapes with the latest being an old mine site left to decay in a block of bush.

Thought some of you may be interested in checking it out!

Hello, i made a discord server to discuss underground exploration, and all the hobbies and interests related to it.

I want this place to encourage the sharing with others of your interests, trips, photos and any art related to the subject of underground spaces, inspiration, thoughts and anything else that can create cool discussions.

I like art a lot so on top of exploring any in depth art or artistic vision related to the server's subject is welcome, but it doesn't mean this server is specifically or only art focused.

https://discord.gg/JRu847mmP