Digital Ink'd

♻️ Former Fusion Paperboard Plant Series 🌿 Exploring the abandoned Fusion Paperboard recycling facility — from towering paper machinery and hydrapulpers to sludge ponds and the wastewater treatment plant that once supported sustainable recycled paperboard production. 🏭 Part 1 — First Exploration & Main Paper Machine ♻️ Part 2 — Hydrapulpers, Recycling & Sludge Systems 🌱 Part 3 — Wastewater Treatment Facility & Final Exploration 📦 Once producing 100% recycled coated paperboard, Fusion Paperboard recycled over 160,000 short tons of material annually before closing in 2014. Welcome back to our journey through Fusion Paperboard. In this third and final part of our series, we head south of the cardboard plant to explore it...

  We pulled up the long, curving driveway and stopped at the gate. A black pickup truck was parked off to the side. Uneasy, we backed down the road, trying to decide whether to go through with the mission. We should have. Later, as I reviewed the drone footage, I saw it — an open doorway in the back. I can only assume it led straight into the tire-burning facility. But at the time, it didn’t show up on my controller’s feed. I wish we’d at least circled, and taken a look at the rear of the plant before giving up and heading to another site. That hesitation cost us. If we hadn’t let a parked truck shake our resolve, we could have been the only explorers on the entire East Coast to document one of the last two tire-to-energy plants in the country — the only one in New England. It wasn’t just a massive industrial site; it was the region’s primary solution for handling end-of-life tires, processing countless loads into energy. But we never went back. By the time we worked up the nerve a...

The first time I set foot here, it was clear: this place was home to those with nowhere else to go. A worn dirt path led me from a nearly abandoned street into what remained of an old brick building. A makeshift shelter—pieced together from boards and tarps—stood neatly in the hollowed-out front, right beside a waste bin. The building had been gutted by fire long ago, leaving behind only a shell.   I moved carefully, not wanting to disturb anyone who might be inside. The path led me up a weathered wooden plank, serving as a walkway where stairs once stood. Stepping into what had been the main room, I found myself surrounded by scattered belongings—broken bicycles, old tools, and household items left in disarray.   To my right, a large blue tent was set up snugly against the wall, a stark contrast to the chaos around it. Someone lived there. This wasn’t just a forgotten space; it was a home, however fragile.   Alone, carrying an expensive camera, I felt the ...

  Four photos. That’s all I managed to take of the abandoned Orange Memorial Hospital in Orange, New Jersey. I had explored countless forgotten places before, but this one was different. It wasn’t just the eerie emptiness or the decay—it was something heavier, something unsettling.   Stepping through an open window, I was immediately hit by the overpowering stench of human waste. Inside, the destruction was almost surreal. Time, vandals, squatters, and thrill-seeking teenagers had left the place in ruins. Papers were strewn across the floors, ductwork hung from the ceilings, and walls bore the scars of years of neglect.   But it wasn’t just the sights or smells that got to me. It was the feeling. A thick, unshakable presence weighed on me, like I was being watched. I had explored countless abandoned buildings alone, yet I had never felt this way before. Something about this place wasn’t right.   Despite my unease, I pressed on, making my way toward the...