I have probably half a dozen blog entries where I started to write about Bethlehem Steel and then discarded them. The electronic equivalents of wadded-up balls of scratch paper with pathetic scrawls of story written on them is not quite as romantic or frustrating as what technology gives us here. No typewriters and no angry lobbing the trash across the room into my IKEA wire-mesh wastebasket.

Bethlehem Steel is a huge, sentimental city of rust, flakes, ghosts and American history. Perhaps I never wrote about it because it just plain intimidates me. I felt so much the very first time I laid eyes on it and I was never able to properly describe the feelings in my heart since that day over a year ago. Before I even knew of it’s existence I had dreamed about it, caught in a frantic race through cold hallways of corrugated metal, the sky obscured by something bigger and taller than I could have ever conceived. I didn’t know the place until months later and I saw Bethlehem for the first time. Something big, something important clicked in my mind. It was surreal, having memories of a place that I had never been.

Photos make the huge metal spires of the blast furnaces seem so much smaller than they are. In reality, the steel mill is an industrial Emerald City and there is no word in the English language that can describe the thick silence created by the close metal jungle of pipes and towers. The first time I stepped to the dark, wet earth below those blast furnace spires and heard the whining rasp of metal on metal, my skin crawled. Oh what inexperienced babes we were in that forest of cold, flaking gloom! Until then I never dreamed anyone would have a reason to poach from that wasteland, but my naivite assured that we would have no beef with those scrappers. To this day I am sure no explorer has ever had such an amiable, peaceful run-in with copper thieves, but I was just relieved to know that the noise was caused by something alive and human.

Today the mill is mostly gone, torn down in an effort to build the new casino. Crossing the Stefko bridge across the river, what used to be 5 square miles of warehouses, train depots, rail lines, coke ovens, administrative buildings are now just flat riverbank. Occasionally a building still stands, face seemingly turned towards the sky as if in defiance to the wrecking balls that promise to defeat them. In contrast to the shiny modern cranes these survivors look weathered and ungainly. The eastern-most structure appears to lurch towards the bridge, desperately running for cover as his ancient companions were swiped off the earth. It is sad. These undignified survivors weep with moisture that stains to rust.

It is never warm when I see Bethlehem Steel. While most of the other adventures I’ve had give me ghostly reminders of a languid, humid summer, suffering in heat and sun with flies buzzing around my face, Bethlehem is always cold, crisp and alive. I first came here in November and subsequent visits were always in the darkness of the seasons. I would never have it any other way. Something about the way the furnaces hunker over the little town, gray and seeming to suck the light of the sun no matter how bright the day… it is so apropos. Bethlehem is a vibrant little town, so under appreciated and charming. It is full of art and artists, wonderful cozy houses, gift shoppes, parks, students, families and visitors. Around Christmastime the village explodes into evergreen trees and starry lights, the biggest star on the north mountain mimicking the biblical tale. Anyone who knows me might think it strange when I say that I would happily live in Bethlehem if my cards were dealt differently, but it is true.

This past visit was an unexpected trip to a snowy wonderland. We stood quietly under the spires and contemplated our individual histories beneath them. I shivered in the sub-zero temperatures listening to the cacophony of ravens across the river, trying to imagine the glitzy lights of Sands overlaying the present silence of the blast furnaces. The outlying buildings near the main office building have not changed in a year, despite their relative simplicity and (you’d think) ease of comparative demolition. The only living things here are the crows and one lone police officer who chides us for disturbing his reading. My fingers are slow and clumsy in the cold, even through my gloves.

After warming up at the brew works and downing several creamy oatmeal stouts we hike back down the river path in the ice and snow. By now night has fallen and the irony of Bethlehem is returning as it does each winter night. In a little village made famous by its German immigrants, Christmas traditions and the Star, suddenly nothing is open. When darkness comes the town glows in twinkling lights but there is nary a soul to be seen in the streets. I can’t quite figure this out. From every light post a Christmas tree is hung, tied with lights in a cheerful warning to all evergreens that enter here.

The canal opposite the blast furnaces is dark but the lights from town trapped under the clouds create an orange glow that shows us where to step. There are too many trees by the water, so many that choosing a place to set up is difficult. At the end I have to make do with hanging branches because I am too tired to care. The rushing waters two feet below threaten to happily drown us in a slow, chilling whisper. In the end I take only a few shots because I know that home is still more than two hours away. I’m not cold anymore due to the magic of snowfall and running water. But gazing out at the silhouetted towers and the mist-shrouded mountains beyond makes me wish for clearer nights and different circumstances.

If I could keep just one place forever, this would be it. There would be no razing, no investments, no financial gains. I could escape to a place literally out of my dreams, where the enormous steel leviathans force time to stand still. Of course, people like us don’t get such a choice and must keep moving, hunting and photographing to enjoy the game.