Old Fort Finishing Plant, NC

“I'd arrest you if I had handcuffs,

I'd arrest you if I had the time,

I'd throw you down in the back seat,

As if you'd committed a terrible crime,

I'd break into a town’s worth of houses,

And rob whole families blind,

I'd do it to you like you’d do it to me,

If you knew you would get away fine…”

-Brand New - Handcuffs

The melancholic beauty of autumn is impossible to avoid; the vibrance of death in the falling of the leaves, the encroaching darkness, the bite of the air forcing you to pause, huddle, and take time to observe your surroundings – it stirs something deep within. Somewhere between the endless bustle of summer and the grinding halt of winter is this angsty, ethereal middle ground, full of fits and starts, and the desire to make your hobbies and adventures more purposeful. We don’t just hike to check a box on yet another picturesque location, we explore with a desire feel something. Differing from a destination-based escape, the places that call out during October often cannot be pinned on a map during the planning phase; they cry out from a void to entice one’s curiosity and emotional fulfillment. To put it simply, the itch to indulge in urban exploration becomes insatiable this time of year, and my taste in scenery shifts.

Appalachia is no stranger to haunting tales and folklore, or industrial decay over the past few decades, providing a plethora of eerie opportunities for an explorer if they know just where to look. Like anywhere in the world, rivers provide ample resources to a civilization – water, food, transportation and commerce, and most importantly for industry: power. Finding abandoned places in any town is often as simple as following the currents, tracing river banks, reading up on the local history.

When it comes to manufacturing, the employment opportunities generally bring about a time of relative prosperity and stability for the working class, thus those times become cemented into a place’s identity. The first time a mountain family could afford a washing machine, or better yet – a new car – becomes inseparable from an era known by locals as the “good ole days.” Subsequently, when those major employers close their doors, the hard times become equally engrained in families’ memories. Visit any gas station where the old timers gather for coffee in the morning, and you’ll eventually hear the stories. These events are monumental to the community, so local and regional papers usually have them documented in their archives, providing both clues and context for an “urbex hunt.”

I’d first heard tale of an abandoned textile mill in Old Fort upon moving to North Carolina in 2018, but it took until 2023 before I decided to visit the small town of only 833 residents. A quick glance at a satellite map revealed a sea of tar-covered roofing near a Piggly Wiggly in the center of town; surely this was an all-too-easy starting point, and I punched the address into my GPS. Roughly an hour if I avoid the interstate, which I tend to do, opting for backroads which are less anxiety-inducing and often turn up “bonus spots” along the way. As soon as I had the opportunity to go on a “scouting expedition,” I loaded up my camera gear and plugged in my aux cord for a playlist of indie and alternative rock, as well as a few of my emo guilty pleasures; it seemed fitting for the assignment.

The mid-morning sunlight was harsh as it pierced through the crisp autumn air, and despite the somber subject of the day’s shoot, the natural beauty of the outdoors felt glorious as I cruised through Bat Cave and traveled North along Route 9 towards Catawba Falls. I wouldn’t make it all the way to Black Mountain on this trip, however, as I veered East along the winding Bat Cave/Old Fort Rd, taking in the endless rows of barns and rusty square-body Chevrolets. I love rural America, feeling a “homecoming” sensation in agrarian communities that remind me of the earliest memories of my youth in the foothills of Northwestern Connecticut. My pulse quickened as the I drew closer, finally emerging in the perky-yet-still-sleepy exit along I40.

The blue-collar workers were out and about, fueling up their trucks and filling their stomachs at the fast-food chains, while the local businesses were still shuffling their feet in anticipation of a lazier recreational crowd. You could tell that Old Fort was in the process of revitalizing to syphon off the regional tourism pool, now hosting breweries and art galleries in the shadow of the few remaining staples. There were a few abandoned storefronts, and a hardware store which had changed locations, still occupying some of its original space as storage for who-knows-what interesting finds.

Alas, the Piggly Wiggly came into view, and as I pulled into the parking lot, I was immediately awe-struck from the behemoth of brick and silos standing proudly behind it. “Well, that was easy!” I quipped to myself, already giddy at how accessible the mill was. Casting a shadow across the train tracks that separated me from an urbex utopia, I was overwhelmed by the facility, not sure where exactly to start as I grabbed my camera bag and began to circle the crop of buildings.

Usually while scouting, I do a dry run just to get the lay of the land; this lets me take note of what’s accessible, what type of security and patrols are utilized, and most importantly: whether the juice is worth the squeeze. I never want to show up half-cocked with a group and disregard the “rules” of any given location; breaking and entering isn’t usually a good look! If permission is attainable, that’s always the best route, otherwise being familiar with postings, local trespass laws, the culture of a community, and their attitude towards a facility are imperative for staying out of trouble – and keeping the urbex hobby in good public standing.

The mill was surprisingly inviting, with several residents walking their dogs and getting their daily exercise. I made my way to the “back,” where the road cut between the main buildings and a power plant facility, where the front door was teasingly left wide open. Keeping an eye on the maintenance worker repairing a hand rail to the roof of the warehouse space, I made my way up the concrete steps to the first floor of the powerhouse. Greeted by a maze of teal and red pipes adjacent two massive water tanks, I surmised that this place used to be steam powered.

I continued my reconnaissance, walking the entire perimeter of the property while sussing out which portions were still active, and which ones time had simply forgotten. It would seem that safety was a top priority during the mill’s operation, at least by the time it closed its doors in 1985. Every entrance had some kind of OSHA-approved signage regarding personal protective equipment and accidents, and it seemed that the employees did a good job with labelling things. Graffiti on the exterior was kept to a minimum, minus some doodles, so I surmised that the neighbors and local law enforcement kept steady eyes on the area, despite a lack of posted signage in several locations. This was a great find for risk-averse gawkers, so I planned on returning with a couple of trusted confidants the following weekend.

James was a trusted friend and co-worker from the Pacific Northwest, with a penchant for oddities, photography, and good music – no matter how obscure. After exchanging stories finding myself enjoying his company for a while, I knew I had to invite him on the “deep-dive” trip, along with my partner Thyra. With a Viking heritage and a thirst for adventure, I had been looking forward to sharing this hobby with her, even if her intellect infringed upon her willingness to take unnecessary risks – like clambering up a rickety, failing staircase. I knew she would keep me grounded in my decision-making while James stoked my childish curiosity, and so a week later, I revisited the mill with the two of them by my side.

This time we parked closer, and I instinctively led us to the powerplant where I had previously had success with access. The upstairs was obviously the control room, still littered with desks, chairs, gauges, and other equipment. It was also apparent that someone had been dumping trash in the corner of the room, near the door to the catwalks over the holding tanks. The shell of a First Aid kit still secured to the wall reminded us that this place was once bustling with workers, despite the muzzled murmurs of the interstate that now filled the void in the absence of industry.

After being enthralled by the power plant, we made our way back out into the warming autumn sunlight, heading for the “front” of the facility, closer to the town’s main drag. We noticed valves around the perimeter that had been shut – presumably one of the last duties of a skeleton crew responsible for “turning the lights off” in a facility that had fueled a community since the Old Fort Finishing Plant opened in 1946. Employing over a thousand workers, it was considered a staple dating back to when a new Ford cost $1,200, a new house cost $5,600, and a loaf of bread averaged under 20 cents.

According to an account documented by the Mountain Gateway Museum, United Merchants and Manufacturers, Inc. had a knitting and weaving plant near Augusta, Georgia, which burnt down after being struck by lightning on July 4^th, 1945. Since bricks weren’t easy to come by after WWII, and the workers needed a job to do, they began cleaning the bricks and shipping them via boxcar until they reached Old Fort. The plant made women’s wear, from dresses to lingerie, before shifting to fiberglass and upholstery, and was known for finishing rayon, a semi-synthetic fabric known for having a silk-like feel. At one point the Finishing Plant churned out two-million yards of fabric a day, which equates to over 1,136 miles, or the proverbial American measurement of over 16,666 football fields, including the end zones.

The textile industry was so big in North Carolina that it’s often credited with funding Charlotte’s banking industry and the region’s collegiate institutions. NC State’s Wilson College of Textiles is still thriving to this day, billed as the global gold standard by fostering research and innovation, having also infused their curriculum with elements of fashion design, networking, and marketing. Where many folks think of Harvard when it comes to a Law degree, North Carolina State University is synonymous with fabric and apparel. While traditional manufacturing methods focused on either knitting or weaving, NC State has been instrumental in advancing non-woven “spray” techniques, which originally were limited to producing disposable products, but now create reuseable items at a significantly more affordable cost – savings that get passed on to the consumer domestically.

No triumph is possible without a tribulation story arc, however, which is where the tragedy of Old Fort and other manufacturing towns comes into play. As has been the trend with American industry, countries with lax labor laws proceeded to be more competitive, spurring the Multifiber Arrangement (MFA) in 1974. While the USDA traces the MFA’s origins back to the rise in Japan’s cotton textile exports in the 1930s, increased production from India, Pakistan, and Hong Kong by the 1960s raised further alarm across Europe and the United States. In an attempt to restrict the sale of imported textiles, the MFA was enacted bilaterally between “developed” and “developing” countries. By the 1990s, data showed that as import share grew,  the cost of clothing fell, and while media and the public love a good jobs report, inflation and cost increases usually impact a wider range of citizens negatively.

In 2005, after a decade of notice and warnings, the final iteration of the Multifiber Arrangement expired, throwing a major wrench into the plans of industry titans like Hanes. This was just the nail in the coffin, however, as the textile sector in North Carolina alone had already lost 160,000 jobs since 1992. Wilbur Ross of W.L. Ross, who bought Burlington, stated that very few companies adjusted their business plans during that time, and would have benefitted from consolidation, but prior focus on regional competition hindered unification against the global threat. The damage was done, and several companies that had existed for over a hundred years decided to close their doors, drawing attention from state officials and the Governor. The “Old Fort Finishing Plant” was no exception, and shut down early on into the crisis in 1984.

Those woes didn’t end with job-loss, however, as environmental impacts continued to haunt the town for years. Upon its closure, the Finishing Plant donated a well to the town, presumably not realizing that it was tainted with tetrachloroethylene and trichloroethylene – degreasing and solvent chemicals – which can dramatically increase the risk of non-Hodgkins lymphoma, kidney, and liver cancer. Sitting 1,000 feet from the local elementary school, the level of these contaminants launched a state investigation, caused the well to be removed from the public water system, and contributed to the mill to becoming a federal EPA Superfund site, a designation that has since been removed.

Today, the mill sits as a time capsule to when the region relied on good old American manufacturing for prosperity, before the fluctuation of tourism was introduced as a healthy-albeit-fickle alternative. As an outsider, it was easy for me to see the benefit of exploiting the gorgeous scenery to make a buck instead of relying on working with one’s hands. Nevertheless, such a change can be devastating. This is evident from the scores of vacant storefronts along the main drag; prime retail locations and a theater that should be bustling well into the 21^st Century. Yet the thing that drew us to this town was a somber testament to North Carolina’s past.

Moving onto the core buildings of the facility’s operations, we bypassed any entrances with “No Trespassing” signs, and made our way through the open doors along the train tracks. While the rooms were strewn with debris and gutted from their operational form, some of the infrastructure was still intact. Giant red containers loomed eerily overhead, and I wondered if they were dye vats, or what their purpose would have been. We continued meandering through the complex until we came to a set of stairs, which were a little loose and made some awful noises while in use; this was where Thyra decided to wait while James and I continued our journey upwards.

Upstairs had motorized equipment and a crane-like system for hoisting things via a hook on a chain and pulley, and from the corner the equipment housing reminded me of a steampunk “mechanical fish.” The vibrance of the graffiti and the original teal and yellow paint against the tones of beige and grey really popped in the warmth of the sunlight, and James noticed one of my favorite tags of the trip: “NOTHING LIKE MISCHIEF.” This was the truest statement of the trip, considering the current situation and our elation of it!

While the vibes of this room were my favorite thus far, the old saying goes: “onwards and upwards,” and so we kept going. Thankfully the next flight of stairs was less nerve-wracking than the previous, and we came to what I can only describe as a monstrous “unit,” complete with a series of ladders and platforms clinging to the sides of its blue steel walls. Despite the drainage grates, water had begun pooling at several locations, and Mother Nature had begun her reclamation work where moss had rooted into the endless sea of concrete.

Mirroring a sense of desperation caused by the loss of jobs and the crumbling of 20^th century engineering, another visitor had written “LOVE ME” on the windowpanes just beyond a stairwell. Isn’t that all we’re asking for when the season shifts to autumn, the world slows down, and we’re surrounded by a colder sense of death? While we wrapped up our expedition without turning over every leaf – choosing to heed the legal hurdles – we managed to immerse ourselves into a fulfilling experience, learning the history of mill towns and seeing the continuity of nature; where one thing dies, it paves the way for something else to take its place. What the future holds for the Old Fort Finishing Plant, I’m not sure, but the mountains will continue reclaiming it in the meantime, and explorers like myself will continue to seek out the morose and the abandoned, hoping to scratch that itch.