Tintic Standard Reduction Mill
Nestled into an arid hillside about an hour south of Salt Lake City, the Tintic Mill lived fast and died young, processing silver ore with the so-called Augustin method for a brief shining moment in the early 1920s, before being supplanted by more sophisticated means. While its roots are a century old, the Tintic—so named for the mountain range in which it sits—sometimes resembles something even more ancient: its empty foundations suggesting a lost Aztec outpost, perhaps; its vacant bins evoking the ancestral, indigenous caves of New Mexico’s Bandolier National Monument. From other angles, the old mine looks vaguely futuristic, with its rounded tanks resembling the helm of some grounded starship, or maybe a lost and labyrinthine Cubist sculpture, magically transported from Paris to the middle of nowhere. The Tintic’s location only intensifies its sense of otherworldliness. Located just outside Goshen, UT, the mine is surrounded by Martian desolation, though that remote—and occasionally rattlesnake-friendly— vibe has done little to discourage a steady stream of admirers. Utah officials have not been amused by their interests, however, warning that the Augustin method involved a bevy of unpleasant and distinctly poisonous chemicals, including arsenic and lead, which still pollute the site—and those that traipse past “No Trespassing” signs to visit it. The site also has scientific and historical import; in 1978 it was included on the National Register of Historic Places, with archivists noting its engineering. Indeed, as toxic as it was, the hillside design of the Tintic was also clever, using the gravity of the slope to facilitate the extraction of silver from its ore. Despite that ingenuity, the mine was a financial bust—costing millions in 2022 dollars for only a few years of use—and quickly made obsolete by cheaper methods of leeching out riches from rocks. And while other nearby extraction-era mines also faltered and failed, leaving behind ghost towns and other odd tourist attractions, few seem to draw the artistic-minded souls who have decorated Tintic over the years. Enormous eyes and cryptic initials now stare out at the mountains beyond, as flowers and faces stare at visitors from the curved walls of the long-drained water bins. As part of the Goshen Warm Springs Wildlife Management Area, the land is managed by the Utah Division of Wildlife Resources, which has kept it closed it to the public. But considering the off-the-beaten-track appeal of locations like Marfa, TX, one could imagine a quirky museum in such a locale, if only they could get rid of the mine’s poisonous past. And, of course, the rattlers.