Today I crossed a river into a Maryland ghost town.
Also known as Daniels, the settlement was founded in 1820 when some dude set up a textile mill along the Patapsco River. From there, the town went through a full rise and fall as it became a popular working destination that eventually collapsed in the 1960s due to financial issues.
The final nail in the coffin came when a massive flood ripped through the town a few years later, and it’s been abandoned ever since. Today, all that’s left are the remains of two churches and a bunch of old cars.
My goal was to photograph this place on a nice, rainy Tuesday afternoon. Because sometimes, the rainy days are just better. No pressure to shoot golden hour, and the diffused light just hits all day. It’s a chill photography vibe.
The ghost town was located in Patapsco State Park, which is east of Baltimore and could be easily accessed via a one mile hike from a parking lot trailhead.
Fortunately, I didn’t know this. I thought you had to pull some ninja shit in order to get in. I parked at Daniels Dam, which is a small reservoir across the river from the ghost town.
I thought I’d be able to hop a couple rocks to get across the river, but the water turned out to be a bit deeper than that. It’s always deeper than that.
One thing I’ve learned about rivers over the years is that there’s almost always a hidden deep point where the large majority of the water is flowing, but it's usually not visible until you’re right in front of it. It’s at this point that you can truly feel the power of water.
What started as rock hopscotch was slowly turning into an above the knees river crossing with 10k worth of photography gear on my back. The current was flowing fast, and the rocks were covered in moss. It wasn’t great. But I somehow made it across by submerging my left arm to retain balance on the rocks.
From there, I waded out onto the shoreline, and picked up the trail that led me right to the first church. Also known as The Pentecostal Holiness Church, this was abandoned masterpiece what I came here for:
At this point it started pouring again, but I was so wet anyways from the river crossing that I hardly noticed. I kept following the path down the river, hopeful I’d see more. But there was nothing left besides a single stone wall with some graffiti on it. Not even worth the photo.
I snagged a few more photos of the church, then decided to head back.
But once I got to my car, I felt like I was missing something. Perhaps it was something I read a few months ago when I first researched the spot, or perhaps it was my sixth photography sense. Probably both.
I loaded up Google Maps like I should have done before blindly showing up on the wrong side of the river, and realized there was an entire second church just down the path from where I was before. All I had to do was walk about 100 feet further.
Fuck me.
Well, there was no way I was crossing that river again. It was at this point during my research that I realized there was a legitimate trailhead to this place in the state park.
I drove my car about 10 minutes down the road and parked up shop like a normal hiker. Then I proceeded to hike down the trail for a mile or so until I found the second church in the woods.
This one, known as The Saint Stanislaus Kostka Catholic Church, was much older. It was made entirely of stone, and little remained besides a staircase and a few walls:
Still a solid find, because it felt like I’d plucked straight out of the medieval era. It wasn’t until I was on my way back that I began to notice the cars.
Oh, the cars. They were everywhere. Just random, junk cars scattered on the hilltop. Turns out, they were all remnants of the flood that never got cleared up. It’s baffling they’re still here.
This one was my favorite:
And with that, I was out like never ever happened. A ghost in a ghost town.
