I have always been fascinated by abandoned places.

There is an unspoken poetry to the idea of something built, begun, given life, which somewhere amid the trials of time becomes unknown, untouched, forgotten – reclaimed by the very earth upon which it stands. Perhaps, like ruins, the draw of standing on abandoned earth is the inherent power of history; the knowledge that you are witness to all that remains of something which Used to Be.

As a child, I used to trespass in the empty lot beside my house, land owned but unscavenged, and found trinkets or spun stories on the adventures of traversing arcane lands. In my time I’ve snuck through or over fences, traveled off the beaten path, and climbed many a concrete mountain in pursuit of adventure, and as an adult, this interest has not ceased. Now, there is a name for the experience that captivates me: “urban exploration.”

Though for legality’s sake I will not confess to trespassing (or crossing any other prosecutable boundary), it would be remiss of me to never acknowledge the beauty of the hidden treasures that I may or may not have encountered in my time here on earth. In that vein, I dedicate this article as an open letter to abandoned places. Consider this my ode to all the corners of our planet that have too long been forgotten.

To the remnants of cities' mistakes, reclaimed by the artists:

Thank you for not disappearing. Thank you for your transformative nature. Thank you for demonstrating that failure can become art, that urbanity and art both can be repurposed for public consumption.

Thank you for selflessly bearing the obscure messages and arcane graffiti of new owners, new visitors, new family. Thank you for being home to vagrants and passers-through. Thank you, Paris, for wearing scrawling runes with as much beauty as your tower but so many more questions—people need questions.

Thank you to battleships in Amsterdam who have seen war. Thank you artists who have been warred against, for fighting back with spray cans and color. Thank you to the ocean who rusted you but did not swallow you. We need reminders for our past mistakes.

Thank you, renegades, for making battlegrounds into memories, and for bringing the new and vibrant and beautiful to the old and decaying. And thank you to the old and decaying, for your heavy and scarred canvas, your brick walls sturdy and historic, your broad open streets no longer hostile but home.

You are the neither of the Netherlands and I hope you will stay that way.

To the walls and tunnels christened in sweat, now crowning mountains untouched:

Thank you for keeping up the plaques and markers to remind us that train tracks were lain by the Chinese; that the looping highway a hundred feet below carves through what used to be indigenous land; that the Oregon trail was made possible by Native Americans. Thank you also for giving us cool stories about cannibalism. Apologies to those who died, and especially to those who were then eaten.

Thank you for offering not only shade, after a long walk up a sunny mountain face in flip flops and floral boots, but thanks also to your masterpieces and messages. Thank you for being a living journal of all who have passed through you.

Thank you for the breathtaking views you offer to those of us foolish or reckless or brave enough to climb up to forbidden land. Thank you for not only carrying the weight of adventurers, but also opening your walls to them.

Thank you Donner Pass for the echoes your empty tunnels crowed back at me. Sierra Nevada, your craggy rocks augment the concrete face of what used to be purely industrial and is now a discovery to conquer.

Thank you for the practical routes which have become impractical. Impractical is somehow more addicting, more inviting; thank you for the wanderlust you tempt from those who dare. Thank you for staying secret.

To the pathways that aren't supposed to be followed, and your hidden treasures:

Thank you, settlers from days past who leave behind your buildings and your tools. Thank you, eerie landscapes and the wrong turns that lead to liminal spaces, exempt from time.

Thank you also to the paths of days present and future. Thank you tall gates and narrow walls for obscuring mysteries from the unprobing eye; and thank you mysteries for stewing in just as much magic as the imagination could furnish. Thank you fences and bushes and trees for hard-to-find places. You are the best kind.

Thank you doorways whose destination can only be guessed at. Thank you strangers for making them yet more intriguing.

Thank you to ivy covered buildings and spray painted corners that no one has touched in we-don't-know-how-long. Thank you for being the only form in which the passage of time is both visible and frozen; thank you for honoring the footsteps that imprint you by making the bearers feel special.

Thank you, guidebooks, for leaving these out. Thank you explorers for making them known again, only for those who look.

And finally, to the places I have not yet been:

Thank you for the adventures I haven't yet had. Thank you for the scratches you might leave, the aches you might give my calves, the gloves I will dirty for you, the pictures I will take.

Here's to the people who make things. Here's to the places that time forgot. Here is to artists, to wanderers, to protectors and to transients; to buildings and basements and fences and concrete. Here is to the road not taken—thank you.

Time passes, people leave, and things fall into disrepair. For some, this is sadness. For me, though, abandoned places are some of the most beautiful. Sometimes the path less traveled by is the one that thrills us, takes our breath away, or is most remembered. Whether you should encounter any of these places or not, here is one simple suggestion: appreciate them when you do.