Having spent the morning hours exploring another ruin within the general vicinity, we decided to take a detour past the old Pines Hotel before making the drive back to New Jersey. I had never been to The Pines, but from the pictures I had seen, I knew it was in absolute disastrous condition. We walked in through a forced opened fire exit door hanging precariously by a single hinge. The darkness of the corridor ahead masked the dangers of the spongy floor below. Like a rope bridge hung across an open valley, the rotted wooden floor boards swayed and creaked as we slowly treaded across to the relative safety of the fire stairwell.

Walking down a few flights of stairs we entered into the hotel lobby. Chairs and tables had been flipped on their sides mimicking stumps of fallen trees. Moss and small fern plants grew up through the carpeting and electrical wire hung like vines from the drop ceiling canopy. The destruction looked like a guerrilla warfare zone. I treaded lightly, expecting a militia of paintball gun wielding teenagers to ambush from behind the fallen furniture of the artificial jungle.

Following the moss laden carpet led to the indoor pool turned pro marijuana graffiti canvas and reclining chair casket. After a quick waltz across a breezeway and past a hideous pink conference room we found ourselves in the Persian Room, a staple of Catskill entertainment. Ducking out through a missing door the skeletal remains of the skating rink appeared along side the cinders of what was once the tenant house. From this vantage point the true destruction of The Pines could be taken in; and a beautiful disaster it was.