In the winter of 1918, a bricklayer climbed a wooden scaffold in the Deer Lodge Valley west of Montana, and set a course of brick four hundred feet above the ground. Beneath him, the Anaconda Copper Mining Company’s Washoe smelter spread across fifty flat acres of river bottom. The roasting furnaces were running. They were always running.

The smoke rising from them was not gray. It was yellowish brown, loaded with sulfur dioxide, arsenic trioxide, lead particles, and the chemical residue of smelting copper ore at temperatures above one thousand degrees Fahrenheit. The bricklayer knew what was in the smoke. Everyone in Anaconda, Montana, knew what was in the smoke.

They had been breathing it for twenty years. He set his brick, tapped it level, set the next one, and did not pause to admire the view. The scaffold would rise once this course was finished. He would rise with it.

The chimney he was building would reach 585 feet before it was complete. At that height, the theory held, the smoke would disperse before it came back down. The poison would be diluted enough not to kill the valley’s livestock or strip the bark from the trees on the surrounding hills. That was the engineering answer to the pollution problem caused by the Anaconda smelter, a problem the Anaconda Copper Mining Company had decided to solve not by stopping the pollution, but by moving it higher into the air.

The chimney that worker was building still stands there. At 585 feet, it remains the tallest masonry structure in the Western Hemisphere and one of the tallest free-standing chimneys ever built anywhere in the world. It now stands in a public park, preserved as a monument to an industrial age that ended when the smelter it served closed in 1980. The ground around it is a federal Superfund site, among the largest in the country, contaminated by a century of smelting that left arsenic, lead, and cadmium in the soil at concentrations that make farming in the valley hazardous and living near the river a documented health risk.

The chimney is maintained. The ground is not. To understand why anyone would build a 585-foot brick chimney in western Montana in 1918, you have to understand what copper was, and what it meant to the United States at the dawn of the electrical age. Copper conducts electricity.

It conducts it better than any common metal, and it is cheaper than the few metals that outperform it. The telegraph required copper wire. The telephone required copper wire. The electrical distribution systems being built in American cities in the 1880s and 1890s required copper wire by the mile, by the ton, in quantities the domestic copper industry could not yet supply.

New sources were needed. They were found, in the most productive instance, in the rock beneath a hill in southwestern Montana called Butte. The copper deposits at Butte had been known since the 1860s, first mined for silver, then recognized as copper of extraordinary richness. The copper ore at Butte ran at grades that made other deposits look marginal.

The hill above the city of Butte held enough copper to wire a continent, and in the two decades after the Civil War, that is effectively what it did. The man who organized the extraction of Butte’s copper into an industrial system was Marcus Daly. Daly was an Irish immigrant who had worked in the mines of California and Nevada before arriving in Montana in 1876 as an agent for a group of California investors. He bought the Anaconda silver mine in Butte in 1881.

He found copper. He spent the next decade building the infrastructure needed to turn that deposit into the most productive copper operation in the world: mines, concentrators, a railroad, a smelter, and a town to house the workers. The smelter was not going to be in Butte. Butte was a city, and the fumes of copper smelting were not compatible with a populated area in the immediate vicinity.

Daly chose a site twenty-six miles to the west in the Deer Lodge Valley along Warm Springs Creek, and he named the town that grew up around it Anaconda, after his mine. The Anaconda smelter opened in 1884. It expanded as copper production expanded. By 1900, it was processing ore from the multiple Butte mines and shipping finished copper east by rail to wire mills, foundries, and manufacturers, who turned it into the electrical infrastructure of the modern American city.

The Anaconda Copper Mining Company Daly built was, by 1900, one of the most powerful corporations in the United States. It controlled the Butte mines, the Anaconda smelter, the railroad that connected them, the newspapers in both cities, large parts of the Montana legislature, and the political future of anyone who aspired to elected office in the state. Montana was, in the language of the era, a company state. The company was Anaconda.

That power did not come without a fight. Throughout the 1890s, Daly waged a war for control of Montana’s copper economy, and of the state’s political machinery, against a rival copper baron named William Andrews Clark. Clark was a lawyer and banker from Butte who had amassed his own fortune from mining and wanted the influence Daly held over Montana politics. The two men spent fortunes on elections, on newspapers, on bribing legislators, and on destroying each other’s business interests.

A third copper operator, a younger man named Fritz Augustus Heinze, played both sides against each other with such legal and political skill that he briefly became a third force in the state’s mining economy. The War of the Copper Kings, as the press of the time called it, cost millions of dollars and consumed Montana’s political life for a decade. When it ended, the Anaconda Company had established its dominance. Clark sold his Montana interests and moved to the U.

S. Senate. Heinze sold his Butte mines to the Anaconda Company in 1906 for $10. 5 million.

The Anaconda Company emerged from the conflict as the undisputed economic ruler of western Montana. It would remain so for the next seventy years. The workers who made that economic empire run were not part of the War of the Copper Kings. They were in the mines and smelters doing the labor that produced the money that funded the political battle that decided who would control that money.

They were not consulted about the outcome. But the outcome determined their wages, their working conditions, and the air they breathed for the rest of their working lives. Smelting copper ore is a chemical process that requires intense heat and produces toxic waste as an unavoidable byproduct. Copper ore, as it comes out of the ground, is not pure copper.

It is rock that contains copper in chemical combination with sulfur and other elements. The copper content of even rich ore is a small fraction of its total weight. At Butte, high-grade ore might run 10 percent copper, but most ore ran far lower. The rest is gangue, the worthless rock surrounding the mineral, and sulfide compounds that must be broken down by heat to free the copper.

The smelting process begins with crushing and concentrating the ore to remove as much gangue as possible. The concentrated ore then goes to the roasting furnaces. The roasting furnaces operate at temperatures above one thousand degrees Fahrenheit. At those temperatures, the sulfur in the copper sulfide combines with oxygen from the air and leaves the furnace as sulfur dioxide gas.

What remains is copper oxide, which then moves to the blast furnace and converter for further reduction to metallic copper. The sulfur dioxide emitted from the roasting furnaces is the main air pollution problem of copper smelters. It is a colorless gas with a sharp, suffocating odor. In sufficient concentrations, it kills vegetation by reacting with the moisture in plant cells to form sulfurous acid.

It irritates the human respiratory system, causing chronic lung disease with long-term exposure. It is heavier than air and tends to settle in low-lying areas. In a mountain valley surrounded by hills, the gas does not dissipate easily. The Anaconda smelter also produced arsenic.

The copper ores from Butte contained arsenic in chemical combination with copper and sulfur. When the ore was roasted, the arsenic volatilized. Arsenic trioxide vapor rose with the roasting gases. Some of it was captured in the flue dust chambers, long horizontal ducts designed to slow the gas flow and allow the heavier particles to settle out of the stream.

The captured arsenic dust was a salable product. Arsenic trioxide was used in pesticides, wood treatment, glassmaking, and a range of industrial applications demanded by the chemical economy of the age. The Anaconda Company sold it. The arsenic that settled in the flue chambers earned a profit.

The arsenic that did not settle rose through the chimney with the sulfur dioxide. Arsenic trioxide is toxic even at low concentrations. Chronic arsenic exposure causes peripheral neuropathy, skin lesions, lung, bladder, and liver cancer, and cardiovascular disease. The workers who spent years in the roasting rooms of the copper smelter breathed arsenic at concentrations that early-twentieth-century medical literature linked to these outcomes.

That medical literature was not widely shared with the workers who were suffering those outcomes. By 1900, the Anaconda smelter had a pollution problem made far worse by the surrounding geography. The Deer Lodge Valley runs north to south between mountain ranges that rise three thousand feet above the valley floor. The valley is about ten miles wide.

The prevailing winds carry air from west to east, but the mountains on the eastern side block its flow. In the weather conditions that produced temperature inversions, which were frequent in the valley, the air at ground level did not mix with the air above. The smelter smoke, including the sulfur dioxide and arsenic, settled into the valley and stayed there. The evidence of what that settling meant was visible on the hillsides around Anaconda.

Vegetation died for miles downwind of the smelter. The pine trees on the slopes above the town were stripped until they were bare trunks, bleached by the acid gases that accumulated during inversion days. Cattle on farms downwind of the smelter showed signs of arsenic poisoning: stiff joints, wasting hooves, and death from cumulative exposure. The ranchers sued.

The Anaconda Company paid the settlements and continued operations. The ranchers who brought those suits were not influential parties in Montana politics. The Anaconda Company was the most influential party in Montana politics. The settlements were simply a cost of doing business.

The alternative, reducing the smelter’s output or installing equipment to capture the sulfur dioxide before it reached the chimney, cost more than the settlements. And the company’s lawyers had determined that legal liability could be managed at the current settlement levels. What the company could not easily manage was a federal injunction. In 1905, the United States government sued the Anaconda Company on behalf of the federal forest reserves surrounding the valley, arguing that the smelter fumes were destroying government timber.

The case was serious. A federal court could order the smelter to reduce or halt operations. Halting operations at Anaconda meant halting the flow of copper from Butte, which meant halting a large part of the copper supply for the American electrical industry at a time when that industry was growing faster than ever in its history. The Anaconda Company needed a solution that would satisfy the federal court without closing the smelter.

The solution was the chimney. The engineering theory was simple and direct. The pollution problem in the Deer Lodge Valley was a problem of concentration. The smelter was pumping toxic gases into the air of a closed valley at concentrations sufficient to kill plants and livestock.

If the same gases were released at a higher level of the atmosphere, they would be diluted by a larger volume of air before they returned to ground level. The concentrations at ground level would be lower. The damage would be less. The height required to achieve adequate dispersion in the Deer Lodge Valley was enormous.

The ridgelines on either side of the valley rose three thousand feet above its floor. The temperature inversions that trapped gases near the ground typically extended to several hundred feet in height. To rise above the inversion layer and inject the gases into the free atmosphere above it, the chimney had to be far taller than any chimney previously built. The tallest industrial chimneys operating in the United States in 1905 were in the range of four hundred feet.

The chimney proposed by the Anaconda Company’s engineers for the new Washoe smelter complex, the name given to the expanded facility being built to replace and enlarge the original 1884 operation, would exceed that. How tall could it be? The question involved aerodynamic calculations, valley geometry, the behavior of the inversion layer, and the structural limits of brick construction at heights never attempted before. The engineer who developed the final design was Edwin Eddy Moritz.

Moritz was a civil engineer who worked on industrial facilities, and he understood the requirements of a tall, hot chimney in ways that the engineers of decorative towers did not. A smokestack is not an ordinary tower. It is a tube that must withstand not only the lateral wind loads that affect all tall structures, but also the thermal stress of conveying gases exceeding one thousand degrees Fahrenheit through its core. The inner portion of the chimney expands with heat and contracts when the furnaces are banked.

The brick and mortar must withstand that expansion and contraction without cracking, and the structural integrity of the shell must be maintained across thousands of thermal cycles over decades of operation. Moritz designed the Anaconda chimney at 585 feet. The base diameter was 75 feet. The top diameter was 60 feet.

The walls were about seven feet thick at the base, tapering as they rose. The total brick count was approximately 2. 5 million bricks. The mortar was a specially formulated mixture designed to withstand thermal cycling without breaking down.

The foundation was a massive concrete ring sunk twenty feet into the valley floor to distribute the weight of 2. 5 million bricks onto the sedimentary soils of the valley bottom. Construction began in 1917. The chimney was completed in 1919.

The men who built the Anaconda chimney were bricklayers. And laying brick at five hundred feet is a different trade entirely from laying brick at ground level. The craft of laying brick is not especially complex. Mortar is spread.

Brick is set. The brick is tapped to settle it and the mortar is struck. The process repeats on the next course. At ground level, this work is done by craftsmen who understand the structural behavior of brick masonry, who can maintain the regularity of courses and the plumbness and the bonding pattern that proper masonry requires.

The difficulty increases with height, not because the craft becomes more complex, but because the working conditions become more dangerous, and because the consequences of a structural error become more severe the higher the structure rises. The scaffolding that allowed the bricklayers to reach the face of the rising chimney was a timber structure erected on the outside and raised progressively as each section was completed. The scaffold planks were ten to twelve feet above the previous section of completed work. The bricklayers worked from these planks, reaching upward to set brick at the top of the rising course, and downward toward the mortar bucket and the brick hod supplied by the laborer on the platform below.

At three hundred feet, the scaffold planks flexed in the wind that blew through the Deer Lodge Valley. The valley was shaped to funnel air from the west, and the chimney, rising above the surrounding terrain, was fully exposed to that air in its upper sections with no natural obstructions. Any man who misjudged his footing on a ten-inch-wide scaffold plank three hundred feet above the valley floor had no means of survival provided by the construction practices of 1917. There was no safety net.

There were no harnesses attached to fall-arrest systems. There was only the scaffold plank, the man’s balance, and the wind. The men who worked high on the chimney were specialists. They had built other tall industrial chimneys across the country, and they had developed the ability to work under the hazards of height in ways that men unaccustomed to it could not.

They came from a community of industrial bricklayers who followed the construction projects of power plants, smelters, and large industrial facilities from site to site. They were paid wages that reflected the added risk of working at great heights. A ground-level bricklayer in Montana in 1917 earned roughly six to seven dollars a day. A man working above two hundred feet on the chimney earned more.

The Anaconda Company paid what the labor market demanded for that specialty. It paid no more. The work proceeded course by course. Each row of brick added about three inches to the chimney’s height.

A full day’s work might complete ten to fifteen rows, depending on conditions and crew size, adding thirty to forty-five inches of height per day. At that rate, building 585 feet of chimney required months of continuous work. Winter in the Deer Lodge Valley is brutally cold. The average January temperature in Anaconda is twenty degrees Fahrenheit, and mortar does not dry properly in freezing temperatures.

Mortar that freezes before it dries loses its bonding strength. A structure built of brick in freezing temperatures using mortar that has not dried properly is a structure that may fail at the joints. The construction schedule was not suspended during the winter. The construction schedule was the schedule dictated by the company, by the federal litigation, and by the smelter’s production commitments.

The chimney had to be ready for operation before the smelter could return to full production capacity. The smelter returning to full capacity meant copper production and revenue, and meeting the company’s financial obligations to its investors and creditors. The schedule was what drove the project. The men who built the chimney in winter mixed mortar additives, heated the water, covered newly laid sections with canvas, and did what construction workers did in 1917 when they had to set brick in cold weather.

They set the brick. The deaths that occurred during the construction of the Anaconda chimney were not comprehensively documented in the available records. Falls from the high scaffolding were the primary hazard. The company carried insurance.

The insurance paid compensation to the families of the men who fell. The payments appear in the financial records, not in memorial records. The names of the dead do not appear in either place with any reliability. The chimney was completed in 1919.

At 585 feet, it was the tallest chimney in the world and the tallest masonry structure in the Western Hemisphere. The engineering theory it embodied succeeded in the sense that gases exiting at 585 feet dispersed over a wider area than gases that had exited from the lower heights of earlier chimneys. But it did not succeed as hoped in the sense that the Deer Lodge Valley continued to receive toxic deposition from the smelting operations. The arsenic that rose 585 feet in the exhaust plume came back down somewhere.

That somewhere was a larger area than before, which meant that any given location received a lower concentration of arsenic per unit of time, which was the stated engineering goal. But the total amount of arsenic emitted from the smelter did not decrease. The chimney moved the problem. It did not eliminate it.

Federal litigation over the smelter’s impact on national forest lands continued for years after the chimney was completed. The Anaconda Company entered into agreements with the federal government that specified certain emission levels under certain weather conditions. The agreements were monitored under mechanisms that favored the company’s ability to assess its own compliance. The valley remained damaged.

The vegetation did not recover during the decades the smelter continued to operate. The workers who built the chimney worked for months and then left. The workers who spent their careers in the smelter beneath it stayed. The Anaconda smelter employed at its peak roughly 2,500 men at the Anaconda facility.

For those workers, the smelter was not simply an employer they could leave without leaving the town. And leaving the town meant leaving the housing the company built, the company-owned commercial district, and the community constructed around the smelter’s existence. Anaconda was a company town in every meaningful sense. The Anaconda Company owned or controlled the physical and economic infrastructure of the community, and the workers who lived there depended on that company for their jobs, their housing, and their access to the region’s commercial economy.

A worker who raised a complaint about the air in the roasting rooms was raising a complaint against the employer that controlled his housing and his community. The mechanism for raising such complaints in Montana in the 1910s and 1920s was the labor union. The Industrial Workers of the World organized strongly in Butte and achieved substantial membership in the mining sector there during the early years of the century. The Anaconda Company’s response to union organizing was consistent and well funded: opposition backed by the company-controlled political machinery in the state capital, and by the economic leverage it held over every significant employer in western Montana.

In the summer of 1917, after 163 workers died in the Speculator Mine fire in Butte, the Butte miners struck. They demanded improved safety procedures, recognition of the union, and the abolition of the so-called “rustling card,” a blacklisting mechanism the company used to deny employment to workers it identified as organizers or troublemakers. The strike lasted for months. The Anaconda Company did not negotiate with the Industrial Workers of the World.

It waited. It used the political connections it had spent thirty years building to isolate the strike leadership and to bring federal pressure against the organizing efforts. The strike collapsed. The rustling card remained.

The men who organized the strike were blacklisted from work in the Butte and Anaconda operations. Some were blacklisted from mining work across the entire industry. The worker who could not organize and could not leave worked in the roasting furnaces at the wages the company set, and breathed the air those furnaces produced. Men worked in the roasting rooms at temperatures exceeding one thousand degrees Fahrenheit at the furnace face.

They worked with shovels and rabbles to manage the ore on the furnace hearths. They breathed air containing sulfur dioxide and arsenic at concentrations that the ventilation systems of 1910s industrial construction were not designed to handle, because the engineering understanding of occupational exposure limits had not yet been formally established. No regulatory authority published the threshold limit values that would govern workplace air quality in the United States until the 1940s, and they became enforceable under federal law only with the Occupational Safety and Health Act of 1970. In 1918, a worker in the roasting rooms of the Anaconda smelter had no enforceable legal right to breathe air below a specified concentration of any toxic substance.

All he had was the company doctor. The Anaconda Company employed a medical staff. The medical staff treated injuries and illnesses among the workforce. The diagnoses they recorded reflected the medical understanding of the time and the institutional relationship between the medical staff and the employer who paid their salaries.

Occupational disease is a diagnosis with legal consequences for the employer. The company doctors in Anaconda diagnosed conditions as they appear in the records. They made the diagnoses. The records are not comprehensive and have not been independently audited.

Workers who developed chronic lung disease, a combination of silicosis from ore dust, arsenic-related lung damage, and irritation from continuous sulfur dioxide exposure, suffered symptoms that worsened over the years: shortness of breath, persistent cough, and declining capacity for physical labor. The work that failed first with declining lung capacity was the most demanding work, the shoveling and rabbling at the furnace face. A man whose lungs were failing could no longer endure that work. The company transferred those men to lighter duties.

When they could no longer perform the lighter duties, there were no other duties. The mechanism that protected them was the workers’ compensation framework of that era, which provided limited benefits by the standards of later contracts and required legal action to obtain in most cases. The arsenic that the flue chambers captured before it reached the chimney was sold during that period. The Anaconda Company sold arsenic trioxide to the pesticide industry, the wood treatment industry, and the glass industry.

The arsenic the flue chambers did not capture rose through the chimney. The workers in the roasting rooms breathed the arsenic that the ventilation system carried past them before it reached the flue chambers. The company profited from the arsenic it could capture, and it pushed the cost of the arsenic it could not capture onto external parties. The cost was loaded onto the workers who breathed it, the valley that received it from the chimney, the ranchers whose livestock absorbed the poison from the grass, and the families of Anaconda who lived in the shadow of 585 feet of brick every day of their working lives.

The smelter operated from 1902 until 1980. Seventy-eight years of copper production. The copper that passed through the Anaconda smelter during those seventy-eight years wired American homes, built the electrical distribution systems of American cities, went into the ammunition of American armies in two world wars, into the motors of American factories, and the telephone cables of the American communications network. The supply chain of American industrial civilization ran through Anaconda, Montana, and through the bodies of the men who worked there.

The smelter closed on September 29, 1980. The closure was announced by Atlantic Richfield, which had acquired the Anaconda Company in 1977. The copper market had declined. The company determined that the cost of bringing the Anaconda smelter into compliance with the Clean Air Act of 1970 and its amendments was greater than the value of continuing to operate it.

Approximately 2,500 workers in Anaconda lost their jobs in a short period. The town of Anaconda, built around the existence of the smelter for nearly a century, shrank the way company towns shrink when the company leaves. The Environmental Protection Agency designated the Anaconda area as a Superfund site in 1983. The designation included the smelter site, the slag piles, the flue dust piles, the former tailings ponds, and portions of Warm Springs Creek and the Deer Lodge River downstream.

Mapping the contamination was not simple. Arsenic, lead, cadmium, zinc, and copper had been deposited in soil and sediment over seventy-eight years of operation at concentrations that varied across thousands of acres depending on proximity to the smelter, wind patterns, and the specific chemistry of each process. The remediation carried out over the following decades involved capping contaminated soil, revegetating damaged areas, and managing ongoing contamination in the watershed. The valley did not return to its pre-smelter state.

It was stabilized into a condition that regulators determined was safe for certain uses under specific land-use patterns. The chimney was not remediated. The chimney was designated a state park. The chimney is visible from the highway for miles before you reach Anaconda.

It rises above the valley floor with no context. Nothing near it approaches its height, and the open Montana sky offers no reference point to diminish it. At 585 feet, the chimney matches a fifty-story building, and a building that tall in a mountain valley floor is not something the surrounding landscape can absorb. If you drive into the state park and stand at the base of the chimney, you are standing on the ground where the Washoe smelter operated for seventy-eight years.

The smelter buildings are gone. The furnace buildings are gone. The flue chambers are gone. The company houses and stores are in town two miles north, converted, demolished, or simply aged.

What remains is the chimney and the contaminated soil beneath your feet, and that view upward into the circular opening at the top, 585 feet up, through which the roasting gases of the Anaconda smelter passed for six decades. The bricklayers who built what you are looking at worked on those rows of scaffolding that rose with the chimney through the winters of 1917 and 1918. Each row was a day of their labor. Two and a half million bricks in the bitter cold of a Montana winter, with mortar that had to be kept warm to hold, on wooden scaffold planks at heights where a single misstep meant the end of a life.

The men who built this structure came to Anaconda because the work was there, and they left when the work was done. The company that might have kept records of their names was a company whose primary interest in its workers was their productivity, not their remembrance. The workers who spent their careers in the furnace rooms below the chimney exist in the medical records, the payroll records, and the pension records of the Anaconda Company. Some of those records were preserved when the company was acquired and dissolved.

Some were not. The workers who contracted occupational diseases and settled their claims against the company exist in the legal records of those settlements. The workers who contracted occupational diseases and lacked the resources, the legal standing, or the evidence to file lawsuits exist in no record that has been made widely available to the public. The arsenic in the soil of the Deer Lodge Valley is still there.

The EPA set cleanup standards based on the risk of exposure to current residents under current land-use patterns. The arsenic that remains beneath the capped surface layer will remain for a time span far beyond a human lifetime. Arsenic is a chemical element. Elements do not decompose.

Montana copper built the electrical grid of the early-twentieth-century United States. The wire that carried current through the first American cities, the telephone cables that connected them, the motor windings that drove the Progressive Era’s industrial expansion, a large part of it was refined from ore that moved from the Butte hill to the Anaconda valley, through the roasting furnaces, up the chimney, into the air of the Deer Lodge Valley, and back down into the lungs of the people who lived there. The men who did the refining exist in the payroll books at the rates set by the company and the era: three to five dollars a day for general smelter labor in the 1920s and 1930s, more with skill level, reduced when illness made hard labor impossible. Whether those wages compensated them for what the work cost in lung capacity and years of life is a question the payroll books do not address.

The payroll records record what was paid. They do not record what was owed. The chimney still stands. The company is gone.

The town the company built remains in diminished form, still called Anaconda, still in the Deer Lodge Valley, still surrounded by the mountains that trapped the smelter fumes in the valley bottom for seventy-eight years. The chimney is still there because a 585-foot masonry structure, built with craftsmanship, does not need the industry that stood beneath it to continue. It is structurally independent of the enterprise that created it, which means it will outlive the memory of that enterprise on any significant timescale. You can stand at the base of the Anaconda chimney on a clear Montana morning, with the sky above the valley that particular high-altitude blue that Montana shows in summer, and look up at 585 feet of brick, where the chimney’s top frames a circle of that blue.

The brick was laid by men whose names the company did not preserve with any care, in a bitter cold imposed by Montana winters regardless of construction schedule demands, on scaffolding that exposed them at heights where only balance separated them from the valley floor. The furnaces that brick served were run by men who breathed what the chimney carried for their entire working lives, at concentrations that the engineering of that era described as “improved” over what they had been before the chimney was built. The word “improved” does not mean “safe.

” The chimney is still there.