The Atlanta Prison Farm
Ten miles south of the airport, nestled alongside the South Fork River, lies the largest undeveloped section of Atlanta.
Spanning 1,200 acres of mostly untouched wilderness, the Weelaunee Forest is one of the largest urban forests in the country. And peppered amongst the lakes and vast tree canopy, one real development stands out. The notable disruption within this woods is a group of concrete, cinder block, and iron doors, marking the remnants of the Atlanta Prison Farm.
In 2015, Katie and I visited this hidden realm, believing to be one of only a few to stumble across its presence. The online information was scarce, fueling our belief that we had uncovered a well-kept secret. As we ventured further though, the truth emerged – we weren't the only ones drawn to the concrete forrest; the traces of previous adventurers were everywhere.
The prison had transformed into an astonishing gallery of art, showcasing the boundless creativity through some of the best graffiti we had ever seen. Yet, amidst the artistic brilliance, the landscape accompanied local negligence with refrigerators and mattresses serving as a makeshift dump. One weed, taller than me, grew up inside the ring of a discarded tire, highlighting the many contrasting worlds the abandoned prison grounds represent.
In a past life, the Atlanta Prison Farm was touted as being a pioneer for rehabilitation. When the prison opened more than a hundred years ago, it was a self-described “honor prison” for low-level offenders. Tucked away from the city, there was plenty of space to farm crops and raise livestock to support the campus of 150 low-level offending inmates. Most of the foreman who worked at the original prison were agricultural experts rather than prison guards. The prison’s first warden, whose actual name was Pet Fry, stated that the only locks were to keep cattle in. Early records show the majority of prisoners were moonshiners, and most of their sentences were only a few months.
As we approached the hidden entrance just south of Key Road, it was hard to fathom that the "honor farm" could be much different than my view of a typical prison. The initial sight that greeted us was a set of rusty prison bars separating the front office. Despite the blazing Atlanta sun, darkness enveloped us with every step we took deeper into the building. The lack of windows amongst cinderblock intensified the eerie feeling as we navigated in near darkness, until we unexpectedly stumbled upon a series of vast, open rooms.
Each room was adorned with dozens of bunk beds. Their neat rows strewn about in a hapless manner. The few mattresses that remained had disintegrated to a heap of fluff, leaving mostly springs exposed. Some beds showed signs of squatters who had broken in to find shelter for the night, prompting me to ponder if the irony of breaking into a prison struck them as profoundly as it did us.
Further exploration revealed a series of buildings attached by long halls. Some had been burned down, others, made of cinder blocks, showed clear fire damage. A few smaller buildings led outside where a series of sheds were nearly consumed by kudzu, as if the smothering plant was trying to pull them back into the earth.
In one wing, the remains of industrial laundry machines lined the wall, their massive, steal bodies were bolted to the floor. Their missing doors were large enough to fit Katie and I both inside. If a prison wasn’t eerier enough, a prison that included its own slaughterhouse certainly took the adventure to another level.
The further we ventured into the decaying buildings, the more challenging it became to picture the archival descriptions of the honor farm I read online. The mostly windowless, fire-damaged corridors undoubtedly contributed to an eerie feeling, but that was only the beginning. The prison was filled with iron doors and cells. As we proceeded down a particularly unsettling hallway, we came across meal slots positioned just a few feet above the ground. Peering through these slots, we were met with vivid depictions of prisoners painted on the walls, magnifying the cramped confines of the small 8'x8' concrete cells.
These doors were the only ones I found that remained unquestionably locked and impenetrable. Peering through a small 6”x6” window on the door, I could see the confines held a poignant, untouched beauty. The subjects depicted in the murals donned orange jumpsuits, sitting on their steel beds, their gaze fixated on the ground. It created an eerie yet captivating record that can’t be disturbed. It was as if the artist, upon completing their work, had sealed the door behind them, intentionally freezing that moment, and preserving a record that couldn’t be distorted by the passage of time.
The act of locking away these visual stories would juxtapose any depiction of life on the farm. If there had ever been a time when this place existed without the weight of locks and the watchful eyes of guards, it seemed like a distant, almost mythical tail from my current vantage point.
Looking down a hallway of cells
I would come to learn that the grounds of the Atlanta Prison Farm, and surrounding forest had many controversial lives, and most as murky as the prison where I stood. The earliest glimpses into the land's history emerged from the deeds of a slave-owner in the early 1800s, who claimed to possess the "finest plantation in the country."
During the Civil War, this very site became a pivotal stage, bearing witness to a historic moment—the Battle of Atlanta. On July 21, 1864, Confederate General Hardee led thousands of soldiers on a grueling 16-mile march, a daring move aimed at securing a critical railroad access. This ambitious endeavor, remembered as Hardee's March, guided them through the cover of night, concealing themselves in the very woods I stood in.
The troops emerged from the woods as dawn broke joining troops in East Atlanta in an event known as the Battle of Atlanta. The stage was set for one of the most significant battles of the Civil War - one that left more than nine thousand casualties in its wake. The Union's triumph on this battlefield helped secure Atlanta and set in motion General Sherman's notorious March to the Sea, a campaign that would be a catalyst to the end of the Civil War itself.
After selling the property to the city of Atlanta in 1918, it was briefly planned to be a confederate cemetery before eventually designating the land to the Bureau of Prisons. Early accounts of the farm radiated with praise, but comprehensive records and prisoner testimonies are frustratingly scarce. While the honor farm seemingly represented a pioneering model in the early 20th century, a notable void exists in its records, particularly after the mid-1960s.
For nearly three decades, the prison operated in relative obscurity evading public scrutiny. Among the few available reports though, one disturbing trend stood out: the population appeared to balloon, far exceeding its 150- person limit. At the same time, the prisoners began producing food and goods for outside the prison. Rather than sustaining a model of self-sufficiency inside the prison walls, officials were capitalizing on their free labor.
Furthermore, a pivotal moment unfolded in the 1960s when prisoners collectively boycotted labor, protesting against unfair conditions and several deaths inside the prison. During this era, one of the lone documented incidents was a 1980s lawsuit filed by the ACLU, shedding light on some of the prevailing conditions within the prison.
Among one grievance was the inclusion that prisoners were forced to take on seemingly cruel and punishing labor. In the 1950’s, when Coca the elephant, which was formally owned by the Coca-Cola family, passed away, it was buried in an 18-foot hole - hand dug by the prisoners.
Coca the elephant is unloaded using a tow truck into a grave dug by the prisoners, picture taken March 1950 (Photo by Marion Johnson/Kenan Research Center at the Atlanta History Center)
The eccentric heir to the soda fortune had several elephant siblings including Cola, Refreshing, and Delicious that were donated to the Atlanta Zoo. Records from the lawsuit speculate at least one other elephant to be buried nearby, a few hundred feet away from the entrance.
The graves of a giraffe, gorilla, and rhinoceros from the Atlanta Zoo are also reported to be buried on the property. Though the headstones for these animals vanished decades ago, makeshift remnants of their graves have stood at various points, including one sign along key road that read, "Zoo animals down yonder”.
Some-time later, the grounds began to be used as a city dump for building and demolition projects. Most notably, the city disposed of the original marble façade that had adorned the entrance to Atlanta’s Carnegie Library. The architectural masterpiece from 1902 sat exposed in the fields for years before being salvaged by the Olympic Committee. The marble was pulled from the grounds of the prison farm and repurposed into the Carnegie Educational Pavilion, which greeted spectators for the 1996 Olympic games.
Courtesy of Atlanta Journal Constitution
Up until 18 months ago, the abandoned Atlanta Prison Farm remained largely hidden from public awareness. After finally closing in the 90’s, the grounds sat abandoned, slowly being reclaimed by the forrest. However, everything changed dramatically when news of its upcoming transformation ignited intense debates, sparking both local activism and drawing significant national attention.
In the past year, the City of Atlanta made a pivotal decision, green-lighting the sale of the property to the Atlanta Police Foundation, with a significant investment of $30 million in public funds. The land would be used for one of the largest police and firefighter training facilities in the country. Its plans include classrooms, a driving course, a shooting range, and most notoriously, a mock city - fixed with fake apartments, gas stations, and night clubs to simulate real-world scenarios.
Critics of the project have dubbed the development as "Cop City." These opponents argue that local, low-income residents, who have been historically overlooked in discussions about the property's plans, are further marginalized due to a geographic peculiarity: the property is owned by the city of Atlanta but is situated in a neighboring county. This disconnect prevents these residents from expressing their concerns at the ballot box. Furthermore, residents question the sudden shift in development plans. Earlier proposals had aimed to secure further protections as a green space, but this approach was abruptly abandoned.
The plans have gained national attention leading to protestor standoffs, encampments, and activists, who call themselves “forest defenders” - living in the canopy in makeshift treehouses. Tension mounted for months between forest defenders and law enforcement, coming to a dramatic climax last January when one police officer was wounded and a protestor was killed.
Despite the opposition, the project came to a vote in June where the local council approved the funding. In an odd twist to an increasingly strange series of events, the city of Atlanta also sold a portion of the land to a production studio, who is quickly building the nation’s largest soundstage and film set in the country. The nine production buildings also include a three-acre outdoor blue screen lot to film car chases. The sets have already been used in several films including Jumanji: The Next Level, Jungle Cruise, and Godzilla: King of Monsters.
A few years after our visit to the farm, the future training ground for firefighters got their first simulation when one of the mountains of discarded tires erupted in flames like a hibachi onion volcano. First responders elected to let the fire burn itself out. The expansive damage was the worst yet on the grounds of the prison farm, further decaying the already dwindling sight.
Like much of the past lives of the Weelaunee Forest, its future is still somewhat uncertain. One last ditch effort emerged for opponents of the development recently which may allow further development to be postponed. Time will tell how successful the measure will be, but for now it appears developers seem confident they will be moving forward with the project.
As someone whose only experience in the forest included tress-passing onto the old prison farm, its hard to pick a side here. While the muddied and disturbing past aren’t necessarily foreshadowing, I can’t help but feel skeptical that any development will truly benefit the public. In a world with two pretend car chase courses, mock cities, and green screens, I worry the development will resemble anything but reality.
Still, I’m simply an explorer, whose short adventure in the woods couldn’t make out the forrest through the trees. Whatever is built, I hope it brings more life than destruction. And if one day the crumbling walls are again claimed by the forrest, I’ll find myself returning to the woods, flashlight in hand.
In the meantime, the Atlanta Police Department has already abandoned their old training grounds in anticipation of the move, so I might just start there.
All photos taken on an iPhone 6 :)
