Lace
Antique Frame Replicas
Orchids
Unicycle Wheel Hubs

Lace began as a fringe fabric.

Back in the middle ages, it was handcrafted by european women to trim fashion finery.

The ladies' fingers got a break with the advent of lace-making equipment in the 19th century.

With mass production, lace moved from the fringe to the mainstream.

In the material world, lace used to be a luxury, handcrafted for decorative rather than practical reasons.

Machines now produce lace quickly, and you don't have to be wealthy to afford it.

To manufacture lace, hundreds of nylon and polyester threads unwind simultaneously into a separator.

It arranges the threads in a configuration for manufacturing and keeps them from tangling as they move forward.

To maintain the formation, the the threads pass through a comb-like apparatus.

Still in that neat configuration, the threads wind around a large spool.

This spool is known as a ground beam because the threads on it will be used for the lace's ground, or mesh.

These smaller spools supply the threads for the pattern.

They all unwind into the lace-making machine, which will interweave them to create a pattern on the ground.

Here's how it happens.

A long thick card with holes punched into it defines the pattern and guides a system of hooks and needles.

It's called a jacquard card, and the technology has been around for two centuries and was actually the inspiration for computer technology.

Each hole on the card corresponds to one hook, and the hooks are attached to these guide bars.

If the hook encounters a hole in the jacquard card, it loops a thread, and if it encounters the solid card, it stops.

The guide bars shuffle back and forth to move the hooks in concert with needles and weave the design on the ground.

This is the lace-weaving action in slow motion.

The punch-card system allows for the same pattern to be woven repeatedly without error.

It's all perfectly choreographed, and this complex lace design comes together quickly with no snarls.

The result is a thing of beauty-- an intricate floral pattern on a mesh background.

The lace rolls by inspectors, who scrutinize the needlework for flaws.

It then heads into a station with high-speed knives.

They cut the loose threads that run between the floral patterns on the front of the lace.

A worker finishes the job by hand, removing what the knives miss.

Here you can see the difference the trimming makes.

The mesh between the needlework is now completely transparent.

They mend the lace when needed, and then it's into a dying machine to add some color.

After rinsing, the now bright-yellow lace travels over bars under tension to wring out the water.

The lace, still damp, lands and accumulates in a bin, which they wheel over to a finishing machine.

The finishing machine is equipped with rollers.

The first ones remove the curl from the lace.

The others take it through a chemical bath for a treatment that both softens the lace and prevents shrinkage.

A trip through a dryer removes the water from the fabric and cures the finishing chemicals.

Now complete, the lace exits onto a network of rollers.

The final one swings the fabric to and fro so that it lands neatly folded for transfer to the packaging line.

Heavy industrial machinery has produced this delicate lace in a matter of minutes.

They roll it and wrap it, and it's on its way to the fabric store or another factory.

No ordinary textile, the factory-made lace will add beauty to things of necessity like curtains, a tablecloth, or a dress.

Its sheer good looks will add visual appeal to these ordinary items.

It's important that the frame around a painting be stylistically consistent with the period in which the artist created the work.

When you're dealing with a centuries-old painting, however, the original frame has often been replaced with a newer one.

The solution is commissioning an historically accurate antique replica.

When a painting's original frame is lost, a specialist can produce an exact replica or a historically accurate alternative.

Basswood is the wood of choice because it's relatively soft and even-grained.

First, they saw the length required for the frame.

Then they plane the sides to smooth the rough edges.

Next, they saw the piece to the required dimensions.

Once pieces for all four sides of the frame are cut, workers set up a machine called a molding planer.

As its contoured steel blade spins, they run each piece against it, carving the blade's profile into the wood.

The workshop has thousand of blades, each with a different profile.

They all began as a flat bar of steel, which the shop milled to shape following a profile drawing.

Once each side is contoured, workers saw the ends at 45-degree angles...

Then cut a slot in each one.

They spread glue in the slot and over the entire surface, then insert a beechwood biscuit.

The biscuit goes in just halfway.

They insert the other half into the glued slot of the adjoining frame piece.

Once the glue dries, the master carver gets to work.

With a pencil, he draws the frame's design onto tracing paper, then lays the paper upside down on the replica and retraces the design, which transfers it in graphite onto the frame surface.

Then he turns to his arsenal of 40-plus chisels and begins carving out the design.

Each chisel has a different shape and sized tip and therefore makes a very specific type of cut.

He first cuts straight down along the outline to sever the wood grain.

This prevents the angled cuts, which follow, from splitting the wood beyond the outline.

Interchanging chisels, he repeatedly removes small chunks of wood until the design emerges.

He clears away the wood chips with a wire brush.

Now the master gilder takes over, brushing on up to 20 coats of gesso-- a traditional mixture of water, calcium carbonate, and a very flexible glue made from rabbit skin.

Flexibility prevents cracking when the wood expands and contracts.

He brushes on four coats of another traditional mixture called bole.

The ingredients-- ultra-fine particle clay, water, and, again, rabbit-skin glue.

Bole provides background colors.

It also provides a cushion between the gesso layer and the gold leaf.

Next, a coat of what's called gilder's liquor-- a combination of water, alcohol, and either gelatin or rabbit-skin glue.

Then he cuts a piece of gold leaf-- a sheet of genuine gold a mere 1/10,000 of a millimeter thick.

He applies it with a fine brush made of squirrel hair, which he has lightly oiled.

As soon as he taps the frame, the water in the gilder's liquor grabs the gold leaf, pulling it away from the oil, adhering it to the bristles.

This is the tricky part, because too much oil on the brush or too little water in the gilder's liquor can hinder this delicate transfer.

Next, the master gilder rubs select areas with a polished agate, a natural stone.

This burnishing process compresses the gold leaf, making it smooth and shiny.

Now he'll make the frame look old.

He removes some gold from the high points to create the appearance of wear.

Then he applies a tinted glaze to simulate patina-- natural darkening that develops over time due to the accumulation of airborne dust and dirt.

He works in the glaze with a brush to distribute it strategically so that the fake patina looks perfectly natural.

For this frame, he uses 23-karat gold leaf.

Gilders will also use 6-, 12-, 14, 18-, and 22-karat leaf to achieve different shades of gold.

The higher the karat, the yellower the color, due to the greater proportion of gold in the composition and lesser proportion of copper and silver alloys.

Orchids are a standout.

Their exquisite beauty even caused a frenzy in the mid-19th century when wealthy british collectors hired orchid hunters to search the world for new species.

Today, the fascination with orchids continues, and cultivating them is a growing industry.

In thailand, orchids grow wild, but the wild orchids have been tamed.

They've been hybridized and domesticated to satisfy a global demand for this fantastic flower.

At this farm, cultivation starts with bud cuttings, mixed with nutrients and water in glass bottle.

The bottle provides a germ-free growing environment, keeping the cuttings disease-free as they grow into baby orchids.

This takes a year or more.

When the plants have developed a strong root system, they're ready to come out into the world.

The worker deposits the baby orchids in a tub of clean water and swishes each one around to give their roots a good rinse.

She transfers the baby orchids to a perforated plastic basket.

A wad of coconut fiber soaked in water provides the next growing environment.

The worker places the roots of each baby plant in one of the wads.

She wraps the fiber snuggly and ties the wad.

She places the fiber-wrapped orchids in growing cells.

The team waters and fertilizes them for four to six months.

The orchids grow to midsize, and the plant's root system flourishes.

The plants are now ready for the next phase of growth.

They transfer the mid-sized orchids to coconut husks.

The husks act as a kind of plant pot and growing media in one.

They absorb water to provide a constant supply to the plants.

The plants grow on the husks.

No soil is needed.

In nature, orchids flourish on tree bark or cracks in rocks, and coconut husks are the next best thing.

Overhead, a nylon-fabric roof diffuses sunlight to simulate conditions found in a shady rainforest.

Too much light and the heat would harm the plants.

Gardeners regularly observe the growth of the orchids.

They're on the lookout for disease or other problems.

Not all of the plants will thrive.

They'll lose about 10% of the crop.

They fertilize and water the orchids over a period of several months.

Many of the plants are hybrids, created by crossing species to achieve a certain color or shape or to improve the plant's vigor.

With thousands of species available in nature, the potential combinations are never-ending, and the results are always stunning.

With the orchids in full bloom, it's time for the harvest.

Workers cut the orchids at the base of the stems, with an eye to making them approximately the same length.

In the packing room, they tweak the length of the stems until each bunch is perfectly uniform.

They make this final cut on an angle.

This creates a larger surface for absorbing water so the orchid will stay fresh longer.

They sort the flowers by the size of the bloom.

They insert the stems in plastic capsules that contain a flower-food and water mixture.

This should maintain the orchids' freshness during shipping.

It's time to wrap up each stunning display.

The plastic sleeve will preserve them on the journey ahead.

This particular orchid is a hybrid species known as mokara.

Extremely desirable, cut mokara orchids should bloom for up to three weeks.

En route to the airport in a climate-controlled truck, they'll soon be on an international flight.

Thai orchids are sold around the world.

Chances are they'll end up at the center of a big event in someone's life, and whether it's a wedding or a birthday, these stunning orchids will add something special to the party.

The key part of a wheel is its hub, the central point to which all the spokes attach.

It's comprised of a body which receives the spokes and houses an axle and bearings.

If the wheel has a gear system, then those gears and a clutch are also integrated into the hub.

This is the only commercially available unicycle with a gearing system.

Located on the wheel hub, it enables the rider to push a button to shift from regular gear into high gear and reach 25 miles per hour-- twice the speed of a regular unicycle.

The geared wheel hub contains six identical small gears, rotating around a large central gear.

The central one is called the sun wheel and the small ones, planetary gears, because they revolve around the central gear the way planets revolve around the sun.

Each of the small gears begins as a disk-shaped steel blank.

A conventional, 1950s-era gear-cutting machine cuts teeth into it as a shower of oil washes away the shards of metal.

The oil also cools and lubricates the tool so that it doesn't overheat or jam.

After about 30 seconds of machining, the blank is a fully shaped gear.

An even older machine, circa 1930, mills a larger blank into the central gear.

However, because this gear is bigger, cutting the teeth into it takes much longer--  about two minutes.

Once all the gears are machined, they, along with the hub's other steel components, undergo a complex heat-treatment process to strengthen the steel.

Elsewhere in the factory, workers assemble the two halves of the clutch, the component which locks into regular or high gear when the rider shifts.

Using a cylindrical tool called a broach, the machine grooves in the center of the clutch.

Slots on the axle will fit into these grooves.

Next, they unscrew the two halves of the clutch and mount eight hollow pins in each one.

In one half, they also install three longer alignment pins and a greased spring inside each hollow pin.

Then they thread the two halves of the clutch onto the axle, aligning the axle slots in the clutch's grooves and the pins on one half with corresponding pins and holes on the other.

After fastening the halves together once again, they mount the six planetary gears on a ring called the planet carrier, then install it on the axle.

The spring-loaded pins on the clutch click into corresponding slots on the planet carrier.

These slots are engineered to fit the pins with no more than .

01 millimeters of clearance.

After securing the planet carrier to the axle with a retaining clip, they insert ball bearings with a spring in two holes on opposite sides of the axle.

A retaining ring holds these spring-loaded bearings in place.

Meanwhile, a laser engraver etches the company logo and product identification on the wheel-hub body.

The body is made of high-strength aluminum that's undergone an electrochemical treatment to make it corrosion-resistant.

They mount the hub body on a hydraulic press and insert the sun wheel, surrounded by a large ball bearing.

Then they activate the press, which forces the sun wheel into the body.

They install the body on the axle, positioning the sun wheel right in the center of the planetary gears.

A cover protects the gears from dust, dirt, and precipitation.

On the opposite end of the body, they install additional bearings and affix a cover with nine screws.

Now the shift buttons-- a chrome-plated one for shifting down, a gold-plated one for shifting up.

Both screw into a shaft running through the center of the axle.

The two spring-loaded bearings workers inserted in the axle earlier hold that shaft in place.

This cross-section model shows how everything comes together.

The shift button moves the shaft, which moves the clutch to lock into the selected gear.

In regular gear, pedaling one revolution makes the wheel turn one revolution.

When the rider shifts to high gear, pedaling one revolution makes the wheel turn 1 1/2 revolutions.

The unicycle moves 50% further as a result of the same action.

Riders use the regular gear for climbing and the higher gear for flat or downhill terrain.

They hit the shift button with their heel or ankle while pedaling-- a quick, slight movement that won't throw them off balance.


Today on "how it's made"...

Springs...

Pavers...

And pianos.

A spring is a flexible metal device that returns to its original shape or position after it's stretched, squeezed, or twisted.

Springs were first used in clocks during the 16th century and, starting in the late 1800s, in chair seats and bedding.

Today springs pop up all over.

They're crucial components of modern technology.

Different types of springs include compression, on the right, and extension, on the left.

During use, these torsion springs will twist at one or both ends.

Workers start with rolls of steel cord.

The cord diameters range in size depending on the type of springs being made.

A machine called a dereeler unwinds the roll, feeding it to a computer-guided forming machine.

This forming machine forces the cord through a channel, shapes it into a coil, and then cuts it into segments.

Small wheels and a metal shaft guide the cord into shape.

These are torsion springs for use in the automotive industry, which relies heavily on a variety of springs.

The average car, for example, has about 350 of them.

A cone-shaped yellow sensor detects the correct angle of each spring.

A good reading is required so the machine can move the next spring forward through the channel to be formed.

This machine can produce up to 2,000 springs per hour, depending on their size.

Here another larger forming machine creates extension springs that are over 6 inches long.

A mechanical arm grabs the coil and chops it into segments after it's formed in a channel.

As the coil emerges, another mechanical arm steadies it to prevent it from vibrating.

This keeps the spring tension constant, enabling the machine to produce at top speed.

In slow motion, you can see how the machine grabs the coil's first ring and bends it to form a hook.

This all takes place as the coil emerges from the channel.

A vise then secures the last ring on the end of the coil, while another arm twists it to make the spring's other hook.

Slowed down, you see how two arms surround the coil being held in the vise.

One arm then grabs the last ring while the other arm twists it upward.

This machine makes compression springs-- a model with tapered ends that's often used in seat belts.

A metal probe detects the correct length of the springs after they're formed.

The machine has four rotary shafts called cams.

A computer ensures each spring has the desired specs.

The springs are also heated to relax the metal.

This gives them the ability to retain their shape after flexing.

Another machine creates longer, thicker torsion springs.

It shapes the cord into a coil with a shaft and then passes it over a tube to steady it.

This ensures the spring will have the required tension.

Springs can be as thin as a human hair or as thick as a broom handle.

Train wheels, for instance, include some of the industry's thickest compression springs.

This machine makes another type of spring, often called wire forms.

They're flexible steel cords curved or bent at an angle.

These ones, shaped like a "w," are used in ovens.

Here, a worker places a spring into a machine that makes its hooks.

He uses an adaptor to avoid hurting his fingers.

He places each one individually because specs for springs can vary by minute amounts.

This company makes some springs with hooks made of two rings instead of one.

Clients order them this way because the hooks are more durable.

Custom orders for springs can range from just a few to many thousand.

This is another type of wire form.

It'll be used in a firearm.

A worker assembles it by hand because it's so intricate.

After joining two base pieces, he places them into a small die.

Using a foot pedal, he controls the die to bend the segments and complete the assembly.

To check the compression spring's tension, a worker tests it with a weight gauge.

The correct tension varies depending on what the client wants.

A 1 1/2-inch long spring, for example, might need to withstand 5 pounds of tension when compressed to 1 inch.

To test an extension spring, workers just add hooks to the weight gauge.

Whether they're extension, compression, torsion, or wire form, and whether they're inside pens or satellites, springs prove that some old ideas definitely still work.

You could say that interlocking concrete pavers came out of the rubble of world war ii.

In post-war holland, there weren't enough clay pavers to rebuild city streets, so the dutch began making concrete pavers.

The germans refined the technology and exported it to north america, and they found a quick road to success.

These pavers are solid, and the interlocking design disperses weight, easing the load on the road.

To make these pavers, a conveyor belt delivers concrete sand to a weigh belt that weighs the coarse sand as it falls onto it.

The weigh belt carries the sand forward, while another conveyor belt unloads stone chips to be weighed.

These chips are no longer than an 1/8 inch.

The ratio of sand to stone chips varies depending on the type of paver being made.

The weigh belt transports the stone chips forward along with the coarse sand.

Both are en route to the skip hoist.

They spill off the conveyor into the skip hoist, which is essentially a bucket on rails.

Cables pull the loaded bucket upwards.

It stops about 30 feet up, just above a big concrete mixer.

A trap door opens and dumps the sand and stone chips into the mixer.

Six giant steel paddles mix and then rotate and mix again, while cement is added automatically through several nozzles on the side of this enormous mixing bowl.

Making pavers is a bit like baking cookies.

Too much or too little liquid in the batter, and it won't bake properly.

Water is added until the consistency is just right.

Nozzles also shoot a pigment into the mix to tint it.

The mixture looks dry and crumbly, but the recipe gives it just enough moisture to form the concrete.

Now a filling wagon spreads the mix over a steel mold containing up to 50 paver-shaped cavities.

The mold presshead applies 11 tons of vibrating pressure.

This pulsating force compacts the mixture in the paver mold and removes any air pockets, which could weaken the pavers.

Hydraulic cylinders lift the mold, leaving the pavers on the press board.

The press board slides out, and the mold once again gets filled in and makes another 50 paver stones.

It only takes about 10 seconds to mold, compact, and release a batch of pavers.

The press boards filled with pavers slide into a rack.

A hydraulic chain hoist lifts each board into a large holding rack.

There, a special moving wagon, called a finger wagon, picks up all the boards from the rack in just one move.

The electrical wagon moves along a rail to a curing kiln, where it's almost 100 degrees fahrenheit.

The pavers actually generate the heat, due to a chemical reaction from the combination of cement and water.

About 12 hours later, the finger wagon carts the pavers out of the kiln.

They are now 70% cured as a result of the chemical process that binds the cement, sand, and gravel, causing the pavers to harden.

The rest of the curing will happen over the next 28 days.

The pavers are now sturdy enough to handle, so four steel arms with rubber pads move in and straighten the stones on the board.

These alignment arms are hydraulically driven.

They arrange the concrete pavers so they interlock snugly.

Now hydraulic clamp arms lift the pavers off the board and begin to pile them up.

They're making a cube of stone.

This stacking machine is called a cuber.

It packs 9 or 10 layers of pavers on top of one another to make this cube.

The cube is actually called a bundle.

It will be strapped and shipped out to the jobsite.

These concrete pavers will be on the road soon building and rebuilding our streets.

Piano keys were once made out of ivory.

This sought-after material isn't used anymore because it's banned to protect elephants who were killed for their ivory tusks.

Pianists now play plastic keys, but the techniques involved in manufacturing a piano haven't changed much and still rely on handcraftsmanship, just like a century ago.

beautiful music is a triumph, but so is the piano itself...

Made of inner and outer rims, a soundboard, treble and bass bridges over which the strings are stretched, and a heavy cast-iron plate.

To make a piano rim, automated rollers spread glue onto sheets of hard rock maple, coating both sides.

Then they layer the glue-soaked sheets 5 to 8 deep, depending on the model of piano.

Workers feed the wet layers of wood to a rim press.

An impact wrench, powered by compressed air, turns the clamp screws.

The screws bend the wood into a piano rim form.

They measure the pressure on the layers with a torque wrench.

Steel arms reach across the wood, holding the shape while the glue dries.

After 24 hours, workers loosen the machine's grip, and the rim now holds its contour.

Now it's into what's called the conditioning room for more drying out.

The piano rims stay in this warm, arid room for 30 days.

It's time to make the bracing structure.

They place glued struts inside the rim, then apply pressure with a clamp.

The framework remains in this embrace for an hour while the glue dries.

This piano will have a tension resonator for extra support.

Steel turnbuckles attach to a center hub.

A worker tightens the turnbuckles with a wrench.

Then he thumps it to make sure it's tight and won't rattle.

Next, they'll install the soundboard made of spruce and the two bridges.

Strings will straddle the bridges and transmit vibrations to the soundboard, which is the amplifier of the piano.

A worker glues ribs onto the soundboard.

He lowers wooden clamps over each rib to apply pressure while the glue dries.

That takes about an hour.

Next, he thins the ribs around the edges with an automated stagger-tooth shaper cutter.

This will allow the soundboard to resonate freely when the piano is played.

Now they position the soundboard in a bridge press.

Then they place a bridge-locating fixture on top of the soundboard.

This device holds the bridge in place while it's glued to the soundboard.

After the two bridges are glued down, they lower the soundboard onto the piano rim.

Then they hoist a cast-iron plate onto it.

It's a critical fitting.

If they don't get it right, the piano will never function properly.

Then the plate is removed for finishing.

A worker cuts notches in the bridges, which are now topped with a lubricant.

This very sharp chisel cuts through the hard maple like butter.

Each notch will cradle three piano strings, giving them the freedom to vibrate.

Now they roll glue onto the outside case of the piano, which is made of rosewood veneer on maple.

They fit it snuggly over the rim structure.

A mechanical clamp holds it in place for an hour while it dries.

Then they stand the entire piano on its side.

Spinning cutters shape the arms that sit next to the keyboard into an elegant curve.

This is called a vertical stroke sander.

A worker runs it along the side of the piano to smooth out the wood.

After a black polyester paint is applied, they buff it up with this electrical cloth polisher.

Then they hand-rub a mirror glaze cream into it until you can really see yourself in this half-finished piano.

To play a piano, you need time to practice and lots of money because a grand piano can cost about the same as a luxury car.

And like a luxury car, when you lift the top of a grand piano, you'll see that a lot has gone into its construction.

the bass and treble bridges are now fixed to the soundboard of this half-finished piano.

Then to add glamour, they spray gold paint on the cast-iron plate.

The next step involves the pin block, which holds all the stress.

It bears 45,000 pounds of tension from the strings and transfers it to the iron plate.

He drills into the maple pin block, through holes in the iron plate over it.

The holes are for the tuning pins, hence the name-- pin block.

They unfurl pieces of steel wire from big coils.

Using a vise grip, the worker twists the end of the wire into a neat loop.

Then he hooks it onto a hitch pin on the back side of one of the bridges, making sure it runs between the guide posts over the bridge.

Now he threads the wires through another guide called an agrafe.

Using wire cutters, he snips the wire to the exact length that he needs.

Then he wraps the wire on the tuning pin using a device called a stringing crank.

He taps it into a hole in the pin block.

Then, using a pneumatic hammer, he drives the tuning pins into the pin block.

Now the string stretches from above the bridge to the pin block.

Each string is under a tension of up to 425 pounds, again, a force that will be kept in check by the heavy cast-iron plate.

Now he places little felt-covered blocks called dampers above the strings to stop them from vibrating when a note is played.

Using pliers, he makes parallel bends in the damper wires, so they're aligned.

He pounds the key frame, checking for gaps that could cause knocks under a pianist's vigorous blows.

He smoothes out the gaps, shaving off bits of wood with a strip of sandpaper attached to a handle.

Now another worker presses the piano keys in between steel guide pins that have been installed in rows on the key frame.

She uses an air cylinder to push the backcheck into the end of a piano key.

The backcheck is a piece of wood covered with felt and buckskin that will catch the piano's hammer after it strikes a string.

It's time to make those hammers.

She glues the felt-covered top onto a thin piece of hornbeam, a species of very strong wood.

When a pianist hits a key, it will catapult the hammer into the string, and that produces a note.

Now she aligns the hammers to be perfectly parallel, using a plastic square as a guide.

This is called "squaring it up".

Next, she sands the tail of each hammer with a file so there'll be no sharp edges to damage the backcheck.

Then she attaches the hammers to the top of the keyboard with screws.

Now she places weights on each key and then gently taps the rail to get the hammers moving.

She's testing the amount of effort it would take for a pianist to push each key down.

This is called "the weigh off".

After she determines how much weight is needed, she marks a place on the side of the key and drills one or two holes.

She plugs each hole with a piece of lead.

In a process called swedging, she pushes a divot into the lead so it expands and fits snugly into the key.

The lead will counterbalance the weight of the hammers and give the key the required amount of weight.

Next, this technician checks each hammer and each key, making subtle mechanical adjustments so they move smoothly and fluidly.

It's the piano's first big tune-up.

He fine-tunes the hammer action by using a let-off tool to adjust the driving mechanism.

The piano is now ready for the hands of a skilled pianist and the ears of an appreciative audience.


Padlocks
Hair Clippers
Wooden Shoes
Synthetic Leather

Today on "how it's made"...

Padlocks...

Hair clippers...

Wooden shoes...

Wooden shoes...

And synthetic leather.

And synthetic leather.

As long as there have been thieves, there's been a need for locks.

Padlocks date back to roman times and were likely first used to protect cargo in transit.

Thousands of years later, the padlock continues to keep burglars at bay.

The modern padlock's strongest feature is its lock body.

The process begins with a stack of 24 steel plates that are laminated together, the same technology that's used to make doors for bank vaults.

A punch press cuts and shapes pieces of steel into caps that will be riveted to the lock bodies.

The rivets tumble down a feeder.

While below, an operator places a lock body and a cap into a fixture.

A powerful press then drives the rivets into the assembly, securing the top cap to the lock securing the top cap to the lock body.

Body.

At another station, cutters contour steel rods so they'll fit into the lock body's holes while lubricant keeps things while lubricant keeps things cool.

Cool.

The finished rods are now ready to be shaped.

Workers load them into a form press.

This machine bends the steel as easily as you could bend a pipe cleaner to make a u-shaped shackle.

Then the shackles roll into a furnace for tempering, a process that makes the steel even stronger.

After a little more machining, the shackle is ready to be installed.

This shackle will need to move up and down as the lock is opened and closed.

And that's where these ball bearings come in.

Two of them are slipped into the lock cavity.

Lubricant gel aids the process.

Workers use it to grease the inside of the lock while they push the ball bearings to either side of the cavity.

A cylinder extension is inserted between the ball bearings, then a protective casing and bumper slide over the lock.

Now it's time for final assembly.

A machine loads copper-plated shells onto mandrels.

Plugs, pins and springs funnel into the lock assembly station.

A device installs pins and springs in a lock shell.

The shell slides onto a brass plug.

A key-shaped groove is cut into the plug, transforming it into a lock cylinder.

A carbide cutter notches the matching keys.

There are tens of thousands of key profiles.

This sorting station holds just a few.

The keys and lock cylinders are all numbered.

This worker matches them up, making sure there are two keys making sure there are two keys for each lock.

For each lock.

She selects a padlock and pushes one of the lock cylinders into it.

Then she tops it off with a retention plate.

A machine press fits the plate to the bottom of the padlock.

This secures the lock cylinder.

A spring for the shackle is inserted, and the bottom cap goes on next.

Then the entire assembly is riveted together.

Each key is tested to make sure it matches.

A computerized system opens and closes a randomly selected padlock thousands of times to make sure it's up to the job.

The lock also has to hold up to force.

Weights are dropped to replicate a hammer blow.

And the padlock withstands the strike.

This day's work is done.

It's time for the folks at the factory to "lock up" for the day.

Up next, making the cut at a up next, making the cut at a hair-clipper factory.

Hair-clipper factory.

The electric hair clipper was invented in 1919.

It was the first clipper with a motor in the actual unit, allowing the barber to cut hair allowing the barber to cut hair at quite a clip.

At quite a clip.

Hairstyles may change, but this device is still on the cutting edge.

These days, hair-clipper casings are made out of heavy-duty plastic.

An automated mold melts and shapes the plastic material into shapes the plastic material into casing parts.

Casing parts.

Meanwhile, a robot picks up brass contacts and places them in fixtures.

A plastic switch is then attached to each contact.

A blast of air sends the assembled piece to a bin.

Here, a robot slides a plastic spool onto a mandrel, then anchors copper wire to it.

The wire is wound around the spool more than 2,000 times to make part of the electric relay that will drive the blades.

Police keep the wire fed at an police keep the wire fed at an even tension.

Even tension.

Next, robots work on the clipper's lower casing.

One installs a blade slide for adjusting the blade, and another attaches the lever that controls attaches the lever that controls that slide.

That slide.

An automated screwdriver fastens everything together.

The clipper assembly is then on its way to have a metal arm installed.

This piece will move the cutting blade.

And for that, it will need a couple of springs.

Next, the switch assembly goes in.

And then the arm is screwed into place.

Workers install a screw for adjusting the power setting.

And now they fit the copper wire coil into the lower housing where it will drive that metal where it will drive that metal arm.

Arm.

A power cord is run from the switch to the coil.

And now the clipper's inner workings are complete.

Over at another station, a punch press stamps out clipper blades.

The blades are toothless to start.

But after a good washing and heat treatment, they head over to another station to get some to another station to get some teeth.

Teeth.

A worker pops a blade into a fixture to hold it steady, then a jagged cylindrical cutter carves the teeth.

Coolant keeps the process from overheating and compromising the overheating and compromising the integrity of the steel.

Integrity of the steel.

Each hair clipper has two blades.

The first one has cutting teeth which moves over the second, a larger, stationary blade that ensnares the hairs so that they can be cut.

Next, the company's logo is printed on to the clipper's lid.

And the lid is attached to the casing that holds the electrical components.

Workers mount the blades on the head of the clipper for that double-edged cutting action.

And finally, each clipper is tuned for optimum performance by adjusting that power screw that was installed earlier.

These clippers come in a kit that includes some additional accessories for those consumers who want to try their hand at a little home grooming.

Now these electric hair clippers are ready to get buzzing.

With those sharp blades, they'll make short work of any "hairy" make short work of any "hairy" situation.

Situation.

Coming up, the art of the wooden coming up, the art of the wooden shoe.

Shoe.

Call them the poor man's answer to the rubber boot.

Centuries ago, farmers chipped out holes in wooden blocks to keep their feet dry.

Over the years, the blocks were refined into inexpensive but durable footwear.

Today they're most commonly associated with the history and tradition of the netherlands.

How they're made remains as basic as the shoe itself.

Most wooden shoes are crafted from poplar, a wood that's easy to carve and generally free of knots, so the wearer won't knots, so the wearer won't encounter any splinters.

Encounter any splinters.

A worker feeds pieces of poplar into a band saw, careful to toss any pieces with defects.

The blade slices the wood into blocks called blanks.

The factory uses vinyl patterns like this one to create the shape of the shoe.

There's a pattern for each size of every clog style.

A worker locks the pattern into a duplication machine called the shaper, then right next to it, shaper, then right next to it, two blanks.

Two blanks.

As this tracer moves over the shape of the pattern, the wheel on the left copies its movements exactly, its blade shaving the exactly, its blade shaving the wood as it moves up and down.

Wood as it moves up and down.

There's only one pattern loaded, yet the machine carves out a pair of shoes.

That's because the wheel on the far left spins in the opposite direction.

So as the blade saws away, it's creating two mirror image copies.

That allows the machine to carve out both a right and a left shoe out both a right and a left shoe simultaneously.

Simultaneously.

Now for the instep.

A worker positions the blanks on to what's called a dual-action boring machine.

The center rod is called a tasker.

Its rolling head follows the curves inside the pattern.

Spoon bits on either side of it copy the tasker's movements, gradually carving out the inside of the shoes.

Now workers shift the angle so the spoon bits can get in deeper, boring all the way to deeper, boring all the way to the front of the shoe.

The front of the shoe.

All that carving makes for a lot of wood chips.

After a drying period, the toe knobs are cut off with a band saw, and the clogs are inspected saw, and the clogs are inspected for any flaws.

For any flaws.

A disk sander grinds down the knob on the heel and refines the shape of the toe.

The shoemaker uses a barrel sander to smooth out the opening then they switch to a balloon sander.

This sander has an air-filled sack inside it that flexes to the shape of the shoe.

Now for the final step.

An artist lays carbon paper on the shoe and a pattern on top of that.

Then she traces the pattern.

The carbon sheet transfers the the carbon sheet transfers the design to the wood.

Design to the wood.

Now she goes over the design with a woodburner.

She changes tips and varies the temperature according to the size and depth of the lines she's burning.

This design commemorates holland-- holland, michigan, that is.

The artist now uses water-based paints to enhance the scene with paints to enhance the scene with color.

Color.

She applies three coats of a water-based varnish to preserve the artwork and help keep the the artwork and help keep the shoes clean.

Shoes clean.

While most clog-wearing farmers opt for a plainer version, true clogaholics appreciate a little pizzazz.

But they'll leave crafting the clogs to the experts, because they've got some pretty big shoes to fill.

When we return, the know-how when we return, the know-how behind faux cow.

Behind faux cow.

Is it leather or is it pleather?

It's not always easy to spot the fake.

Synthetic leather, or pleather, can look and feel very much like real cowhide.

It may not be the genuine article, but today, plenty of good-looking products are made good-looking products are made from this popular material.

From this popular material.

The recipe for synthetic leather begins with a petroleum-based plasterizer dumped into a mixing tub.

An ultraviolet-light stabilizer is added to provide protection from the sun's rays.

And then a flame-retardant solution for a little fireproofing.

Powdered vinyl is added until the mix reaches the consistency the mix reaches the consistency of pancake batter.

Of pancake batter.

Next, different dyes are poured into another tub, following a formula for a specific shade.

The liquid-vinyl mix is then piped into the tub with the piped into the tub with the coloring agents.

Coloring agents.

Now a big roll of paper with a leather-like texture unwinds into the coating machine.

As tinted liquid vinyl flows into the machine, a mixing arm agitates it, and rollers below apply it to the paper.

The vinyl-coated paper then travels through an oven.

The vinyl hardens, taking on the paper's texture.

This first layer is a thin one to establish the surface grain.

A second batch of vinyl will contain a thickening agent.

That's why they call it "the foam".

It will give the fabric shape it will give the fabric shape and structure.

And structure.

Workers pour this second vinyl concoction into the coating machine, which rolls it on top of the first layer.

The double-layered vinyl then travels through another oven.

The heat activates the thickening agent causing the second layer to expand.

Once the expanded vinyl is hardened, it gets a fabric backing.

A machine then peels away the paper to reveal the textured first layer.

Sometimes a pattern is printed onto the vinyl to make it look burnished or two-toned.

Then workers mix a solution to build up the material's durability.

Rollers apply it to the synthetic leather, finishing off this production run.

But this pleather isn't quite ready to be shipped out.

Samples from every run undergo a battery of tests.

This machine rubs the fabric up to three million times to see how it wears.

Then there's a stretch test.

A weight is fastened to a strip of synthetic leather.

The weight pulls the swatch to double its length, but it doesn't tear, which means this fabric has a lot of give.

Next, a trial by fire.

To pass this test, the fabric must self-extinguish in two seconds.

And it does...

Thanks to the flame retardant thanks to the flame retardant that went into production.

That went into production.

Next, a cutting is placed in a framework...

And heated in an oven to and heated in an oven to increase its pliability.

Increase its pliability.

A vacuum mold sucks the fabric to its form, proving this sample also has some thermoplastic qualities.

You can't do this with real leather.

With so many prints, textures and colors now in production, this product seems to have everything "covered".


Storage Sheds
Industrial Fans
Parchment Paper
Climbing Walls

Today on "how it's made"...

Throughout history, people have needed a place to store their personal belongings.

Early storage sheds were basic huts.

Today, factories produce substantial structures that can be easily assembled from a kit.

This means finding extra storage space should be no problem.

Storage sheds provide a home for things that don't belong or fit in the house.

They're made from plastic panels embossed with a wood grain.

Making one starts with a computer design.

Once they have a plan, machinery rolls into action.

High-density polyethylene plastic flows into a big mixer.

Some of the plastic pellets are new material, while the rest are pellets recycled from previous processing.

This is called regrind.

An automated scale measures out the correct amounts of ingredients as they enter the mixer.

They add a cooling accelerant and a colorant to the polyethylene pellets.

Thorough mixing ensures that the final product will be evenly colored and have structural integrity.

A vacuum pump moves the blend out of the mixer and through a network of pipes along the factory ceiling.

The pipes deliver the polyethylene mix to a machine called a blow molder.

It will blow melted plastic into a two-part mold-- in this case, a floor panel mold.

The blow molder melts the plastic into a tubular shape.

The plastic emerges hot and malleable.

In manufacturing lingo, this is call a parasin.

The mold closes around the parasin as little needles pierce and inflate it.

The parasin swells against the walls of the mold, taking its shape.

The mold embosses a tread design on one side and a ridged one on the back for strength.

A long, automated clamp extracts the hollow panel.

At this point, the plastic is partially cured but still hot.

When the panel is ready to be handled, a team trims the overflow.

This material is called flash.

The flash is warm and has a taffy-like consistency.

The team leaves it to cool and firm up before feeding it to a grinder.

The grinding process produces the pellets known as regrind that will be used to make more panels.

Next, the team cuts slots and tabs that will be used for assembling the floor panel to the walls.

They stack the panels.

It's quite a pile.

They manufacture several thousand panels a day.

Now, it's over to another blow molding machine.

This one creates roof panels, complete with cedar shingle detail.

Once again, they trim the flash and grind it up to make new panels.

Very little polyethylene goes to waste.

The next machine molds door panels with a tongue-and-groove beadboard look.

Although all of the shed panels are made of plastic, they look like a variety of materials: cedar shakes, siding, beadboard, and even treaded vinyl flooring.

A worker randomly pulls panels off the production line for testing.

She verifies that the assembly holes are the right size.

She also weighs and measures the panel to confirm it meets specifications.

Another member of the testing team dabs gel onto the panel in various locations.

This gel allows an instrument to measure the thickness of the plastic.

Once the panels pass the tests, it's time to pack up the kits.

There are 15 to 20 panels per kit.

Employees pack the parts in the order that they are to be assembled.

On the computer, the parts come together in seconds.

But in the real world, it takes up to three hours to assemble this plastic storage shed.

However, it's a lot easier than building one from scratch.

And in the end, you have a place to store things.

Industrial fans are extra large to provide air circulation in a large factory or a warehouse.

They whip up a breeze to keep workers cool, and in the process, they clear the air of dust and other harmful particles.

Almost 3 feet in diameter and a body tough enough to survive a run-in with a forklift, this is no ordinary fan.

It's an industrial fan.

They're designed to circulate air in large spaces like warehouses and factories.

Production starts with the motor.

A worker slides the fan's aluminum hub onto it.

Then, he inserts wing-like blades known as airfoils into notches in the hub.

Using a hammer, he taps the ends to set them in the hub.

He places a part known as a taper lock into a hole in the center.

The taper lock will fasten the motor shaft to the hub.

He screws the lip of the lock to the hub.

He confirms that each screw has been set to the desired torque.

Next, he installs a blast-reinforced plastic cone on the hub.

This one secures the ends of the blades in the hub.

He snaps a cap onto the center of the nose cone.

Now, he transfers the motor and hub assembly to a mount that's in a heavy-duty plastic ring.

He adds an upper mount and screws it to the lower one.

This completely encases the motor and hub assembly.

He trims the outer ring of the fan with rubber molding.

The rubber will reduce vibration noise.

He lowers a steel yolk onto the plastic surround and attaches it with a screw.

He wires a speed control mechanism to the fan motor and fastens it to the outside of the plastic surround.

He installs a plate with a control knob on the front of the speed control mechanism.

He screws on two metal screens to the fan's yolk.

This forms a safety cage around the fan.

He plugs the fan into a power source and turns it on to test its function.

Satisfied that it's in good working order, he tightens the screens to the yolk.

A two-person crew bolts a wheeled pedestal to the stem of the fan.

They set the 108-pound fan upright.

It's now ready to circulate.

Designed to move large volumes of air, this industrial fan generates a considerable breeze inside a factory.

To make an industrial ceiling fan, they use long, aluminum airfoils.

Their wing-like profile will generate lift to produce more air.

A punch cuts holes to assemble them to a hub.

A worker then attaches the main fan assembly to the end of a long post in order to facilitate the installation of the long airfoils.

He activates a lift that raises the hub assembly, then slides the airfoils onto spars that protrude from the hub.

This ceiling fan has 10 airfoils.

He reinforces the installation with boomerang-shaped metal retainers.

High-strength bolts secure the retainers and airfoils to the spars.

He attaches plastic winglets to the ends of the airfoils.

The winglets will direct air downward.

He installs a trim ring on the hub.

This completes the assembly of the industrial ceiling fan.

Using a remote control, he tests its operation at multiple speed levels.

From this vantage point, it seems pretty cool.

Lining a cooking or baking pan with culinary parchment paper instantly makes cleanup a whole lot easier because nothing sticks to the pan.

With parchment paper, there's no need to grease the pan with messy butter or oil.

This culinary parchment paper comes in a standard sheet roll or an assortment of specialty shapes.

It's heat resistant to a temperature of 450 degrees.

Making paper begins with pulp, which is pulverized wood.

This parchment paper manufacturer uses eucalyptus because it's a sustainable resource.

They mix the pulp with water in a huge, industrial mixer.

This special recipe of eucalyptus fibers produces tan-colored paper.

Once the consistency is just right, they pump the soggy pulp out of the blender and into a machine that spreads it evenly across a metal mesh belt.

The water drains through the openings in the mesh.

By the time the pulp rolls into the first drum of the next machine, it is formed into a sheet of paper.

Sprayers rehydrate what's trimmed off the edges so it can be recycled.

The paper travels through a long line of heated rollers.

They squeeze out the remaining water and dry the paper.

A high-resolution scanner looks for imperfections as the paper exits the machine.

Workers unwind the bolt and conduct a visual inspection against backlighting.

Next, the bolt undergoes the first of two critical operations, which transforms this regular paper into culinary parchment paper.

First, the sheet passes through two baths in a proprietary water-based solution.

This eliminates air pockets and renders the paper heat-resistant.

After a series of rinses, another long line of heated rollers squeezes out the rinse water and dries the paper.

The next station sprays both sides of the sheet with food-grade silicone, then bakes on the coating in a gas-fired dryer.

Silicone withstands heat up to 1,500 degrees, so even at the highest cooking temperatures, there will be a barrier that prevents food from sticking to the paper.

Silicone also repels water.

This is the paper before the treatments make it heat-resistant, nonstick and waterproof.

And here's how the paper performs after those treatments.

Because it's waterproof, you can wet the paper to make it malleable enough to line a pan of any shape.

The factory cuts the bolts to consumer widths, then shrink-wraps and ships them to factories that supply restaurants and supermarkets.

Here, machines unwind the bolts, then wind specific lengths of parchment paper onto cardboard tubes.

Winding a 165-foot roll takes just three seconds.

The factory also applies its logo to the paper at regular intervals.

However, that operation is top-secret.

The automated packaging equipment tapes down the edge to prevent unraveling, then places and seals the roll in a cardboard box.

The machine stamps the box with a lot code so, if a problem arises, the factory can trace the roll back to the large bolt from which it originated.

This parchment paper, cardboard tube, and box are all made from sustainable resources.

The box edge is rigid enough to tear off a sheet, so there's no need for an unrecyclable metal cutting edge.

You can throw the used parchment paper in your compost bin or rinse off the food remnants and put it along with the box and tube in your recycling bin.

A climbing wall is an artificially constructed wall with grips for hands and feet.

These walls mimic the experience of outdoor rock climbing but in a more controlled environment, allowing people of all ages and abilities the opportunity to climb.

A climbing wall can have a flat surface, studded with hand holes that the climber grabs or steps on.

Or it can be what's called rock-realistic, designed to look like a natural rock wall.

That type can also have hand holes, or just cracks and fissures like the real thing.

The factory builds the wall structure out of thick steel bars.

Workers weld them into frames.

Each frame will hold a panel that's one portion of the wall face.

They reinforce the corners of the frame with gusset plates.

Each frame is a distinct size and shape.

To make the panels for a flat-surface climbing wall, workers trace the frames on plywood or engineered wood particle board.

After spray-painting the corresponding part code, they cut out each panel to match the wall plan.

Then they screw in t nuts.

These nuts have a larger-than-standard flange for extra strength.

They screw a bolt in the middle of the t nut to protect the threads from the cement finish they will spray onto the wood.

To make a rock-realistic wall, they mold cement panels to attach to the steel frames.

To mix the cement, they combine ice and liquid polymer.

Ice keeps the cement from overheating in the mixer.

The polymer is a binding agent.

It also makes the cement flexible so the wall doesn't crack or chip.

While they mix the cement ingredients, they monitor the temperature with an infrared thermometer.

Correct temperature is critical for the cement to properly set.

They pour the cement through a sieve to filter out large pieces.

Then, they pump the cement into a spray gun.

With slow and even strokes, they shoot the cement onto a silicone mold of the mountain face.

After brushing it into the mold's nooks and crannies, they spray two more coats.

This time, they simultaneously shoot a gun that chops and sprays fiberglass string to reinforce the cement.

They compress the fiberglass-reinforced cement with rollers to even out the thickness.

Then, they embed rebar loops.

Rebar is a steel rod used for reinforcing cement.

They embed thick, steel rods 1 to 2 feet long along the perimeter.

Then, they let the cement set overnight.

The next day, they extract the panel from the mold.

A cement panel like this can weigh more than 600 pounds.

They knock off jagged edges with a mallet and check for any weak areas caused by air pockets.

After drilling numerous holes for the hand-hold t nuts, they grind the edges smooth.

They weld the wall panels to their corresponding steel frame and fill gaps between panels with cement.

When they're building a flat-surface wall, they spray a cement finish on the wood, then a coat of paint.

Once the paint dries, they mount the hand holds.

They're made of molded polyurethane.

Then, they attach the wall panel to the steel frame with a nail gun.

Flat surface walls are more versatile because they can hold far more t nuts than rock-realistic walls.

The more t nuts, the more locations for hand holds.

This enables a gym to create a greater range of climbing routes, suiting both experienced climbers and rookie mountaineers.


Dial Thermometers
Hummus
Spent Fuel Containers
Straw Sombreros

In the world of temperature-gauging, the dial thermometer is a lot easier to read than a glass-stem thermometer.

A needle points to bold numbers on a dial, and even from a distance, it only takes a quick glance to confirm an initial impression that things are heating up.

All the highs and lows are plain to see on the face of a dial thermometer.

It often comes with lengthy tubing to measure temperature from afar.

It's a handy feature for power plants and heating and refrigeration systems.

To begin, rollers straighten very narrow metal tubing.

Then a blade cuts it to length depending on the application.

As the blade makes the cut, a mechanism pries open the ends.

Next, a worker inserts a fitting into a much wider tube that will become the thermometer's sensor bulb.

He secures the tube in a fixture and welds the narrow tubing machined earlier to the fitting on the end of the bulb.

With the bulb and tubing now linked, production moves to the next stage, the making of the burden tube, which is a kind of a spring.

A worker cuts flat, wafer-thin tubing to length.

Down the line, they clamp the flat tubes in a device that's on a track.

It moves past an arc welder that melts and closes one end of the flat tubes.

Here's a before-and-after comparison.

A worker now encloses the tube in a die and drives a pin into its open end.

This widens and redefines the opening from inside and outside.

He slides it over another pin and activates a mechanical punch press.

This fine-tunes the shape and dimensions of the opening.

The next worker clamps the tube in another device.

He operates a roller to wrap it around a mandrill, bending it into a "c" shape.

This completes the thermometer's burden-tube spring.

The next worker clamps a bracket to the bottom of the burden tube.

He inserts a small piece of connector tubing in the burden-tube hole and applies liberal amounts of a flux compound.

The flux prevents tarnishing of the metal as he melts silver solder to braise the parts together and to seal the opening.

Now a test.

He pumps gas into several burden tubes and immerses them in water.

If no gas bubbles out of the tubes, it means the tubes are perfectly sealed.

The gas pressure also causes the tubes to spring into action.

It's this action that will move the pointer on the dial of the thermometer.

The next worker attaches a brass connector to the tubing.

He braises them together to create a solid bond.

He folds the braised parts into the curve of the burden tube and pushes it into place with a mechanical press.

He installs the gear assembly that will translate the linear movement of the burden tube into the rotational movement of the thermometer pointer.

He screws the dual-temperature dial to the burden-tube assembly.

The more detailed and extensive the scale, the bigger the dial.

This one is mid-sized.

And now everything comes together as he tethers the sensing bulb, along with a short fill tube, to the back of the burden-tube assembly.

Using a braising torch and solder, he seals the connection.

He then steam-cleans the braised joint.

He buries the bulb in a hot sand bath that causes any moisture in it to evaporate.

Through the fill tube, he fills the bulb with nitrogen gas.

To calibrate the thermometer, he plunges the sensing bulb in boiling water and adjusts the pressure of the nitrogen gas until the dial reads 212 degrees fahrenheit.

The fill tube's job is now done, so he crimps it to seal it off.

He tests its accuracy by immersing the sensing bulb in numerous controlled baths, each one a different temperature.

And if it's on the mark, he encloses the inner workings in the stainless-steel case.

He protects the joint with a special metal spring...

And snaps a clear window to the case.

A gasket between them ensures a dustproof seal.

He screws a part called a well to the sensing-bulb connector.

The well will protect it in high-pressure situations.

And this dial thermometer is now ready for the ups and downs of temperature-gauging.

Hummus is the original snack food.

People have been eating this chickpea dip for thousands of years.

Countries from the mediterranean to the middle east lay claim to its invention.

But one thing is beyond dispute-- as an appetizer or side dish, hummus has real staying power.

Hummus is a vegetarian form of protein, which could be why more and more people are choosing to take a dip.

The word "hummus" is actually arabic for "chickpea," which is of course the main ingredient.

The chickpeas arrive at the factory in dried form.

They ride a conveyor upward and then spill down onto a long, vibrating tray.

It shakes out heavier contaminants like pebbles or twigs.

The contaminants fall into a bin below, while the chickpeas bounce off the tray and into a tub of filtered water to be rinsed.

Still dripping wet, it's onto a conveyor with perforated buckets.

The water drains from the chickpeas as they're transferred to big tanks.

Each tank holds thousands of little chickpeas.

They add clean water and soak the chickpeas.

After 14 hours in the tank, they swell to twice their size and soften up.

They pump the softened chickpeas into big trays, which they stack on a cart.

Then it's into a huge, cylindrical steam cooker that's been preheated to around 255 degrees fahrenheit.

They bake the chickpeas for just over half an hour.

This softens them even more and darkens the color.

From dried beans to soaked and then cooked.

They now transfer the cooked chickpeas to the next conveyor, and they're on their way to being ground to a pulp.

This is the grinder, now being reassembled after cleaning.

It has two sharp-toothed, circular blades.

One is stationary, and the other revolves.

A big turn screw will force the chickpeas through these toothed blades to grind them up.

A quick test confirms this grinder is in working order.

Meanwhile, the chickpeas have arrived at a hopper above the grinder.

As the chickpeas spill into the hopper, they add water and a blend of sunflower and olive oil, followed by salt, garlic, and other dry ingredients.

The chickpeas and other ingredients flow into the grinding device below and are turned into a paste.

The next ingredient is tahini.

It's a thick paste made from ground sesame seeds.

Three powerful pumps pulverize the tahini to evenly disperse the particles so it can now be blended with the chickpea mix.

Big, steel blades revolve to thoroughly mix all the ingredients in a tank and produce hummus.

For different-flavored hummus, they add red pepper, more garlic, or other ingredients.

After the blended product is pasteurized, a technician takes samples for lab testing, for mold, shelf life, and other tests.

She also does her own taste test.

If the flavor seems even slightly off, they'll put the product on hold and tweak the ingredients.

But this batch gets the nod.

Meanwhile, plastic containers are queuing for a fill-up.

Machinery moves them forward toward piston fillers.

The pistons push the creamy hummus out of nozzles and into the tubs.

Now filled to the brim with hummus, the tubs travel under a sheet of plastic film.

Hot, round irons melt the plastic to seal it to the rims.

Suctioning devices swoop down to apply the lids, and the hummus heads towards a roll of adhesive-backed labels.

A sensor detects the approach of the tubs and triggers a device with little air jets to slap the labels on the lids.

This hummus production has gone very smoothly indeed.

Spent fuel containers are designed to take the heat, the kind caused by the most radioactive of waste-- used nuclear fuel.

These fuel rods are too dangerous to be casually disposed of, but encased in special spent fuel cannisters, the risk should be contained.

Nuclear waste sits in a holding pattern, and that means storing it in massive cylinders until there's a way to dispose of it.

These containers start with a big, rectangular sheet of stainless steel.

A special circular cutter carves a beveled edge onto it.

They feed it to rollers which curl the sheet into a cylinder.

It takes four trips through the rollers to really round it out.

They tuck a template inside the curve to check the radius.

Next, a welder joins the neatly beveled edges to complete the cylinder.

This cylinder will be the outer wall of a cannister.

The cannister will fit inside a big cylinder called an overpack.

Its outer shell is just under an inch thick-- about the diameter of a quarter.

As you can see, building a container to hold used nuclear fuel is a many-layered process.

The next step involves the lid, made of multiple steel disks with concrete placed between the steel layers like a sandwich.

Incredibly, high-pressure water jets easily cut through the thick steel to produce the disks.

A computerized tool cuts a groove profile along the edge of each disk.

They also machine the top of each disk to the correct profile and then measure to confirm it's exactly right.

Next, a computerized laser slices through more stainless-steel plating to produce long, narrow panels.

Each is designed to fit together to create a grid of storage cells inside the cannister.

They line each panel with an aluminum alloy that's neutron-absorbent, and they place a piece of steel sheeting on top of that.

They weld the steel sheeting to the steel panel, encasing the neutron-absorbent material.

Working within a metal framework for guidance, they weld four of the lined steel panels together to create a fuel-cell grid for one used nuclear fuel bundle.

They then build a 68-cell grid.

With that complete, they're ready to piece together all the parts of the spent fuel cannister.

They first lower the inner shell onto the base plate.

The shell is held steady by a supportive structure as they weld it together at the seams.

Moving inside, they install numerous bars to support the fuel-cell grid.

With the cannister now wrapped in plastic to keep it clean, an automated cutter gradually shaves down the rim to trim it to the correct height.

Precision is everything.

Using a level and a laser, they ensure that the trim job is even and exact.

Once they're satisfied, a crane carries the fuel-cell assembly over to the cannister and then suspends it above the open cavity.

It dangles briefly as workers inspect the assembly.

They give it the thumbs-up, and the crane then lowers the fuel assembly into the cylinder.

It's a snug fit, with about 4/10 of an inch of clearance between the inner assembly and the wall of the cylinder.

This technician inserts a camera into each cell of the grid and scrutinizes the image.

He's looking for any debris that could hamper the installation of the nuclear fuel bundles.

Both the cylinder and the fuel cells have been meticulously cleaned, but the camera inspection confirms they haven't missed anything.

So it's time to put a lid on this nuclear-waste cannister.

It's a trial fit.

The lid will be permanently welded to the cannister later once the used fuel rods are safely inside.

The cannister will then be placed inside the overpack, with concrete poured between the walls.

That should keep the hazards of nuclear waste entombed indefinitely.

The word "sombrero" is derived from the spanish "sombra," which means "shade".

The expansive brim of these mexican hats is designed to cast a wide shadow over the face, neck, and shoulders.

Fancier sombreros are made of felt.

Regular ones are woven out of straw.

this workshop makes traditional, straw sombreros in many styles.

This model's called a winston.

This one, an americano.

Here's the speedy, after the cartoon mouse speedy gonzales.

And the casidy.

These sombreros are hand-crafted.

The straw is white palm leaves purchased from a supplier in the region.

First, workers soak a bunch in water for a minute or so to soften them up.

Then, using a needle, they tear strips about 2/10 of an inch wide.

Then they take three strips at a time and braid them together into a single strand.

They intertwine several braided strands, making a long, braided straw rope.

Then they feed this rope into a manually operated press.

The press flattens the rope until it's just about 4/100 of an inch thick.

This flattening makes the coarse rope soft enough to sew.

With the raw-material prep work done, hat construction can begin.

They take the rope and wind it in concentric circles, sewing one circle to the next.

They first make a flat base, then turn the base on its side and keep sewing until they've formed the cup-- the part of the sombrero that sits on the head.

They place the cup over a form to check the size.

Then they resume sewing on more straw rope, working outward now to form the hat's brim.

Brim width varies by style.

They measure to make sure it's the correct size.

Once the sombrero is finished, they boil water, pour in gelatin...

Stir until it's completely dissolved...

Then soak the hat for about a minute.

The gelatin penetrates the straw fibers.

Then they hang the sombrero out to dry in the sun for about three hours.

The workshop has a steel mold for each sombrero style it produces.

Workers place the sombrero on the appropriate one in a hot press, then close the press for three minutes.

The heat and pressure combined form the straw to the mold's shape.

The heat also hardens the gelatin, locking in the shape permanently.

Many sombreros have a decorative band encircling the base of the cup.

This band, called a scarf, is hand-crafted, typically out of leather, or like this one out of magee, a fiber from the stalk of a tropical plant native to mexico.

A few dabs of glue hold the scarf in place.

Once a sombrero is finished, the workshop tags it with a certificate stating the model and serial number.

Sombrero shapes can vary significantly, but they all share a common characteristic-- a wide brim to protect from the blazing sun.

Certain models have an extra feature-- a cord or leather drawstring so the hat doesn't fly away in windy weather.


Steel Safes
False Teeth
Airplanes
Maple Syrup

Today on "how it's made"...

Steel safes...

False teeth...

Airplanes...

And maple syrup.

The first bank safes were made of wood reinforced with sheet iron.

Thieves would just smash them open.

Then came safes made of solid iron.

Thieves would just blow them up.

But then, to the crooks' dismay, came safes made of steel.

It all starts with sheets of solid steel up to 1 1/2 inches thick and an automated machine with an oxygen-and-gas-fueled flame.

The flame slowly cuts the plates that will form the walls of the safe.

The cutting creates gases that are doused with water.

A welder with a manual version of the same flame frees up the plates with a few last cuts.

Then, using a large magnet, they stack the plates.

Each one is labeled so the workers will know in what order to assemble them.

They're assembled by a welder who uses a machine called a mig welder.

The welding wire is made of several different metals.

It rolls off a spool as needed.

Elsewhere in the factory, a semiautomatic saw cuts flat bars of steel.

These bars will form the frame that will surround the steel plates.

Meanwhile, another machine, called a turret, fashions steel bars into moving parts for the locking mechanism and also into hinges.

That milky liquid is a lubricant.

Normally, you see raw material move on an assembly line from tool to tool.

This is just the opposite.

The steel bar stays on the turret from start to finish.

The tools come and go.

Workers take pieces of sheet metal cut into shapes by laser and bend them in a press to make various parts and mechanisms.

Meanwhile, the large steel plates they cut earlier go into a hydraulic press to make them perfectly flat.

It's finally time to put all the components together.

They construct the frame in an assembly jig, then insert the plates for the sides, top, and bottom.

Using the mig welder again, they fuse the pieces together.

They measure the angles, then use a giant clamp to square the safe.

Finally, they install the plate for the back of the safe and weld the joints.

They stand the safe upright and grind down the welding lines until they're smooth.

This factory also produces what's called a composite safe, made of soft materials such as copper, aluminum, and low-grade steel.

But it has a cement core, making this safe harder to break in to.

The finished safe gets three coats of paint.

Then, in the finishing department, they install the mechanical or electronic locks and locking mechanisms, as well as the internal time-lock mechanism.

The time lock allows access to the safe only at certain times of day, such as a bank's business hours.

Even if someone picks the outside combination locks, the door won't open outside those set hours.

The machines that sterilize medical instruments use ethylene oxide, a highly toxic gas.

Now there's a new method that's safer, more effective, and less expensive.

This new machine uses ozone as the sterilizing agent.

Ozone is a form of oxygen.

Until the 1800s, false teeth were made of animal bone, ivory, or actual human teeth.

They came from poor people, who sold their teeth, and from dead bodies.

Today's dentures are usually ceramic.

They start by heating a sheet of wax over a flame.

They press it onto a rough plaster model of the patient's mouth, sent in by the dentist.

The lab technicians use this model to prepare what's called an impression tray, what the dentist will use to make a rubber mold to cast the dentures.

They apply an acrylic material over the wax lining, forming a handle so they'll be able to remove it afterwards.

Once the acrylic hardens, they pull it out of the model and discard the wax.

The dentist fills this new acrylic tray with rubber to take a final impression.

The lab uses the hardened rubber as a negative mold of the patient's mouth.

They fill it with plaster to make a new, more precise plaster model.

Then they use the new model to make the part of the dentures that fits on top of the patient's gums.

They take special orthodontic acrylic and press it into the model to form what's called the baseplate.

Then they heat a sheet of wax to form a rim on the base.

This new acrylic-and-wax model now goes back for another fitting in the patient's mouth.

The dentist takes a series of measurements to show the lab exactly where to place the teeth.

The model goes back to the lab, where technicians select the teeth that'll best suit the size of the patient's mouth.

They install the teeth one by one into the model's wax rim.

Then they send the model back to the dentist for the final fitting.

The dentist checks that everything is centered and that the patient's bite is properly aligned.

If the model fits well and looks good, the lab can finally begin to manufacture the dentures.

They position the model in a special holder called a flask, then attach channels through which acrylic will later be injected.

This acrylic will replace the wax holding the teeth in place.

But first, to get rid of the wax, they have to cast a plaster mold to hold the teeth in place.

Once the plaster dries, they submerge it in hot water for five minutes to melt the wax inside.

They rinse the plaster mold with warm water to remove any wax residues.

Then they apply what's called a separator, a chemical that will keep the acrylic from sticking to the plaster mold-- just like greasing the pan when you're baking.

They position a cylinder of acrylic right over the flask.

Using an air-pressure piston, they force the acrylic into the plaster mold.

They submerge the mold in boiling water for 35 minutes to harden the acrylic.

Once the flask has cooled down, they break the plaster.

The false teeth are now securely rooted in acrylic gums.

A bit of finishing, and they'll be done.

An ultrasonic bath gets rid of any remaining plaster.

They polish the acrylic with pumice, then shine it up with a polishing compound.

The set of false teeth is finally ready.

When a patient doesn't need a full set of dentures, just a few teeth, they get what's called a partial-- made much the same way, but hooked on at either end to the patient's natural teeth.

Aviation was once the exclusive domain of commercial and military pilots.

Not anymore.

Today many amateurs get their pilot's license and take to the skies in light aircraft not for a job, but for the sheer pleasure of flying.

To construct the body of these light aircraft, they start with two types of cloth, one woven from glass fibers--  fiberglass-- the other from carbon fibers.

Carbon is a chemical element that's stronger than steel.

Both materials go through a laminating machine that coats them with an epoxy resin.

To begin forming the various parts that make up the body, workers lay strips of the laminated fabric into molds.

The engineering plans dictate the precise positioning of the strips, which is critical for strength and durability.

They lay in carbon-fiber cloth where they need to have extra strength without additional weight, areas such as this-- the passenger compartment of the cockpit.

To make the fuselage, they sandwich a foam core less than 1/2 inch thick between two layers of the fiberglass cloth.

The foam also insulates against heat, cold, and noise.

Workers coat the edges and joints with resin, filling any voids.

Once all the fabric is in the mold, it's time to vacuum-bag it.

First, they cover everything with a layer of perforated plastic, then with a breather cloth, which looks like a white wool blanket.

Then comes another layer of plastic.

They attach a vacuum to suck out all the air.

The excess resin exits through the tiny holes in the plastic and soaks into the breather cloth.

Now that the mold is airtight, it can begin to cure.

They put it into an oven at 40 degrees celsius for 8 hours.

Once the molds come out of the oven, workers install the internal structure.

Then, using the same epoxy resin they used earlier to laminate the fiberglass and carbon-fiber fabrics, they bond the tail's upper and lower shells together.

They do the same with the wings.

The parts are left to cure overnight.

The next day, they finally come out of the molds.

Next stop, the trim shop.

Workers remove the excess fiberglass and cut out the windows.

The parts go back for a final curing.

The oven is around 175 degrees.

18 hours later, out they come for painting.

Workers sand the parts and coat them with an epoxy primer.

The finish coat is polyurethane, which resists weathering.

Meanwhile, other workers assemble and test various components, such as the electrical system.

A computer guides a machine to cut all the metal parts, such as the instrument panel.

The cutting machine doesn't have a blade, but rather a sand-and-water jet that's powerful enough to cut through metal.

A certified aircraft welder prepares the engine mount, the base that will hold the engine in place.

It's made of high-grade carbon steel.

At the final assembly stage, workers install the engine and other previously assembled components into the fuselage.

Workers position the wiring and plumbing, then hook them up.

They screw on the wing tips, which already have their navigational lights.

An avionics technician powers up the airplane for the first time to function-test everything.

The final inspection takes place where it really counts-- in flight.

How do maple trees make sap?

They accumulate starch during their growing season.

With the spring thaw, enzymes transform the starch into sugar.

When the trees absorb water through their roots, it mixes with that sugar to make sap.

Long before the white man came to north america, the native indians revered the maple tree.

In early spring, they'd pierce its trunk with a tomahawk, then place a wood chip under the hole to channel the sap into a bark container.

Then they boiled the sap over a fire in clay pots.

The indians introduced maple syrup to the european settlers.

Today most producers use tubing instead of sap buckets-- no more trudging through the snow from tree to tree.

The time to collect sap is in the early spring, when the maple trees are still dormant and when the temperature hits 3 or 4 degrees above freezing.

The freeze-and-thaw cycle alters the pressure inside the tree and starts the sap flowing.

The first step is to tap the trees.

They drill a hole 1/2 inch in diameter, 2 inches deep, then gently insert a spout made of metal or plastic.

It's important not to damage the bark.

That not only harms the tree but also lets air in the sap, which ruins the flavor.

You don't see too many sap buckets around anymore.

Today sap is pumped through polyethylene tubes to larger collector tubes...

Then into the pumping station.

Sap is 97.5% water and only 2.5% sugar.

To transform the sap to syrup, they have to boil it down.

It takes 35 gallons of sap to make just one gallon of syrup.

When the tank fills up, the sap is automatically pumped to the sugar house into a stainless-steel tank.

The more advanced producers use a specialized machine that partially concentrates the sap by reverse osmosis.

This more than triples the sap's natural sugar level and means they'll have less boiling to do.

From there, the sap flows to the evaporator.

They heat the sap to the boiling point and keep it boiling however long it takes to evaporate 66% of the water.

If the water evaporates too slowly or too quickly, that'll adversely affect the color, flavor, and texture of the syrup.

However-- and here's where expertise is everything-- there's no set cooking time.

Experienced maple-sugar producers can tell when it's ready just by looking at it.

They test the sugar level using a device called a hydrotherm.

When the syrup is just right, they run it through a pressure filter to remove calcium residues and other impurities.

They store the syrup in steam-cleaned barrels.

The lab at the central warehouse tests a sample from each drum.

Using sophisticated instruments, technicians classify the color from dark to extra light.

They also assess the quality.

Lower-grade syrup is for industrial use, higher-grade for the retail market.

They pasteurize the syrup, then put it into huge stainless-steel storage tanks.

The tanks are vacuum-sealed with a nitrogen barrier to preserve the flavor and color and to prevent fermentation.

It also keeps the syrup from crystallizing.

The lab then uses an instrument called an atomic absorption spectrophotometer to analyze the syrup's mineral content, making sure it meets market standards.

Next, they warm the syrup in stainless-steel heaters...

And run it through industrial-sized filters.

This step ensures the syrup will be perfectly clear.

Then, just before bottling, they heat the syrup again, this time to 180 degrees.

This not only sterilizes the bottles but also guarantees the syrup will have a 4-year shelf life.

Maple syrup is high in sugar but has somewhat fewer calories than honey or brown sugar.

It's 100% pure and natural, and it's a good source of three essential nutrients-- calcium, potassium, and magnesium.


The oldest existing chinese fans, made of woven bamboo, date to the 2nd century b.c. the folding fan was invented in japan between the 6th and 9th century.

Fans were typically made of paper or silk, and famous artists were often commissioned to paint them.

The traditional asian fan-- an object of beauty with a practical purpose.

The structure is comprised of bamboo sticks, called ribs.

The paper surface is called the leaf.

In this fan workshop in northern thailand, they begin with narrow poles of locally harvested bamboo.

With a sharp knife, workers cut them to the approximate length of the ribs, then split them down the middle.

Using traditional blades, they shave each bamboo strip to the shape of a rib.

Ribs are typically about 7/100 of an inch thick and perfectly flat so that they can smoothly slide on top of one another.

Workers drill a hole in each rib 2 to 3 inches above the base, depending on the fan size.

Then they assemble the ribs on a bolt.

The number of ribs and their length are what determine a fan's size.

The two ribs on the extremities are wider and thicker than the others and are rounded on the outside.

These are called thumb guards because you flick your thumb on them to open the fan and they guard the ribs in between from damage.

To make the leaf, they begin by spreading the ribs, spacing them out evenly.

They lay this onto white cotton and cut out the semicircular shape of the leaf with the fabric extending 1 1/2 to 2 1/2 inches beyond the rib tips.

This fabric will be the leaf's structural backing, giving the paper rigidity and strength.

They make that paper just as their ancestors did-- mixing the fibrous bark of the mulberry tree with natural dyes-- the marigold flower for yellow, for example, or, as we see here, the root of the madder plant for vibrant red.

They mix the dyestuff with the mulberry bark fibers, then gather a thin layer of dyed fibers onto a rectangular mesh screen.

They keep repeating this process, adding layers until they build up the paper thickness they need.

Then they let the fibers dry in the sun into a finished sheet of paper.

When the paper's ready, they cut a piece to match the shape of the cotton backing and iron them together.

The two layers naturally adhere to each other, thanks to the paper's moisture and a compound in its fibers, called lignin, which acts as a natural glue.

They fold the leaf in half and trace a template in the shape of the lower section of the fan, where no paper is required.

Then they cut this part off.

They brush homemade glue made with white flour onto the parts of the ribs that will be in contact with the leaf.

They lay the ribs on the paper and, with an upward sweeping motion, press them down, at the same time wiping away the excess glue.

Next, they trim the leaf, leaving about 7/10 of an inch beyond the tips of the ribs.

They glue the edge...

And fold it back over the ribs.

Then they trim the edges along the thumb guards.

Now for the most delicate step of the entire process-- folding the fan for the first time.

Each fold is permanent and will give the fan its form, both open and closed, so precision is everything.

Now the fully constructed fan is ready for decoration with water-based acrylic paints.

Sometimes the customer requests a certain theme or scene, but usually it's left to the artist's creativity.

The artist can manipulate the paints to produce a range of effects, modifying with acrylic gels, media, or pastes to create the bold effect of oil paint and diluting with water to varying degrees to create a transparent effect much like watercolors.

The final touch is what's known as piping-- paint applied through a cone-shaped tip to produce a raised line.

This highlights the artwork with raised details.

The paint becomes water-resistant once dry, protecting the artwork from damage and ensuring this ancient objet d'art will always be simply fantastic.

Walnut oil has a distinctive, mild, nutty flavor and aroma.

It's also nutritious because it's high in omega-3 fatty acids, which are crucial for brain function, reduce inflammation, and may even help lower the risk of heart disease, arthritis, and other chronic conditions.

Walnut oil is sometimes used for sautéing, but it's more often consumed cold, typically in salad dressings.

Walnut oil for nonculinary purposes goes through a refining process which removes the flavor.

Walnut oil produced for gastronomy is unrefined, so it retains its nutty taste and scent.

Walnut oil has one ingredient and one ingredient only-- english walnuts.

The oil factory buys them from the supplier already shelled.

Production methods are much the same as they were 150 years ago.

The first step is to shovel the walnuts into a grinder.

The grinder pulverizes this combination of full kernels and broken pieces until everything's fairly uniform, roughly 1/10 of an inch in size.

Next step-- roasting.

Workers pour the ground walnuts into a cast-iron kettle on a gas burner.

For 30 minutes or so, a rotating arm continuously stirs them to ensure they roast evenly.

Roasting enhances both the flavor and aroma.

The shelled walnuts have gone from large pieces to ground pieces to roasted pieces.

Now they're ready to have the oil squeezed out of them.

This cast-iron expeller press dates back to the early 1900s.

Workers line the bottom with a mat made of natural fibers.

This will prevent the walnuts from leaking out under pressure.

After loading the press with the walnuts, they close it up and set the press in position.

Then they release the piston.

It descends and applies 2,800 pounds per square inch, crushing the walnuts and expelling the oil in the process.

The oil exits the press through small slots around the perimeter, flows down to a trough, which channels it to a spout, which pours it into a collection vat.

4 1/2 pounds of nuts yields 1 quart of oil.

What's left in the press is walnut meal.

It's used by pastry chefs to add a nutty crunch to cakes.

It's also sold to farmers who use it for cattle feed.

The extracted oil, meanwhile, moves on to the last phase of the process-- filtration.

The filter press is comprised of 16 grooved plates made of food-safe plastic, with paper filters in between.

Workers compress the plates and filters...

Then start up a powerful pump, which forces the walnut oil from one end of the press to the other.

Along the way, the filters trap all the miniscule particles of walnut, wax, and other natural materials, clarifying the oil.

This process takes a few hours, at the end of which the once-cloudy oil is clear.

Packaging walnut oil in clear glass bottles would look appetizing but would actually shorten the product's shelf life.

That's because walnut oil is rich in omega-3 fatty acids, which, while good for you, are sensitive to light.

Therefore, walnut oil is traditionally bottled in tin.

After the automatic equipment fills the tin container, workers loosely apply a snap-on cap, which the next machine presses into position.

Last stop-- labeling.

As the tin spins, the machine wraps it in an adhesive-backed label, neatly aligning the label's seam with the welded seam on the tin.

Now the oil's ready to drizzle a rich walnut taste onto your pasta, grilled meat or fish, or salad.

Humans have been making things out of copper longer than any other metal.

Archaeological digs around the world have unearthed copper vessels, tools, weapons, and jewelry dating back at least 10,000 years.

Fast-forward to today and copper is one mineral we still really dig.

Peel back the layers of modern civilization, and there's a lot of copper.

It's used for electrical motors and wiring, high-tech gadgetry and plumbing.

The metal known chemically as cu is essential to modern living.

Pure copper is rarely found in nature.

It usually occurs with other elements, like iron and sulfur.

To mine the copper-bearing rock, a huge drill chews into this arizona terrain.

It drills around 130 holes at least 50 feet down.

A truck pumps explosives into them.

It's a powerful mix of ammonium nitrate and fuel oil.

A mine worker lowers the electronic detonating devices into each of the 130 holes.

From a safe distance away, he actives the detonators, staging the explosions milliseconds apart.

It's an explosion sequence designed to fracture as much of the copper-bearing rock as possible.

Shovels scoop up the blasted rock, lifting 55 to 88 tons in one bite.

The rock is less than one half of 1% copper.

Freeing the copper from it involves different techniques.

The technique depends on whether the ore is iron-oxide-based or sulfide-based.

To process copper from oxide ore, they pile the rock in specially prepared leeching areas.

They irrigate the rock with a diluted sulfuric-acid solution.

Over months, the solution percolates down and dissolves the copper.

The copper solution drains into a pond.

A pump transfers this solution to the plant.

In this channel, the copper solution binds with an organic agent and floats to the top.

They add an acidic solution that increases the concentration of the copper and makes it electrically conductive.

They transfer the copper solution to a series of tanks that contain starter sheets of pure copper, called cathodes.

They pass an electrical current through the tank, and the copper migrates to the cathodes.

At the outset, the cathodes are wafer-thin, but over a period of 10 days, they thicken substantially.

They're now an inch thick.

Each one weighs about 275 pounds.

The purity is now 99.99%.

That's important if the copper is to be processed into electrical products.

Freeing copper from the sulfide rock is more difficult.

It starts in a massive tumbler, called a sag mill.

Inside, steel grinding balls smash wet rock to pieces.

Exiting the mill, the smashed rock travels over a perforated conveyor to screen out smaller, pebble-sized rocks.

These smaller rocks continue on to different grinding mills.

The larger rocks circle back to the sag mill for another round.

Once all the rock has been sufficiently ground, they add chemicals which coat the copper particles and mix in a frothing substance.

The slurry flows into floatation tanks.

Air blasts create bubbles that the chemically coated copper minerals attach to.

The bubbles carry the minerals to the top of the tank, and they overflow.

After filtering the overflow, they have a concentrate that's now 25% to 30% copper.

They transfer the concentrate by rail to a smelter facility.

Here, it goes into several large beds.

Each one is the size of two basketball courts.

They add silica sand, creating a layer cake of sand and copper concentrate.

The silica sand is known as a flux.

It will serve as a purifying agent as the concentrate is smelted.

In the intense heat of the furnace, the silica sand melts to form a slag that absorbs the iron and other unwanted minerals.

The slag floats up, and the copper sinks.

Its purity is now 60%.

Then it's into a second furnace, where they up the copper content to 98%.

Coming up, there's much more to the story of copper.

There are networks of copper in the walls of modern buildings-- wires and pipes that supply utilities and keep the household humming.

Hidden behind drywall, it's easy to overlook the contribution of this thermally and electrically conductive metal.

But behind the scenes, copper is a big player.

With the copper now extracted from the ore, they pour the residue onto a heap.

This molten slag flows down like lava from a volcano.

As it cools, it becomes part of the landscape.

Meanwhile, in the smelter, a crane delivers the fiery liquid copper into another furnace for further purification.

Inside this furnace, the purity level increases from 98% to 99.4%.

The molten copper flows out of the furnace and into rotating molds.

The molds shape the copper into big, rectangular slabs, called anodes.

The slabs will serve as positively charged electrodes in the electrorefining process that's still to come.

That process will take the purity level up one last notch.

The copper begins to cool in the molds.

A sprayer douses them with water to speed the cooling process, and the copper hardens into the anode shape.

A hydraulic cylinder pops them out of the molds.

Then a carrier system retrieves them and takes them for a rinse.

This gets rid of any traces of a nonstick substance applied to the molds earlier for easy release of the copper slabs.

Hooks formed during the molding make it easy to rack up the slabs for shipment to a texas refinery hundreds of miles away.

At the refinery, the copper slabs shed any lingering impurities in this tank as an electrical current is applied.

The current causes the copper to gravitate to thin starter sheets.

The impurities fall to the bottom.

The copper deposited on the starter sheets is 99.99% pure, the purity level required by wire manufacturers.

They load it into a furnace that's essentially a tall shaft.

Midway down, the pure copper melts and flows to the bottom of the furnace.

From there, they transfer it to an insulated metal channel, which keeps it molten as it now travels into a vertical mold.

This mold shapes it into rectangular forms known as copper cakes.

Copper cakes are used for manufacturing things like copper sheeting and plumbing parts.

Fresh from the mold, the copper cakes are roughly 20 feet long.

A conveyor serves them up to a circular saw that slices them to lengths required by the customer.

Stacked and labeled, this pure copper cake is now ready to ship to the manufacturer.

They also process pure copper into rods, a form more suitable for manufacturing electrical wiring.

Molten copper moves through an opening in a mold, and, cooled by water, the copper forms a continuous rectangular bar.

These grooved rollers will now take it from rectangular to round and reduce the diameter substantially.

As the copper travels through the grooves, it becomes a 3/10 of an inch thick copper rod.

The rod exits, and the machine loops it into coils.

They land neatly onto a steel spool.

Machinery compresses the copper coil, squeezing it down so it will take up less space when it's transported.

There's one last squeeze from an overhead press.

And an employee ties the tightly coiled copper with extra-strong plastic banding.

From the earth's crust to the factory floor, it's been quite a journey.

Shipped to manufacturers, it will now be drawn into electrical wiring, and the future is sure to be high-voltage.