MoabPile 2009
Envisioning A New Moab Mountain
Landform
In May 2009, we departed Los
Angeles, California, and then traveled
Interstate Highways I-15 and I-70 to our
destination in
Moab, Utah. After two days and 700 miles
(1125 k) of mountain and desert driving, we
neared our goal.
As the late afternoon sunlight
slanted across a desolate stretch of desert, we
spotted a forest of billboards and an oasis of
trees to the north of I-70. With its unexpected
splash of greenery, the
City of Green River, Utah lay hidden amidst
that foliage. The former railroad and mining
town became famous in the 1930's with an
anti-peddler law that some say was a thinly
disguised anti-vagrancy law. Henceforth, many
Western town blatantly the "get out of town
before sundown" law henceforth known as The
Green River Ordinance. Well into the 1960s,
official roadsigns at the entrance of many Utah
towns boasted, "Green River Ordinance Enforced
Here". It was like saying that the town had "no
parking", even if one did not have an
automobile. Today, Green River is home to nearly
one thousand people, almost twenty percent of
whom call themselves
Hispanic or Latino. With "prior rights"
determining senioity in western water rights,
Green River's acequis (water ditches) dated back
to the 1830s, when it was a shallow-water
crossing along the
Old Spanish Trail. Today, Green
River appears to be the most well watered town
in the deserts of the West.
Twenty-one
miles east of Green River, we reached
Crescent Junction, which was our turn-off
to Moab, via
US Highway 191 South. Although
designated by census takers as "a
populated place", we found no population
figures for this dusty crossroads. The place
supported little more than a combination gas
station and convenience store. Over the years,
we have passed through Crescent Junction many
times. Although the main building has stood
throughout, sometimes we find a business
operating there and sometimes we do not. On
this visit, the "Stop
& Go" appeared to be open for business. Its
sagging banners and many hand-painted signs gave
out a halfhearted plea for recognition and
recompense. Its painted plywood cut-out
characters evoke an ersatz tourist attraction.
As with many other highway routes
in the West, a narrow strip of flat terrain
determined the location of Crescent Junction.
During the 1830s, Spanish Americans pioneered
the Old Spanish Trail through here. In the
1850's, Captain
John W. Gunnison surveyed a rail line
through here and to the west. In 1883,
Gunnison's dream became a reality when the
Denver & Rio Grande Western Railway laid
tracks through here. During the twentieth
century,
US Highways 6 & 191 intersected and shared
routes through Crescent Junction, followed in
the 1960s by
Interstate Highway I-70. Natural gas
pipelines and fiber optic communications cables
now share that route, as well. Despite the
crowding of transportation and utilities through
the junction, it retains the look of a sparcely
populated place.
In contemporary American culture,
we consider any place in the West with two
hundred or more years of European-stock
settlement to be old, if not ancient. With its
raw, dry landscape, current day travelers may
have difficulty believing that this area
was once inhabited by what we can legitimately
call "the
Ancients". As proof of Ancient
inhabitation, abundant Indian rockart at the
nearby
Book Cliffs dates from between 2000 BCE and
the 1800s CE. That span of continuous culture
was almost twenty times longer than the
continuum of White men in the West.
Before
commencing the forty-mile drive south to Moab,
we paused to reflect on the stark beauty of the
surrounding desert. As the setting sun
illuminated the Book Cliffs to the north, we
wondered what artifacts of our contemporary
culture might endure at Crescent Junction
several thousand years hence. Extending our
consciousness to a group of future desert
trekkers, we heard them conjecture that
we, who would be their
"Ancients" were the creators of a then extant
sandstone-clad pyramid, jutting skyward from
behind the Stop & Go at Crescent Junction.
Recently,
U.S. Department of Energy (DOE) project managers
and engineers began relocating 135 acres of
uranium tailings from Moab, Utah to Crescent
Junction. If they and the public have a sense
of history and a sense of humor, desert
travelers of the future may well see that
pyramid in the desert.
After decades of delay, five
trainloads of nuclear-contaminated soil now move
each week across the desert.
The train travels back and forth, from the
fragile depository by the Colorado River at Moab
to a fully-lined hardpan disposal site at
Crescent Junction.
If lack of imagination and
traditional landfill techniques prevail, the new
uranium pile will look much like the old one,
which is so nondescript that it barely shows in
photographs taken a mile or two away. With its
flat top and natural red-dirt camouflage, the
pile is out of sight and too often out of mind.
If anyone has a mountain that they would like to
hide, they should come to Moab and see if they
can even locate the uranium pile. However, if
the DOE staff uses its collective imagination,
they could construct a Crescent Junction Pyramid
to rival the
Great Pyramid of Giza, in Egypt. With a raw
material stockpile covering one hundred
thirty-five acres, buried up to 200 ft (61 m)
deep, they should have an easy time. If they
construct a new pyramid at least 455 ft (135 m)
high, Moab, Utah, or perhaps Crescent Junction
could claim bragging rights over the tallest
organic, nuclear-powered pyramid in the world.
Why create a pyramid in the
desert? The single word, "tourism" should be
enough to get residents of
Grand County, Utah interested. Imagine that
place, twenty or thirty years in the future, let
alone two thousand years hence. If the DOE can
mitigate radiation danger at the new site, "See
the New Seventh Wonder of the World", could
become a long-term motto for the site.
In order to transport materials
from the existing uranium pile, the
Union Pacific Railroad recently rebuilt the
roadbed and upgraded the rails on the Cane Creek
Subdivision between Moab and Crescent Junction.
By limiting future pyramid-access to sanctioned
rail visits, Moab could create a railway
excursion business, similar in scope to the long
running one in
Durango, Colorado. Tourists could leave
their automobiles in Moab, visit the pyramid at
midday and return to Moab in time for dinner.
Although more tourists would visit Moab, highway
miles driven would decline. Since the new
uranium pile is a necessity, it behooves
planners to make it every bit as attractive to
tourists as the natural wonders so abundant in
the surrounding Canyonlands area.
Currently,
there are few pyramids of any consequence in the
U.S. The only stone-faced pyramid we are aware
of is the
Ames Brothers Pyramid, near the town of Buford,
which is a bit west of Cheyenne, Wyoming.
Standing at the highest point on the first
transcontinental railroad in 1869, the pyramid
is of modest height. Located less than a mile
from current Interstate I-80, the pyramid's
location on a grassy knoll allows it to stand
out against the Wyoming sky. Forgotten by all
except locals, curious passers-bye and those who
study railroad history, we note that the
brothers' teamwork in the public and private
sectors made the words "Union Pacific Railroad"
part of American history. Imagine the goodwill
that the current incarnation of the Union
Pacific Railroad would garner if it were to
cooperate once again in the building of an All
American Pyramid.
The City of Moab, Utah's Grand
County, the Union Pacific, the State of Utah and
the United States DOE together have the
opportunity to transform a nuclear pariah into a
beautiful and sacred place. By studying and
using as models, other remote, spiritual sites,
DOE planners could borrow the best aspects of
each and create a monument to peace and nuclear
safety that would endure beyond our time.
Hotel and casino planners created
the pyramidal
Luxor Hotel in Las Vegas, Nevada. Why
should we not create a real pyramid in
Southeastern Utah? By combining the windswept,
solitary feeling of the Ames Brothers Pyramid
with the remote magnificence of
Chaco Canyon, New Mexico, contemporary
planners could create a monument of lasting
value. When completed, the Moab/Crescent
Junction Pyramid should stand-alone, with
nothing more than a railroad siding, an
interpretive center and a footpath near its
base.
Imagine a post-nuclear age when
schoolchildren from all over the world might
visit the pyramid. Docents familiar with
the history of "Moab
Mountain" could tell the story.
The story would begin with human
lust for power, in the form of nuclear weapons.
After World War II, nuclear frenzy was so strong
that men and machines moved mountains of uranium
ore to Moab Utah. There, they extracted the
Earth's most dangerous and unstable elements.
During the course of its operation, the
not-ironically named
Atlas Uranium Mill utilized over
420,000 tons of sulfuric acid and unknown
amounts of
caustic soda to leach radioactive isotopes
out of the raw ore. When the mill shut down in
the 1980s, all of the chemicals, buildings and
equipment utilized during its thirty-year
operating life were buried at the site.
Although extraction wells later dotted the site,
a natural stream running beneath the pile
continued to conduct unknown quantities of
radioactive material, chemicals and heavy
metals into the adjacent
Colorado River.
Over the following twenty-five
years, group consciousness slowly shifted from
fear of the "Other"
to fear of our own
powers of self-destruction. As
consciousness continued to evolve, fear of
immanent nuclear disasters became stronger than
the ephemeral security posession of the nuclear
weapons offered us in the first place.
Beginning in the late 1980s, a coalition of
government agencies, private citizens,
environmental groups and the press identified
and publicized the scope of the
nuclear dangers at Moab.
In 2005, we learned more about
ancient,
paleofloods on the Upper Colorado River near
Moab, Utah. A DOE study determined that "the
geometry and position of ancient Colorado River
gravels buried under the surface of Moab Valley show(ed) that the river has shifted back and
forth across the mill and tailings site in the
recent geologic past".
Our future docents' parable would
include both historical and ancient
information. If a flood the size of at least
one that hit the Moab Valley since 2000 BCE were
to occur in the near future, much if not all of
the uranium pile could wash downstream towards
Lake Powell. As we know, Las Vegas, Phoenix and
Los Angeles all rely on Colorado River water for
a significant percentage of their water
supplies. If a megaflood were to hit Moab prior
to the removal and relocation of the uranium
pile, release of its
carcinogens and mutagens could render much
of
Utah, Arizona, Nevada and California
uninhabitable.
As the docents said to their
future visitors, the megaflood held off until
early spring 2015. By then, DOE engineers
had protected the pile with a riprap rock
casing, similar in construction to the
Castaic Dam in Southern California. At the
time of its construction, Castaic Dam's
conservative design was considered to be a
"overkill" solution to contain Castaic Resevoir.
After the 1928 collapse of the nearby
St. Francis Dam, engineers and the public
alike demanded that the Castaic Dam be built to
the highest seismic standards. Tested soon
after completion by the nearby
1971 Sylmar Earthquake, Castaic Dam stood
undamaged. Not ironically, the cross-section of
Castaic Dam is similar to the profile of the
Great Pyramid at Gisa, Egypt. Both are expected
to last for a long time into the future.
In 2018, the Colorado River
tested the uranium pile's temporary encasement,
but it held fast against the flood. By 2035,
when the original pile was gone, workers who had
started their careers moving the uranium pile
used their final working years to remove the old
Moab containment dam. As their final
contribution, they reused all of its boulders as
cladding for the new Crescent Junction Pyramid.
If that stone encasement could withstand the
force of a megaflood along the Colorado River,
they felt confident that its reuse at pyramid
could shelter that new mountain for millennia to
come.
As the docents of the future
ended their tale of fear and hope, students
reflected on how we humans had used and
abused Mother Earth. Old Moab Mountain was
a monument to ignorance, greed and fear.
New "Moab Mountain" stood as proof that the
wisdom of the Ancients revealed itself to
mankind in the early twenty-first century and
that we listened.
Hey, what's that Sound? Is it the "Perfect Flood"?
On June 22, 2009, the first full day of summer, we drove
the
Potash Road (Utah
Route 279), beginning at its junction with
U.S. Highway 191 North, near Moab, Utah. A
paved highway, Potash Road parallels
Kane Creek Access Road, on the opposite bank
of the Colorado River. Both roads meander
downstream from Moab and Spanish Valley.
Watch the Video, "Potash Road, Moab, Utah"
On the west bank, Potash Road skirts the Moab Pile, which occupies most of
the
floodplain along the outside radius of the river
bend. When we stopped downstream of the pile and
looked across, we saw charred evidence of the
October 22, 2008
Matheson Wetlands fire. The high water table
there has encouraged new growth in that unique
and vital wetland habitat, but years will pass
before nature erases the scar.
The
Matheson Wetlands occupy a floodplain along
the inside radius of this unique Colorado River
bend. Its uniqueness as a riparian environment
stems from the lack of canyon walls on either
side of the bend. From the east, Spanish Valley
descends gradually, until it meets the wetlands
within the ancient flood plain. Despite a
setback
from
the fire, The Nature Conservancy's ecologists
are midway through a plan to bring back a
natural flow of water throughout the
Matheson Wetlands.
from
the fire, The Nature Conservancy's ecologists
are midway through a plan to bring back a
natural flow of water throughout the
Matheson Wetlands.
Water use planning in the Four
Corner states, Nevada and Southern California
depends on the stability and ultimate removal of
the radioactive landfill, known as the
Moab Pile. The fragile position of the Moab
Pile is what most concerns downstream water
planners in Phoenix, Las Vegas and Los Angeles.
They know that
documented paleofloods of enormous size
periodically scour the flood plain of the
Colorado in that location. At least two
megafloods occurred in the past several thousand
years. In such a flood, the broken megaliths
that line the canyon upstream of the
pile
could be set loose, battering the vulnerable
pile and washing it into the Colorado River
channel. If it happened that recently, it could
happen again.
pile
could be set loose, battering the vulnerable
pile and washing it into the Colorado River
channel. If it happened that recently, it could
happen again.
In a "Perfect Flood" scenario,
there would be heavy snowfall during a cold
winter in the
Colorado Plateau watershed. With an entire
winter's snowpack still in place,
dust storms of enormous size could arise
from the over-grazed Navajo Indian Reservation,
to the South. Contemporary dust storms create
weather vortices that are orders of magnitude
larger than the largest firestorms. As the
storms move across Southeastern Utah, land long
overgrazed by ranchers and more recently overrun
by off-road vehicles ads to
the
problem. If a series of such storms carried
sufficient airborne soil, followed by rain, a
blanket of dust could
melt the Colorado Plateau snowpack in short
order. At its peak, the subsequent flood could
engulf the Moab Pile and wash its toxic and
radioactive material downstream towards Lake
Powell.
the
problem. If a series of such storms carried
sufficient airborne soil, followed by rain, a
blanket of dust could
melt the Colorado Plateau snowpack in short
order. At its peak, the subsequent flood could
engulf the Moab Pile and wash its toxic and
radioactive material downstream towards Lake
Powell.
Currently, there is an active
effort to relocate the Moab Pile to the new
Moab Mountain, location at Crescent Junction,
Utah. According to current
Department of Energy (DOE) estimates, the
removal project will take until 2022-2025.
Depending on materials and conditions found in
the core of the pile, those estimates are
subject to change. As of this writing, the most
optimistic
estimates are for a thirteen-year project.
Meanwhile, engineers and planners have done
little to protect the pile from the potential of
a Perfect Flood, as described above. The only
observable difference at the site is the
widening of a dry watercourse adjacent to the
upstream side of the pile. The widening and
deepening of that arroyo is all that stands
between the river and the safety of the
Lower Colorado Basin water supply and its
seventeen million users.
optimistic
estimates are for a thirteen-year project.
Meanwhile, engineers and planners have done
little to protect the pile from the potential of
a Perfect Flood, as described above. The only
observable difference at the site is the
widening of a dry watercourse adjacent to the
upstream side of the pile. The widening and
deepening of that arroyo is all that stands
between the river and the safety of the
Lower Colorado Basin water supply and its
seventeen million users.
If a Perfect Flood were to hit
the pile before its complete removal, life in
the West would never be the same. Communities
and individuals whose water sources are upstream
of the pile
would
be safe. Those living downstream of the
potential washout could find Colorado River
water unfit for home, industrial or agricultural
consumption. If our water supply experienced a
dramatic spike in chemicals, heavy metals and
radioactive waste, we would immediately seek a
different water source.
would
be safe. Those living downstream of the
potential washout could find Colorado River
water unfit for home, industrial or agricultural
consumption. If our water supply experienced a
dramatic spike in chemicals, heavy metals and
radioactive waste, we would immediately seek a
different water source.
If seventeen million residents
had to find new water supplies or perish, the
Southwestern U.S. would face depopulation far
greater than the
Anasazi Disappearance, around 1200 CE.
Financially, the Perfect Flood would make the
estimated $150 billion cost of
Hurricane Katrina look diminutive, by
comparison. From Moab, Utah, to its dry and
neglected
delta, at the Sea of Cortez, Mexico, the
Colorado River would become a
river of death.
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James McGillis
