Meeting our long-lost radioactive cousin

ATOMIC CITY, Idaho—Our illusion that Idaho was nothing more than an inviting pastoral womb responsible for a never-ending supply of huge, tasty potatoes was shattered some 20 miles northwest of Blackfoot, home of the Idaho Potato Museum.

Out on this god-forsaken stretch of Highway 26, a high-desert climate and formidable stretches of ancient lava flows have turned the landscape into a portrait of hardscrabble despair. Sage brush and wisps of struggling native grasses poke out of the jagged landscape, which, understandably, is largely devoid of human population. In some areas the remnants of former civilization sit windblown and abandoned. Weathered shotgun shacks and crumbling stone hovels stand as trophies marking a victory for a landscape that has handily defeated the encroachment of humanity. For the most part.

During the industrious zeal of post-World-War-II America, when the nation was at the height of the Atomic Age, bureaucrats and scientists found the area suitable for a noble purpose: harnessing the atom. In this geologically unstable area, the United States Government established what is now the Idaho National Laboratory, one of several national laboratories operated for the U.S. Department of Energy.

Some 50 nuclear reactors have been built on the barren plains west of Idaho Falls during the last 50 years as scientists raced to prove that the awesome power of the Atom was good for something besides bombs. As part of the bargain, INL also became a dumping ground for spent nuclear reactor cores. But since the laboratory has been responsible for the relative prosperity in some areas, most folks around here don't say much about what goes on behind the security fences of INL.

Not every place profited from the atom, however. Some communities fell by the wayside as the veneer of World-War-II victory gave way to a general suspicion of all things atomic.

Witness tiny Atomic City, Idaho. Once a bustling little burg halfway between INL and Blackfoot, the town is mostly shuttered now. A couple of occupied houses and a row of squatters in mobile homes stand among the ruins of what was once a home to many residents. The community's only functioning business is the Atomic City Bar, located in the hollowed out ruins of an old Texaco station.

According to the barkeep, the establishment does a pretty brisk business as INL workers stop in to snag what she said is the coldest beer in the region. And in the oppressive heat of southwest Idaho, a cold beer is definitely worth a short jaunt off the main road. Interestingly enough, the barkeep did not know the origin of the community's name. Why it became "Atomic City" was a mystery to her.

The rest of Atomic City has been converted into a car racing track, and here on a late weekend afternoon, there was nary a left-over space for trailers hauling in the souped up vehicles that race for cash and bragging rights on the dirt track.

A few miles north, just out of earshot of the buzz of the Atomic City Raceway, the goings on at INL are protected by a row of ominous yellow signs warning that trespassers can be arrested and prosecuted under the Atomic Energy Act.

But not every part of INL is off limits. The world's first power-producing nuclear reactor, known as Experimental Breeder Reactor 1 (EBR-1), is now a national historic site. Though parts of the building are too radioactive for tours, much of the original reactor building is open to the public.

Despite the signs beckoning travelers in for a visit, the government employees in charge of the place do not share the same zest for visitors as the signs might suggest. We found them itching to close up shop and get on the road, perhaps for a cold one at the Atomic City Bar, some 15 minutes before the last tour time. I kept reminding myself that this was the government, not a small-town Chamber of Commerce, so the lack of customer service was not surprising, though it was still disappointing nevertheless.

Oh well, the road heals all wounds, and a short hop away we found our final destination in our ad-hoc Atomic Tour of Idaho.

The town of Arco got its claim to fame on July 15, 1955, when the Boiling Water Reactor 3 at INL delivered atomic power to the community for a few hours on that monumentous summer day. A strange little cafe at the edge of town offers "Atomic Burgers," but strangely enough, the rest of the community doesn't seem to call much attention to the town's auspicious atomic roots.

Instead, more conspicuous than the little sign on a city building announcing Arco's nuclear past, the hillside north of town is peppered with whitewash graffiti commemorating each high school graduating year since the 1930s. Even the older numbers look fresh, and the 2008 label had been lovingly written on craggy stone above town, despite the otherwise abandoned look of the community.

We breathed a sigh of relief as we sped north and away from Idaho's nuclear corridor, not because of a fear of the atom, but because the area seemed tired and worn out. The whiz-bang excitement of the Atomic Age—with its ray guns and robots and giant Hollywood tarantulas—is a bizarre anachronism in an age where people aren't curious about how technology works, but rather that it simply does work.

An appreciation for science left this nation a long time ago, giving way to instant text messages and tiny televisions that show Disney DVDs in the back of family minivans and SUVs. Americans apparently are too busy to learn about what makes us tick.

But that is too heavy to contemplate out here on the road, where long stretches of empty highway and wayward hours between destinations cause us to sing the songs of our past. A fifth chorus of "Brick House," only done in the guise of Porky Pig, causes the laughter to flow like the lava once did across this breathtaking landscape.

See you on down the road.