Article and Photos by Todd Matthews

As with nearly all secrets, they are much better told when whispered mysteriously in one's ear. The Hanford Nuclear Reservation is no exception. As I stood atop a modest hill outside the Fast Flux Test Facility (commonly known as the '400 Area'), the wind hissed and flapped in my ears, sending dust storms across a landscape of aged glacial till -- surrounded by sagebrush, tumbleweeds, and a lone eagle that circled above in elegant, predatory arcs.

Welcome To Hanford . . . Atomic City, U.S.A. (photograph by Todd Matthews)

To say that Hanford is one giant secret may not be entirely true. Indeed, the crucial race to develop nuclear weapons during World War II transformed these quiet desert lands around nearby Richland into an engineering mecca. In 1943, the top secret Manhattan Project began here, with a goal to develop weapons ahead of American foes. The 570 square-mile Hanford Project site was remote, had abundant cold water for reactor cooling, and plentiful electricity from hydroelectric dams. From a January 1943 population of 400, the small farm community of Hanford -- composed mostly of homesteaders forced off the land by the Atomic Energy Commission and the War Powers Act, according to one retired Hanford employee with whom I spoke -- exploded to 51,000 in a matter of months. Three plutonium production reactors were quickly built along the banks of the Columbia River, providing the concentrated nuclear material for the bomb that destroyed Nagasaki, Japan, just 28 months after construction began.

Hanford is clearly on the map -- an integral and seminal piece of American history. But if you travel the nuclear reservation's two-lane roads, the silence and desolation of such a significant location are its most overwhelming features. As I drove the main arterials of the Hanford Site -- Route 4 . . . State Route 240 . . . Route 10 . . . -- I had the true sense that perception was not reality.

Case in point: the Rattlesnake Mountains. A massive, loaf-shaped series of hills -- olive- and bruise-colored -- it is visible from all points on the reservation. But the Rattlesnake Mountains are more than just interesting geologic features. Rather, these mountains are a 3,600 foot smokescreen -- one of Hanford's 'secrets' to which I have alluded. The radio towers are barely visible, upon closer inspection (and with the help of binoculars). According to my guide, the mountains have been cored with tunnels -- resulting in massive, hollowed veins that house control rooms, radios, sleeping quarters, and communication equipment. Moreover, an eccentric professor carved a tunnel of his own into the mountain, according to my guide, in search of a mysterious source of energy.

The Rattlesnake Mountains (photograph by Todd Matthews)

The Hanford Nuclear Reservation has still more secrets . . . . The government town sites of White Bluffs and Hanford were open only to individuals directly involved with the Manhattan Project. Employees either worked for the duPont Company, which at that time had the construction operation contract, or they were employed by the Atomic Energy Commission. Or they worked for one of the subcontractors, building either the reactors and supporting facilities on the Hanford project or the homes and commercial buildings in the new town. They didn't know what they were doing, or why they were doing it. They weren't aware of the area's significance -- why it was so vital to the war effort. Some wild stories circulated. Yet, surprisingly, the secret was well kept and speculation about the project was limited because of national security.

And there are still more secrets . . . . My guide, Len Clausen (a retired Department of Energy employee, he first arrived at Hanford in the 1940s), told me the story of a robbery at the payroll office on the Hanford Site. "During the 1940s, fifty-five thousand people were out here," Clausen told me, looking at the vast expanse of land. "A man robbed the payroll office, and there was a gun battle near Othello (about 50 miles north of Hanford). The cash was never found. So if you ever want to go on a treasure hunt, then you know where to go." Clausen paused, chuckling slightly. "Of course, there's a lot of land between here and Othello."

To reach the Hanford Site, you must first visit Richland, Washington. With 36,000 people, Richland is the second-largest city in what is known as eastern Washington's 'Tri-Cities' (Richland-Pasco-Kennewick). Richland is a community. Richland is Middle America. Richland is known as the Atomic City, and it grew up as a secret settlement during the 1940s, with the nearby Hanford Site as its clandestine neighbor. In 1949, Time magazine proclaimed Richland "an atomic age utopia." During World War II, only government workers could live there; but in 1958 most federally owned structures in Richland, such as the houses and municipal facilities, were sold to private owners or transferred to a locally-controlled city government.

The government may have handed Richland over to the people, but the people (to some extent) are still holding onto Hanford. Many of the Tri-Cities businesses are named after their historic neighbor -- Atomic Ale Brewpub & Eatery . . . Atomic Laundry . . . Atomic Foods . . . Atomic Body Shop. But more than just clinging to the atomic kitsch, the Tri-Cities is also less reluctant to let go of its nuclear past. This is due to an unprecedented clean-up operation presently underway at the Hanford Site. The Department of Energy is spending $1 billion annually toward this clean-up effort; the final price tag is estimated at $25 billion - $100 billion. As a result, the clean-up at Hanford has sparked economic growth for the Tri-Cities -- providing employment for more than 19,000 engineers, clean-up experts, construction workers, and others. Simply put, the environmental clean-up is a far bigger project (both in size and cost) than the reactors ever were.

Hanford's desert landscape (photograph by Todd Matthews)

Yet, there is a distinct line between Richland and the Hanford Site. Travel east along I-182, take the Richland City Center exit, and be prepared for George Washington Way -- a long, commercial stretch packed with fast food restaurants, motels, bulk grocery stores, video shops, and salons. It is overwhelming, really -- much like the casinos on the Vegas Strip. But the farther north you travel, the more that Richland, well, disappears. A mini-mart and an old saloon are all that's left before you hit seriously open and deserted blacktop. Open sky and the towering profiles of distant concrete reactors replace strip malls. Hanford has a science-fiction feel to it -- These are what mining colonies on distant planets look like. Massive, skeletal power lines crowd the landscape in neat rows, like androids. And the sky touches the horizon, its only blemish the gray/pink salmon-colored clouds that are spotted overhead like a patterned print. The terrain changes, too. Blue bunch wheat grass, lupine and balsam roots cover the rolling hills of aged glacial till. State Route 240 is to the west, dividing the Hanford Nuclear Reservation into the Fitzner-Eberhardt Arid Lands Ecology Reserve.

The Hanford Site is empty . . . barren . . . desolate . . . forgotten. The City of Richland is the sophisticated epicenter to the south. That is not to say that Hanford hasn't tried to stay in the spotlight. The end of World War II did not mean the end of Hanford. Rather, production at the site continued to boom. The Cold War was a huge impetus for this activity, and the United States embarked on a massive nuclear warhead buildup. Hanford became the center of fuel fabrication, chemical processing, and nuclear waste management and research during the Cold War. In the early 1960s, when Hanford was working at full capacity, it had a total of nine atomic reactors, employed 45,000 workers and produced almost 80 tons of plutonium a month.

The Fast Flux Test Facility (photograph by Todd Matthews)

The Cold War went away, but Hanford still did not. By 1971, only one plant was still making plutonium for nuclear weapons. That plant was shut down in 1988. And a plutonium-uranium extraction plant closed two years later. The experimental Fast Flux Test Facility is presently in 'cold standby' as the Federal government ponders the prospect of using this $5 billion facility as a source of tritium for medical research. And the Washington Public Power Supply System (a.k.a., 'Energy Northwest') is presently the only operating nuclear facility in the state of Washington -- and generates enough electricity to serve the needs of more than 500,000 all-electric homes in the Pacific Northwest.

Energy Northwest . . . the only operating nuclear facility in the state of Washington (photograph by Todd Matthews)

"The Hanford Project meant tremendous growth for the area," Clausen explained. A dust cloud was forming in the distance, traveling across the highway like a specter. "The two town sites -- White Bluffs and Hanford -- had many thousand people between them."

These town sites are perhaps the most interesting chapters of historic Hanford lore. Nuclear reactors and engineers and state routes didn't exist at the Hanford Site prior to the 1940s. This was homesteaders' land. Rattlesnake country. Hawks, golden eagles, sage sparrows, sagebrush voles and a large and unusual population of elk populated the area. Even a large number of wild horses were nearby. According to Clausen, however, the horses were a hazard -- both to themselves and to Hanford's population of drivers. "Around 1947 or 1948," Clausen said, "the horses were rounded up. They would run alongside the buses and leap in front of them, causing all kinds of trouble." After the horses were rounded up, Tri-Cities residents had the opportunity to purchase them. The horses that were not purchased were later destroyed. When this site was tapped for nuclear production, a surrogate population was seemingly injected into the area. "When the government bought out the homesteaders," Clausen told me, "they were given 30 days to vacate. The trees you see are reminders that homesteaders were here before scientists." Indeed, there were many trees -- a rather unusual sight after driving for quite some time and only seeing reactors and sagebrush. If there was a tree, Clausen explained, then there was probably a farmhouse next to it.

Homesteaders were replaced by two town sites -- White Bluffs and Hanford. A railroad and Route 2 linked the two town sites, roughly 6 miles apart. We were headed first toward White Bluffs, located near the reservation's northeast tip (a peninsula of sorts) -- on the Hanford Site, above the banks of the Columbia River. Whether one was a homesteader or a nuclear scientist, one thing was certain: the views from these town sites were spectacular. The Ringold Formation, which forms the 'white bluffs' along the Columbia River (opposite, in fact, of the White Bluffs town site) was laid down about three-million years ago -- and abounds in fossils of ancient horses, camels, mastodons, and wooly mammoths. The net result is a view across the Columbia River of bluffs marked by exaggerated sedimentary rings -- thick gold- and copper-colored stripes.

If Clausen had not pointed out the White Bluffs town site, I would not have noticed its existence. True, there were clues -- but they were not obvious to me. When we passed charcoal-colored stumps sliding down the modest grade of a hill, Clausen indicated they were the vestiges of an orchard. More trees meant more evidence of farmhouses -- though the structures no longer existed. The only clear proof that the White Bluffs town site existed is a dilapidated wood structure -- a one-room town bank that was dying more from years of neglect than nuclear radiation. "Everything else has been torn down," Clausen explained. "When workers started to tear down the bank, people protested. They asked that it be left as a reminder that White Bluffs was here." The building is the only standing structure in the area, situated on a two-lane paved road -- now cracked and sprouting sagebrush and wheat grass.

We traveled farther south on Route 2 -- toward the Hanford town site. Perhaps the most popular and photographed relic from this site is the Hanford High School -- one of only two buildings (a pump house toward the banks of the Columbia River is the other structure) that still exists at this historic site. We parked and got out, surveying the high school from a close distance. The building is presently windowless and crumbling, surrounded by a chain-link fence. 'Hanford High School' is still visible above the main entrance (even the doors are long gone). Cracked sidewalks still exist, though overgrown brush has covered the concrete like a thin carpet. And ten yards from the school stands a tall, narrow pole mounted with warning sirens. "If we hear that go off," Clausen explained, "then we need to evacuate." Directly adjacent to the siren was a telephone pole, crowned by the massive nest of an eagle -- an eagle that furtively watched us below.

Hanford High School, R.I.P. (photograph by Todd Matthews)

I circled the shell of Hanford High School. Clausen told me that White Bluffs and Hanford were friendly rivals during their prime. After World War II, a SWAT team used the school for ambush exercises -- hence, its pronounced disrepair. I pocketed a few loose stones -- radioactive souvenirs, perhaps -- before heading back onto Route 2 and leaving the Hanford town site.

Headed east on Route 11A, I could not stop thinking about the Hanford town site. Specifically, my thoughts raced toward what it would have been like to live on the Hanford Site fifty or sixty years ago. What was it like to raise a family in the shadow of the Manhattan Project? Hanford wasn't just another place on the map -- it was an entirely different world, with its own distinct (and admittedly spooky, even after all these years) feel and complex infrastructure. Hanford had three fire stations (still does, in fact) to battle the dry and hazardous sagebrush that seemingly threatened to combust at any time. Hanford had its own railroad system (now defunct, the tracks still exist) for shuttling equipment and provisions throughout the site. And Clausen told me that Route 2 was only the second 4-lane highway built in Washington state. "Fifty-five thousand people working and living here," he said, "This road was sorely needed."

Hanford was still an isolated location. But its importance had diminished. The White Bluffs and Hanford town site residents had long disappeared. The roads were empty, save for the green and orange trailer trucks hauling contaminated dirt from the banks of the Columbia River (Author's Note: The trucks, complete with 'radioactive hazard' signs posted on their sides, were often the only other vehicles on the road for miles. They would seemingly appear from nowhere, moving slowly through the intersections. Tarps covered their lethal contents, though still flapped in the wind, sending small chunks of contaminated soil skipping along the pavement. These trucks were ghostly -- appearing like a conscience of Hanford's history, and a constant reminder that Hanford was indeed an unusual place in the American West).

One of many warning signs posted on the side of the road at Hanford (photograph by Todd Matthews)

To the east, Clausen pointed out Gable Mountain -- a much smaller, yet equally beautiful, sister mount of the Rattlesnake Hills. Gable Mountain had once been tapped as a possible storage site for nuclear waste. In fact, the entire Hanford Site was considered ideal for nuclear production and disposal (or at least that is what the promotional literature at the 200 Reactor Visitor's Center boasts). A combination of geologic formations -- the solidly packed flood debris from the Wallula Gap over firm basalt -- provides a site with very low earthquake potential for reactors and waste management facilities. Gable Mountain was surveyed and drilled. Roads were built leading to tunnels that bore into the mountain. Ultimately, waste was not stored in the mountain. Rather, the salt mines of Carlsbad, New Mexico, were targeted for this use -- the 'Waste Isolation Pilot Project' opened in March of 1999.

This brings me to what can be safely described as Hanford's third incarnation. First, World War II . . . . Second, the Cold War . . . . Today, environmental clean-up. I started this article talking about the secret that is Hanford. I will end it on that same theme. During the 1940s, the government held a big secret from its Hanford workers and residents. Comforted by official reassurances that every precaution was being taken with safety, Hanford's population felt quite proud of their patriotic efforts. Still, the pressure to build nuclear bombs as quickly as possible meant lax safety measures. Secrecy was more important than safety, and it wasn't until the 1980s that documents detailing the radioactive hazards were finally released. During approximately four decades of production, Hanford left behind 54 million gallons of radioactive chemical waste. Initially, the waste was dumped onto the land -- until radioactive swamps began to form. Then it was pumped into the ground -- which still caused environmental damage -- radioactive and toxic contaminants spread underground and into the water table, seeping into the Columbia River (hence, the green and orange trailer trucks spotted, hauling contaminated soil from the river's banks). Moreover, airborne radioactive iodine collected on plants where they were eaten by people and cattle. Many stories are told of entire 'downwind' families stricken by mysterious cancers, immune system disorders, and brain tumors. In addition, between 1958 and 1964, so much heat and radioactivity were being dumped into the Columbia River that the Grand Coulee Dam had to release massive quantities of water to keep the river from becoming dangerously hot as it flowed past Hanford. Heavily contaminated fish and shellfish began showing up at the Columbia's mouth, and there was concern for public safety since both Pasco and Kennewick drinking water supplies came from the river downstream of the nuclear plants.

If you mention the environmental debacle that is Hanford, locals will bristle. The new focus is on clean-up -- that's where the money is; that's what the Hanford machine is spinning these days. Messages of clean-up and safety are nearly everywhere. Hanford's water tower has the phrase 'work safely' written across it. A billboard on the side of the road reads, 'Practice Patience During Hot Weather. Cooler Heads Will Prevail.' Even my visitor's badge, issued to me by the Department of Energy, had a favorable (though dubious) message: 'Environmental Excellence.' And Clausen was adamant about highlighting two specific clean-up efforts presently underway.

He drove me to the future site of a vitrification plant. Consisting of only a sign and a small trailer (and, of course, acres of land -- Hanford is nothing if not large amounts of land), Clausen said that this area would be a crucial part of the Hanford clean-up process. Engineers would process the nuclear waste into shards of glass, making it much easier to dispose of the toxic material. The process seemed much too simple and, admittedly, cool. Turning nuclear waste into bits of glass was awesome, and only added to my impression of Hanford as a science-fiction netherworld.

Nuclear submarines buried in the Hanford desert (photograph by Todd Matthews)

We left the phantom vitrification plant and headed toward 'Trench #94' -- another aspect of the Hanford disposal and clean-up effort. Admittedly, this was one of the most interesting chapters of my Hanford visit. It is here that nuclear submarines are sliced and diced and disposed of in large steel canisters -- three-stories high and resembling enormous peach halves. The canisters are massive, and sit on tracks in an open pit -- a pit, I was told, that would never be buried with dirt. "The fuel is taken out of the subs," Clausen explained, "The subs are cut into small pieces, and then they are placed in these canisters." We looked at the canisters from behind a chain-link fence. Clausen added, "I am told that someone can go down there, put a hand on one of the canisters, and not get a significant amount of radiation."

I decided to take Clausen's word for it.

As much as the emphasis is on clean-up, there is also a continuing theme and feeling that many of the folks associated with Hanford just wish it would go away. Clausen never spun the clean-up effort as positively as some of the other people I spoke with. Clausen was frank -- often alluding to the fact that he would be dead and gone by the time the clean-up was complete. He repeatedly referred to 'next generations' and 'radioactive half-life' -- all with an intonation that, whatever happened in the end, he wouldn't be around. This is not to say that Clausen was a defeatist. Rather, he simply knew when he was beat -- or, at least that was my impression.

Driving back to Richland, Clausen stared out at the reservation's landscape. Flat and dry, one couldn't look too far off in the distance without seeing the massive concrete buildings that served as the communications hubs for each reactor (Author's Note: One also could not look too far without seeing the small pink-and-yellow radioactive warning signs scattered across the desert -- equally as lush as the sagebrush and tumbleweeds). Clausen remarked on the amount of concrete that was used for construction at Hanford. All the buildings and reactors are made of concrete. "Someone once commented on the best way to dispose of the buildings once the clean-up is done," Clausen said. "He suggested that engineers punch holes in the top of these buildings and fill them with cement. Then let them sit out here in the desert for the next 75 years or so -- until the radiation dies down." Clausen lingered on this comment for awhile, perhaps thinking that this was one of the better ideas he had heard in quite some time.

This article originally appeared in the Tablet.