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The largest collection of wild yeasts in the world fits inside a single beige chest freezer, humming quietly at the back of a busy lab in the University of California at Davis's shiny new Robert Mondavi Institute for Wine and Food Science.



The Phaff Yeast Culture Collection, as it's known, consists of more than 7,000 strains of 750 different species of the single-celled fungi, mixed with glycerine in cryogenically stored vials or freeze-dried into pellets. Roughly 80 percent of them are not held by any other yeast library in the world.



Kyria Boundy-Mills
, the Phaff Collection curator, knows this because last year she surveyed her global yeast-collecting colleagues, then published her findings in the Journal of Industrial Microbiology and Biotechnology. Her own yeast empire is one of several such microbial archives around the world, ranging from broad national "type" libraries to niche collections specializing in microbes from reefs, breweries, and even Antarctic explorers' huts.

As Boundy-Mills showed Venue around her office and lab, she explained that the Phaff Collection's main focus is yeasts isolated from environmental habitats: gathered from sewage sludge, vanished cacti forests, cockroaches, hot springs, glaciers, human cerebrospinal fluid, and a mare's uterus.



The oldest yeast in the collection was isolated by the UC Berkeley cellarmaster in 1893. When Venue visited, Boundy-Mills was still busy processing the 150 new species of yeast she brought back from a 2011 National Institutes of Health-funded biodiversity survey expedition in Indonesia.

"Nearly half of them are new to science," she told us, which makes them a lot of work. "That’s lifetime’s worth of work there, just to describe 60 new species."

The expedition, which included entomologists, botanists, and ichythologists, cataloged such an immense richness of biodiversity that, Mills told Venue, their research site has now been proposed as a national park. "If it's passed," she said, "it will be the first national park in Indonesia to be declared based on biodiversity data—and one of the first in the world based specifically on biodiversity."

The unspoken implication here—that there could even someday be a yeast-based national park—raises the fascinating subject of scale when discussing the types of landscapes or habitats we consider worthy of preservation. Could a single, microbiologically rich room or building be biologically important enough to be declared a national park?

In any case, while other colleagues focused on collecting and identifying microbes and plants with therapeutic potential, Boundy-Mills' focus was on possible bioenergy applications. Specifically, this meant looking for new enzymes that can break down plant materials to simpler sugars, as well as new yeast varieties that can eat sugar and turn it into oil. As Boundy-Mills explained:

Most yeasts will stop eating when they’re no longer hungry. But there are a few yeast species that keep eating the sugar—and eating it and eating it—and they convert it to oil and store it. Under the microscope, you see these big, huge oil droplets inside the cells. They can be up to 60 percent oil—they’re like these obese, couch-potato yeasts.

To find enzymes that can break down plant material, Boundy-Mills and her team sampled the gut microbes of wood-feeding beetle larvae, as well as the decaying wood around them. Meanwhile, a lot of the high-oil yeasts that Boundy-Mills brought back were isolated from the surface of leaves, with some coming from the soil.


Dissected Buprestid beetle larvae, photograph by Irnayuli Sitepu (UC Davis; Ministry of Forestry, Indonesia).

Yeast cells, at only a couple of microns in length, are frequently more of a challenge to isolate for collection than plants or fish. In some cases, Boundy-Mills would just take a sterile bag, put it around a leaf, pluck it off, and pour in some sterile saline solution. After it had swished around for a while, she would put that liquid on an agar plate to culture any microbes that had been on the leaf's surface. Meanwhile, she told us with evident glee, a lot of the high-oil yeasts form ballistospores, meaning that they shoot out their spores, firing them several millimeters into the air:

This is kind of cool. For them, we smeared some Vaseline inside the lid of the Petri plate, and we stuck some pieces of leaf in the lid. If the yeast can make these ballistospores, they will shoot those down onto the agar surface and grow there. It’s called the ballistospore capture method.

Now that she has these Indonesian couch-potato yeasts back in the lab (after mountains of import and and export paperwork, and a lengthy process of purification and DNA analysis), Boundy-Mills is not only observing their oil production performance, but also studying the other by-products that could possibly come out of the yeast cell, in order to make it an economically viable biofuel production process.

As well as oils, some of her yeasts produce protein, anti-oxidants, and even flavoring ingredients. Elsewhere in the collection are yeasts that show promise in agricultural pest control or are used in food processing.

One strain, Phaffia rhodozyma, was originally isolated on a tree stump in Japan, and is now used industrially to produce a dietary supplement for farmed salmon and shrimp, to make them pinker.



In addition to her own research and the occasional yeast-hunting expedition, Boundy-Mills spends her time preparing and sending out strains to researchers who request them, and maintaining the collection—no small task, as the yeasts are far from immortal, even in the extreme cold, so each strain has to be re-cultured on agar in Petri dishes every five years.


Kyria Boundy-Mills with Herman Phaff's notebooks. Phaff, who founded the collection, focused on the ecology of yeast, recording copious contextual notes on their functionality in nature, their interaction with decaying plant material, and the insects that live alongside them.


The Yeasts: A Taxonomic Study has expanded from one volume (center) to three (left) over the past decade.

Boundy-Mills also acts as a kind of yeast consultant, screening and identifying yeasts for biotech companies. As we prepared to leave, she showed us her yeast bible: a taxonomic catalog of all known yeasts. To help us understand why she finds the field so exciting, she explained:

In 2001, when Hermann Phaff, who founded this collection, died, the Taxonomic Study was just one volume, with about six or seven hundred species. In 2011, they had to split it into three volumes, to accommodate more than 1,400 species. And there’s another couple of hundred yeast species that have come out since that was published.

Incredibly, while the known universe of yeasts is increasing exponentially, thanks primarily to DNA sequencing technology, it's estimated that less than one percent of the world's yeast species have been discovered.

"It's one of the most under-surveyed fields—microbes in general," Boundy-Mills sighed. "There are no yeasts that are on the endangered species list because we wouldn't even know if they were at risk. We’re spending all this time and effort exploring the extraterrestrial world, which is great. But we need to spend more time and effort exploring the terrestrial world, too. There’s so much on this planet that we just have not discovered yet!"


On a brief detour on our way to visit Carlsbad, New Mexico, Venue swung through the northwest extremity of Texas, within shooting distance of the 10,000 Year Clock of the Long Now Foundation and through the looming mountainous remains of an ancient coral reef.

What was once a seabed is now desert, lifted far above the distant Gulf and criss-crossed with exploratory hiking paths.



The Guadalupe Mountains, subject to federal land preservation as the Guadalupe Mountains National Park since 1972, tower over the arid valley that first welcomed us on the drive.

"From the highway," National Geographic writes, "the mountains resemble a nearly monolithic wall through the desert." Indeed, the huge and looming landforms to our north—a landscape made from billions of dead marine organisms, compressed and laminated over millions of years into geology—seemed to hold back, for the entirety of our hike, an ominous weather front that was all but pinned there in the sky like a dark butterfly threatening a rainstorm that never arrived, unable to cross over the jagged hills.



"But drive into one of the park entrances," the magazine continues, "take even a short stroll, and surprises crop up: dramatically contoured canyons, shady glades surrounded by desert scrub, a profusion of wildlife and birds." That's exactly what we did, on a short diversion from our drive into Carlsbad.

Humans have been living in the area for at least 12,000 years, often leaving behind pictographs. They had settled what is, in reality, an ancient shoreline, an ocean coast produced tens of millions of years ago, primarily during the late Cretaceous. Indeed, the region has passed through several instances of flooding, including a Pleistocene-era salt lake 1.8 million years ago that left behind the El Paso dune field, salt flats that actually led to a brief war in the 1870s.



In any case, as can be seen in the maps of geologist Ron Blakey, who Venue interviewed at his home in Flagstaff, Arizona, about the challenge of visually representing the large-scale terrestrial changes that produced landscapes such as the Guadalupe Mountains, the region was one maritime, more like the Bahamas or Indonesia than the dry uplands of the U.S. southwest.

Map of North America during the Cretaceous-Tertiary by Ron Blakey.

At that point, warm and shallow seas extended deep into what is now northwest Texas, leaving behind uncountable billions of sea creatures whose remains later became soft limestone. This limestone, easily eroded and well-known for its propensity to form mammoth caves, is also the reason why this region is riddled from within with truly huge caverns—including Carlsbad Caverns, located at the northeastern edge of the same mountain range that forms the Guadalupes.

The possibility that equally massive, as yet undiscovered caverns might extend deep beneath the monumental cliffs and ridges we hiked along was something that lurked in the back of our minds as walked along.

In the end, our hike was uneventful but visually expansive, more a quick way to stretch our legs during a long road-trip, and an excuse to talk about lost oceans and inland seas before we headed underground into Carlsbad Caverns a few days later, than an extended visit to this truly huge National Park. But, luckily, the park will still be there when we return to Texas someday with more time our hands

Lead image courtesy of the U.S. National Park Service
Between 1897 and 1930, Henry Chapman Mercer, a gentleman anthropologist, set out to collect the handmade tools of everyday American life, just as industrialization was making these tools obsolete.


In 1913, Mercer began work on a six-story poured-in-place concrete castle to house them near his home in Doylestown, Pennsylvania.

More than 30,000 objects from Mercer's collection—from tiny butter molds to car-sized threshing machines—are displayed within the soaring arches of his eccentric structure.


Many of them are simply strapped to pillars or hung from the ceiling, often giving the sense that one is standing somehow upside-down amidst the proliferation of objects. The Piranesian result is one of the most unusual and awe-inspiring museums in the world.


Rather than reproducing each tool's original workshop context to show how butchery, for example, or coopering—barrel-making—equipment was actually used, Mercer's dense sense of display, combined with the odd angles of the building's numerous alcoves and winding stairwells, force museum visitors to appreciate the tools as aesthetic objects.

The museum is thus more like a sprawling archive of hand-crafted forms, each of which embodies the needs, wants, knowledge, and available resources of 19th-century Americans.



Over 30 years, Mercer gathered a near-encyclopedic assemblage of pre-industrial tools, classifying them by trade.

Around the building's edges, scissors, pans, funnels, and confectionery molds sit next to glass-blowing pipes and pontils, while a fire-fighting engine, gallows, and a bored wooden sewage pipe hang precariously over balconies into the central atrium.




Most, if not all, of the tools are indecipherable to the modern eye. They have since been replaced by completely new technologies, or, at the very least, by mass-produced substitutes that bear little formal resemblance to the original tools they came from .


Take the hornsmithing equipment, for example: once used to turn the horns of cattle and oxen into everything from combs (and other hair accessories) to ladles, bowls, and cups, this particular breed of equipment became obsolete at the end of the 19th century. At that point, newly invented celluloid took horn's place as an all-purpose, plastic material.


Previously valuable horn-working tools—such as the standing horse, drawknife, and quarnet—were simply discarded as the particular problem they had been invented to solve disappeared.

Mercer's foresight in collecting these extinct tools allows modern visitors to see and understand an entire taxonomy of expired technologies through which early Americans shaped their world.



Aside from sheer visual spectacle, the Mercer Museum also stands as a structurally complex monument to forgotten knowledge, a sprawling and labyrinthine catalog of human ingenuity.

In the process, it new serves as a somewhat shocking—at the very least, awe-inspiring—reminder of the amount of work involved in the creating the artifacts of everyday life, work that, in an era of mass production, is often neither witnessed nor performed by human beings at all.


And, for Venue, equipped with our own motley assemblage of survey devices and instruments, the museum also offered a particularly fascinating immersion in the lessons to be learned by reading a culture through the tools and equipment it far too often takes for granted.


The museum itself—an imposing Gothic knot of arches, roofs, and chimneys—is a surreal sight, towering above the suburban homes of Doylestown.

It is open every day of the week, hours depending. It is well worth a detour for anyone passing between New York and Philadelphia.

On what was to be, sadly, Venue's only stop in Oregon, we went off-road to visit the world's largest organism, a colossal fungus in the remote eastern mountains of the state, about an hour west of the arid border with Idaho.



For most of the year, including the day we visited, the organism is only visible through its neighbors' distress. Armillaria ostoyae is a kind of honey fungus that parasitizes, colonizes, kills, and then decays the root systems of its conifer hosts; this leaves behind a tell-tale ring-shaped gradient of long-dead, dying, and recently infected trees.

The super-sized organism consists, for the most part, of underground rhizomorphs: long, shoestring-like threads that branch outward to find and infest new conifer roots.



(Top) Healthy trees, elsewhere in the Malheur National Forest. (Bottom) Trees felled by the world's largest organism, Malheur National Forest.

Much of the northeastern section of Oregon's Malheur National Forest is covered in discontinuous patches of fungus-killed trees. Until recently, however, they were thought to be the work of lots of separate mushrooms.

Then, in 2000, USDA researchers collected samples of fungus from a roughly four-mile square section of the forest, and cultured them together in a Petri dish; it was an experiment designed to map the boundary edges of different fungal individuals. To their surprise, the samples from different patches of forest refused to react with each other as an alien other, and subsequent tests confirmed that they were, in fact, genetically identical—all the samples came from the same individual fungus.

This single organism, which began life as a microscopic spore, had spread into a 2,385-acre web of thin, black filaments—roughly the same footprint as a second-tier American airport, such as Philadelphia International.

Further, based on estimates made for smaller individuals, Genet D, as it was fondly christened, weighs between 7,567 and 35,000 tons (an elephant, for reference, clocks in at a maximum of only 8 tons). The humongous fungus is even up there in terms of its age, which is estimated at anything from 1,900 to 8,650 years (although that is dwarfed in comparison to a 200,000-year-old patch of seagrass in the Mediterranean).


Map from the USDA guide to the Humongous Fungus, which includes GPS coordinates (PDF).

The USDA guide to the fungus (PDF) helpfully notes that the best viewpoint on the destruction wreaked by the world's largest organism is from the other side of the valley, just east of a gravel pit and next to its smaller, 482-acre cousin.

We stopped there and surveyed the devastated forest, briefly mulling the difficulties giant clones such as the humongous fungus pose to the very idea of the individual, while keeping our fingers crossed that the standing-dead trees around us wouldn't choose this moment to fall.


The Humongous Fungus in fruit. Photograph courtesy of the USDA.

In a great essay by the late Stephen Jay Gould—called, of course, "A Humongous Fungus Among Us"—Gould describes "the striking way that this underground fungal mat," in his case, a 30-acre Armillaria fungal clone in Michigan, "forces us to wrestle with the vital biological (and philosophical) question of proper definitions for individuality." He suggests, for example, that entirely new conceptualizations of parent-offspring relationships, let alone wholly new understandings of individuals and super-individuals, might be possible.

For the sake of offering an alternative, Gould asks, "Why not propose that such gigantic mats of rhizomorphs form as congeries, or aggregations made of products grown from several founding spores (representing many different parents), all twisted and matted together—in other words, a heap rather than a person?" To qualify biologically as a single individual, Gould later adds, a creature "must have a clear beginning (or birth) point, a clear ending (or death) point, and sufficient stability between to be recognized as an entity."

The "entity" all around us, then, curled up and knotted through the roots of the forest—"all twisted and matted together" both through itself and through the landscape it thrived within—was equal parts biological mystery only recently solved by genetic testing and a kind of invisible spectacle detectable only in its side-effects, a living and strangely sinister force acting on the hills from below.



Meanwhile, if you go into the Oregon woods on the hunt for the world's largest organism in the autumn, after the first rains, the fruiting honey mushrooms are supposed to be quite tasty.
Upon first reading about it, Thomas Jefferson's house at Monticello–a structure he himself designed and that he filled with strange devices, such as a room-sized clock that partially disappears through the floor, and a collection of paleontological artifacts, including mastodon bones—sounds like something straight out of a science fiction novel.


Amidst this symmetrical house of complex moving walls and shelves, hidden servants' passages, and meteorological equipment, the early days of a nation destined to become the United States were given a speculative, scientific air, where the European Enlightenment met the giant, extinct species of the New World, and an unmapped landscape creased with unearthly rivers meandering always further outward through endless plains and distant mountains.

Described that way, Monticello sounds not unlike "Solomon’s House," a fabulous scientific research facility featured in Sir Francis Bacon’s 17th-century utopian science fiction tale, The New Atlantis.


The Invisible College or the House of Solomon, Teophilus Schweighardt,1618, via.

Solomon’s House, we read, is a kind of super-observatory, a temple of science inside of which natural philosophers manage vast, artificial landscapes and operate complex machines, in spatial scenarios that rival anything we might read about today in Dubai or China.

Bacon offers a lengthy inventory of the devices available for use there: "We have... great and spacious houses where we imitate and demonstrate meteors... We have also sound-houses, where we practice and demonstrate all sounds, and their generation... We have also engine-houses, where are prepared engines and instruments for all sorts of motions... We have also a mathematical house, where are represented all instruments, as well of geometry as astronomy, exquisitely made..."

Thus, hoping to encounter a kind of Solomon's House of the early Americas, built by a U.S. President, its walls filled with mysterious devices and its rooms lined with old bones and fossils, with maps of unknown frontier lands greeting every visitor in the entrance hall, Venue went out of its way to visit Monticello, on the edge of Charlottesville, Virginia.



Alas, in reality, Jefferson's house is interesting, but by no means the steampunk-like fantasy of para-scientific insights, moving walls, and secret passages that at least one half of Venue was giddily—naively?—anticipating.

As it was, Venue arrived in a foggy downpour after a long drive across the state, arriving just in time for the final tour of the day, on which we were the only people.


The start of Jefferson's 7-Day Clock, in the entrance hall of Monticello. Photo courtesy Thomas Jefferson Foundation.


The clock continues through the floor.


This wind direction indicator is connected to a weathervane on the roof.


A revolving service door. Photo courtesy Thomas Jefferson Foundation.

Of course, Monticello does, indeed, have the famous clock that stretches down from the foyer all the way into the cellar, where the passage of time is marked by painted lines on the structure of the house itself; and there is the garden outside with its mysterious lost roads.

But there is also the mundane reality of a house stocked with old furniture and fancy porcelain, and the understated historical fact that it's, in fact, deeply misleading to refer to anything here as a servant's passage, when it is now so widely known as to be satirized in pop culture that Thomas Jefferson was a slave-owner and the people walking around through hidden doors and tight corridors from room to room, remaining out of sight whenever possible, weren't employees but human possessions.



The lower jawbone of a mastodon, displayed at Monticello. Photo courtesy Thomas Jefferson Foundation.

In the end, there were the old bones, maps, and artifacts from the expedition of Lewis & Clark; but we did not spend nearly as much time there as we thought we might, and instead continued, while the rain continued to fall, on our way north to Washington D.C.


Inspired by our conversation with Penelope Boston, in which she described to Venue the possibility of extraordinarily ancient lava tubes on Mars (and even the Moon), we decided to visit an earthly example ourselves.



As we looped through Arizona, from the virtual fences of Las Cruces to the lunar training ground of Cinder Lake, we detoured to explore a mile-long lava tube cave in the Coconino National Forest, just outside Flagstaff.

The Lava River Cave, as it's known, was formed roughly 700,000 years ago, when the top and sides of a stream of molten lava cooled while the interior continued to flow, hollowing out the smooth-walled, arched tunnel that still exists today.

The cave is accessible, although not easily: it's on public land and it is well-signposted, but it requires driving on unpaved roads for 15 or 20 minutes through a pine forest, at least part of which appears to be common grazing land, as we drove through a herd of slowly meandering cattle at one point, bovinely eyeing our vehicle as we rolled past, taking photos of them.

Another family were already scrambling out as we began our descent, in a light rain, into the lava tube. We negotiated the basaltic boulders and low, condensation-covered ceiling at the entrance.



Sadly, after just a few minutes spent admiring the extraordinary darkness when we switched off our flashlights, one of us slipped, hit her head, and bruised her tailbone, thus fully living up to Penelope Boston's stereotype of bumbling urban journalists, and handily demonstrating just one of the challenges future Martian explorers might face working and living in subsurface environments.


Photograph of the cave's Y-intersection, where two tubes combine into one, by Flickr user Alan Grosse.

Chastened, we retraced our steps, missing the cave's reportedly spectacular flow ripples (left behind by the last trickles of molten rock), its cooling cracks and unusual Y-shaped split, and we continued on to the roads, motels, farms, mines, landfills, and archives of Venue's onward travels.
While staying in Moab, Utah, and after interviewing Vicki Webster of the U.S. National Park Service, Venue received a dinner invitation on Twitter from a small community arts organization called Epicenter, located just up the road in Green River.



Green River is both tiny and quite isolated; its population is less than 1,000 people and it seems only to be saved from complete obscurity by the 70 highway that cuts through town, putting it a mere five hours' drive west from Denver.

As it happened, however, we had already marked Green River on our maps, following a tip from Matt Coolidge at the Center for Land Use Interpretation, who told us about the town's open-air uranium containment cell. Eager to check out this radioactive landmark, as well as find out how the folks at Epicenter had managed to set up shop in so small a town in so remote an area, we hopped into our car and headed north out of Moab to meet them.




Over a burger at Ray's Tavern, the (more-or-less only) local hangout spot, we heard the Epicenter backstory. The self-described "rural and proud" community arts organization was founded in 2009 by Jack Forinash, Maria Sykes, and Rand Pinson, all graduates of the Rural Studio at Auburn University, which prides itself on its commitment to training architects to create work that responds to the needs of the community, from within the community’s own context, rather than from the outside.

The three designers first arrived in Green River as AmeriCorps Volunteers In Service to America (VISTA) in 2008. It quickly became clear that the town was both in sore need of community resources, and small enough to allow for things to get done: "at city council meetings," Maria explained, "we can present our ideas, the five people there vote, and we have an answer—we're not dealing with some obscure bureaucracy."

In 2009, with the help of a United States Department of Agriculture Rural Business Enterprise Grant, Jack, Maria, and Rand purchased a former billiard room turned potato chip storage facility in downtown Green River, redesigned the space, and renovated the structure.



From there, Jack, Maria, and a growing team, augmented by visiting Fellows, run an expanding roster of programs and store all the equipment necessary to build a house. Over dinner and beers, they gave us a picture of the town, and their place within it.

"I'm the only 28-year-old in the entire town," said Maria. "We know all 957 people who live here by name," added Jack. Both agreed Green River's was a different kind of smallness compared to the small towns in the South in which they had worked while at college. We learned that are three melon families (growing 32 varieties at sufficient scale that the entire town is lightly melon-scented, come September), that the median income is $21,000, and that the most desired career in a 6th grade survey was that of a cashier—but we also discussed what it means to be rural now, in an era of urbanism.

Epicenter clearly spends plenty of time and energy learning and trying to respond to the particular needs and opportunities of its community, but beneath that lies a broader curiosity as to how rural might redefine itself, and its relationship with urban, to shift from a pervasive sense of decline (Green River's population has shrunk by half since the 1970s) toward empowerment.




After dinner, the team took us to visit their awesomely picturesque headquarters, from which Epicenter runs a range of programs, from painting a Habitat for Humanity house (seen in the photograph above) and fixing leaky roofs to designing a melon marketing campaign and running arts programs and workshops in local schools.

"We've been given both money and moral support locally, but we've also been called communists," said Maria, when we asked how Green River had responded to Epicenter's activities. "The single most successful thing we've done," Maria told us, "is our guide to what to do around here"—a gorgeous, single-edition "Green River Newspaper," created in collaboration with local high-schoolers.



Outside, we poked our heads in a "Caravan of Curiosities"—the taxidermy-filled trailer in which some of the various Fellows funded by Epicenter have stayed. Then we divided up into two vehicles and spun around town on a short mission to see as many Epicenter-instigated art installations as possible.



These were primarily the work of artist Richard Saxton, created during his residency as a Fellow, and took the form of posters tactically installed on or inside of small structures around town, including, in the images below, the old town jail, an absolutely minuscule hut that now serves as someone's lawn care storage garage.




It felt a bit like an Easter Egg hunt, driving around the small but nonetheless somewhat sprawling town to poke our heads into various out-buildings, gatehouses, and garages to see works of art posted up on the walls.

However, the most surreal part of the evening came about midway through the art tour when, at our request, we took a detour to the edge of town to visit Green River's uranium containment cell.



Pyramidal, internally radioactive, and surrounded by nothing but a dilapidated chain link fence, the dark mound of gravel feels disturbingly post-apocalyptic, a minimalist earthwork more temporally ambitious than anything designed by Robert Smithson. The Green River uranium disposal cell is one of more than thirty constructed by the U.S. Department of Energy over the last twenty-five years, to contain the low-level radioactive waste from processing and power plants.

The Green River uranium cell from above; image by CLUI.

As the Center for Land Use Interpretation describes it:

A disposal mound for radioactive tailings, located at the site of a former uranium mill. The mill was operated by Union Carbide from 1957 to 1961. The mill site was bought by the State of Utah in 1988, and the buildings remain, gutted and abandoned. The DOE took over the disposal operations, and built the mound in 1989. It contains tailings, as well as contaminated material from 17 other properties in the area. The mound is 450 feet by 530 feet, and 41 feet tall. It covers 6 acres, and is surrounded by a chain link fence, ringed by signs warning of radioactivity.


We hovered next to its chain-link fence for about twenty minutes admiring its clean geometry, its carefully engineered gravel exterior designed to shed rainwater and provide an inhospitable surface for plant growth. As we took photographs, we talked about the Great Pyramid of Giza and the absurdity of the Department of Energy's Legacy Management Office, whose responsibility these radioactive monuments are. A small, gravestone-like marker announced a radiation level of 30 Curies. We huddled back into our vehicles and returned to town to finish our tour.

As it happens, if you're interested in exploring (and contributing to) Green River yourself, Epicenter is currently looking for new Fellows.



You have until December 14, 2013, to apply.


In what would turn out to be, in retrospect, the northernmost stop on the 16-month Venue itinerary, we drove into the iron ranges and boreal forests of Minnesota to see a 6,000-ton machine buried inside the earth.

The Soudan Underground Mine State Park offers two ticketed tours, each very worthwhile, and we took both of them.



One tour offers a look back at the mine's history, descending 2,300 feet below the surface of the earth to explore the old drifts and stopes. Soudan was Minnesota's oldest and richest mine until U.S. Steel ceased operations in 1963, and the iron extracted here fueled East Coast steel mills, where it was transformed into the nation's railways, machinery, bridges, and weaponry.

The tour begins with a disconcertingly cold, and extraordinarily loud elevator ride shuddering deep into the artificial caverns of this now-derelict site. The ride down is itself spectacular, an all-encompassing roar of noise and darkness, occasionally broken by the film-strip like regular appearance of voids that, we learned, were the entrances of other mine levels we were dropping past. Wondering what was on that level—or that level, or the next level, or this other one—as they flickered by in the gloom allowed the full, nearly overwhelming size of the mine to sink in.

While the historic tour lacks the hokey, interpretive dimension of many other such mine tours, the genuinely hive-like nature of the Soudan Mine—a volumetrically incomprehensible human-carved labyrinth—is only loosely communicated. Only half-joking, we speculated that this might very well be to keep unprepared visitors from experiencing a kind of existential panic upon descent into the 50-plus miles of subterranean chambers.



What sets the Soudan Mine apart, though, is the gigantic high energy physics experiment buried in its bowels. On the accompanying "science tour," visitors have the chance to marvel at the three-story tall, 6,000-ton MINOS "far detector," a kind of catcher's mitt for subatomic particles called neutrinos.

More specifically, these are artificially generated neutrinos fired north from Fermilab outside Chicago. The neutrinos are produced by a complex series of subterranean graphite targets and vacuum pipes just outside Chicago, which transform a spray of protons from Fermilab's "Main Injector" particle accelerator into a focused beam of tiny neutrinos, traveling the 455 miles through the planet between their source and the detector in just 0.0025 seconds.



The neutrinos can make that journey without getting deflected or absorbed by layers of dense bedrock in between because they almost never interact with matter, zipping straight through earth, air, water, and, indeed, people, at a rate of 100 trillion per second, without leaving a single trace.

That same property, however, makes neutrinos extremely difficult to detect—they have been nicknamed the "ghost particle." Not altogether inaccurately compared to a huge camera, the MINOS detector is made from 485 iron plates studded with sensors, each of which is a buffer for slowing down and, in the end, capturing any neutrinos that spiraled through the room. With a trap rate of about one neutrino every two hours, MINOS is able to measure their oscillation speed, which, our guide explained, holds the key to understanding whether these ubiquitous yet elusive particles have mass, and, if so, how much.



While an advanced degree in physics would probably be necessary to tease out the specifics of the experiment and its findings thus far, it's equally awe-inspiring just to gaze on the dense nest of magnetized steel plates, bunched cables, and a multilevel maze of walkways that we were unable to explore, all constructed to capture evidence of an unlikely and otherwise invisible interaction. It's like sci-fi spy technology, with hidden machines picking up and decoding secret broadcasts within the earth.

Elsewhere in the cavern lay the remains of an abandoned earlier experiment designed to witness proton decay (an event that has still not been observed) and a cryogenic dark matter detector, hunting for WIMPs — the heavy, slow, and potentially even more difficult-to-detect cousins of neutrinos.



Interestingly, MINOS, while being an acronym for Main Injector Neutrino Oscillation Search, also refers to Minos, the mythological king who commissioned Daedalus's labyrinth but went on to be a judge in Hades, the underworld of lost souls.

In the end, it was hard not to wonder what will happen to the machine itself—so heavy it seems effectively pointless for anyone ever to dismantle it—and the brightly lit room it is now housed in. Within even 100, let alone 1,000, 10,000, or even hundreds of thousands of years, this huge gate of iron like a camera lens buried inside the earth, will inevitably fall into disuse, its experimental value gone, its costs too expensive to meet.



Then, someday, if it is not removed piece by piece in a mirror image of the construction process that brought it here, it will outlast even the pyramids, just as mysterious to future generations and just as geometrically abstract as those monumental constructions in the sand.
There are only half a dozen radon health mines in the United States, and all six of them are located within twenty minutes' drive of each other in western Montana.



The Free Enterprise Radon Health Mine is the oldest of the bunch, opening for business as Montana's first uranium mine in 1949, before transitioning its extraction focus to the more intangible resource of personal health just three years later.



"Radon therapy," the Free Enterprise brochure explains, simply "consists of series of daily visits to the Mine," where levels of the colorless, odorless, tasteless, and highly radioactive gas fluctuate between 700 to 2,200 picoCuries per liter of air. On average, they are about 1700 pC/l.



By way of contrast, the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, which regards radon as a toxic carcinogen, classifies levels of 4 pCi/L or above as the "action point," at which homeowners should take steps to limit their exposure. In the eyes of the World Health Organization, radon inhalation is the second largest cause of lung cancer in the world. In the United States, it is responsible for about 21,000 deaths from the disease every year, according to EPA estimates.

Hence the somewhat niche appeal of radon therapy, at least in the United States. The American Medical Association roundly denounced it as quackery in the 1950s, and has not reconsidered its stance since. Elsewhere, particularly in central Europe, Russia, and Japan, radon therapy for arthritis relief is an established alternative medicine—despite the fact that no one knows quite how it works.

In Germany, for example, where resort therapy—with its emphasis on the healing power of a particular place—is a long-established tradition, purpose-built radon tunnels are accessible by prescription only, as part of the country's national health system.



When Venue visited the Free Enterprise Health Mine, which charges $8 for a 60-minute visit, a pink-carpeted elevator furnished with a single red chair—it felt vaguely like the set of a David Lynch film—took us down to our subterranean destination: a wood-framed mine shaft, 87 feet beneath the surface. Immediately to our left, a vinyl curtain screened off a heated area, in which several elderly Mennonites were sitting on thrift-store arm chairs, lawn furniture, and a couple of La-Z-Boy recliners, chatting in dialect, playing cribbage, and leafing through magazines.



The rest of the shaft stretched around to the right, at a chillier 40 degrees. The rock walls glistened with damp, and were decorated with moss, graffiti, and rusted mining tools. The occasional padded bench sat under a heat lamp, offering a more solitary immersion.



Over the course of a typical treatment, clients spend between 30 and 60 hours down in the Health Mine, spread out over a 10-day period. The claustrophobic can stay above-ground, in an "inhalatorium" whose equally radioactive air is piped from a disused level immediately below the one we visited.

The invisible, healing (or poisonous) air, sold by the hour, is, of course, a nearly endless, renewable resource: pegged to the half-life of uranium-238, this Health Mine's subterranean wealth should be good for another 4.468 billion years.
While passing through Wisconsin, Venue made sure to hike part of the Ice Age National Scenic Trail. The trail both marks and follows the outer edge of the huge glacier that once covered nearly all of what is now the U.S. Midwest and Northeast: a wall of ice that squashed and deformed the ground below, from the Plains to Long Island. This lost, near-permanent winter left deep traces, at all spatial scales, still visible in the existing landscape today.



The Trail, as described by its National Park Service curators, is "a thousand-mile footpath—entirely within Wisconsin—that highlights these Ice Age landscape features while providing access to some of the state's most beautiful natural areas."

It stretches from the waters of Lake Michigan (itself a glacial feature) in coastal Door County down nearly to Illinois, then back up again, circumventing the hauntingly named "Driftless Area," before cresting mid-state, where it cuts an abrupt and jagged westerly line all the way to the border with Minnesota.



The small section Venue was able to visit—just one tiny sliver of the thousand-mile trail, with literally hundreds of trailheads scattered throughout the state—was the Baraboo Hills Chapter at Devil's Lake State Park. It is roughly one hour east-northeast from the state capitol in Madison.

The park is part of what is known as a "National Scientific Reserve," set aside not for preservation, but for its taxonomic value in cataloging the various edge-conditions of a now-vanished glacier.



It is an often surreal landscape, with sudden hills, standing stones, and deeply crevassed cliffs coming out of the ground for no apparent geologic reason. There are eskers and drift plains, chimneys and outwash aprons, erratics and bluffs.


From Geology of Ice Age National Scientific Reserve of Wisconsin, NPS Scientific Monograph No. 2 by Robert F. Black

For good or for bad, we arrived on a cloudy, quite humid day, and we were by no means alone. The park was full of families and other hikers, including a few small groups of rock climbers who had come out to scale the pinnacles of hills that sprayed upward with finger-like columns of lichen-covered stone.



This was the very edge of the glacier, a limit point where one landscape condition—and one very different climate—hit another.



While it offered a nice-enough hike—Wisconsin is an extraordinarily beautiful state, but its vistas suffer from comparison to the National Parks further west—the trail was far more interesting from the point of view of its curatorial intentions, rather than, say, its athletic possibilities or even its perfectly charming views.



In other words, it's the idea of assembling the outer edge of a lost landscape—an entire lost glacial era—into a contemporary narrative trail way that is so compelling. The Ice Age Trail, like other super-trails in the U.S, such as the Appalachian or the Pacific Crest, could conceivably be hiked over the course of weeks, but it comes with the explicit notion that hikers would thus experientially familiarize themselves with the topography of the Ice Age.


From "The Pleistocene of Wisconsin" by Robert F. Black, Geology of Ice Age National Scientific Reserve of Wisconsin, NPS Scientific Monograph No. 2

The terrain itself becomes an exhibition you wander through, an outdoor museum of moraines, drumlins, lakes, forests, and hills. Some of the lone rocks are totemic or pagoda-like, overlooking the thickets and small ponds below like earthen sentinels.

From Geology of Ice Age National Scientific Reserve of Wisconsin, NPS Scientific Monograph No. 2 by Robert F. Black

The Ice Age Trail Alliance hosts hiking maps on their website, including information for local landowners who might be interested in allowing access to their property in order to host part of the still-expanding networks of trails.

 
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