Radioactive Weekend: Trinity Site 4/3/10

On July 16, 1945, the world changed forever. At 5:29am, at a remote New Mexico location 85 miles from Alamogordo, the United States detonated the first-ever atomic bomb, resulting in a 19-kiloton explosion that not only ended a World War, but impacted politics, foreign policy, military strategy, culture, and scientific endeavor with unprecedented force. In fact, that summer morning's display was arguably the most important single event of the 20th century. As such, the Trinity Site National Historic Landmark is history at its most vital, with no NPS site more crucial to our understanding of global events from the mid-1940s forward. It's the ultimate pilgrimage; a must-see that deserves unending discussion, deliberation, and debate. Open for public tours only twice a year - the first Saturday in April and October - it's even sweeter to finally have notched a visit, making the passport stamp any collector's most prized inclusion.

As the site remains on an active military installation (the White Sands Missile Range), it's not simply a matter of driving up to ground zero and snapping a few photos. Once the gates are opened on that early Saturday morning, cars must pass through a checkpoint that is pretty unintrusive, but one that still produced a long line of vehicles at the site's entrance. Once through, visitors drive to a large parking lot where an ad hoc "park" has been established for the occasion. On one end is a row of port-a-potties, the other the casing of "Jumbo" itself, which was "the code name for the 214-ton Thermos shaped steel and concrete container designed to hold the precious plutonium core of the Trinity device in case of a nuclear mis-fire." To stand before it (or in it, as the case may be) is to be in the presence of the incalculably awe-inspiring, akin to holding the very gun that shot Lincoln. After securing the stamp at a hastily constructed NPS station (where they also sold books and t-shirts), we walked the 1/4 mile to Ground Zero.

The Ground Zero Monument is, of course, the main attraction, but as one walks around, one can't help but notice damn near everyone scanning the dirt for Trinitite, the green glass produced after the desert sand at Trinity vaporized. Most of the Trinitite has been long since removed, but fortune hunters are ever-busy for a piece of the past. Removing it is strictly forbidden, but such warnings never discourage the faithful. Nuclear tourism, as it is called, is a big deal - perhaps even more popular than the NPS passport program - and Trinity is teeming with military veterans, history buffs, and the occasional activist, all looking to understand, justify, and explain. Also near the monument is what little remains of the original 100-foot steel tower. Contrary to common perception, the bomb was not dropped from the tower, but was stationary beneath.

Along the back of Ground Zero lies a fence, upon which are historical photos tracking the development and use of the bomb. The stroll is somber and reflective, befitting a spot where the most heinous weapon yet devised was born. There's also a shelter protecting a portion of the original blast crater (no, you can't go in) and a replica of the Fatman bomb casing. Some might ask - is this a celebration? A way to trivialize the destruction of two Japanese cities and tens of thousands of lives in an instant? There will always be those who argue President Truman's use of the bomb was unnecessary and cruel (I am not such a person), but in many ways, this site, despite its "touristy" feel, is just the spot to make any case one likes. No one argued or finger-pointed that I could see, but what's the use of opening these areas to the public unless they bring forth a diversity of viewpoints?

As if the spot that altered life as we know it wasn't enough, visitors are also treated to a short bus ride to the McDonald ranch house, a one-story, 1,750-square-foot building where the final assembly of the bomb took place (the master bedroom, to be precise). Left empty and deteriorating until 1982, the house has since been restored and maintains an eerie, ghost town feel. It's hard to imagine so much happened here, and the tour includes a broken windmill and barn that complement the house with their dusty, wind-swept allure.

After spending a few hours touring the spot that prompted J. Robert Oppenheimer to remark, "Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds," what better way to keep up the heat than with a world-famous green chile cheeseburger in San Antonio, New Mexico? And so we made the short trek to the Owl Cafe, a hole-in-the-wall joint that just happened to be bustling beyond belief. The line was out the door, the customers all fat and happy and satisfied, and the burgers, well, they more than lived up to the billing. Hot as fire, they were best downed with a generous helping of green chile smothered fries, which only added to the pleasure and pain. While inhaling the greasy delights, we considered the bit of trivia that Conrad Hilton (yes, that Hilton) was born in this very town in 1887. Burgers, bombs, and hotel titans. All in a day's travel.

FINAL RATING

10/10