Article from Union Tribune

["Scott D. Kniffin" <Scott.D.Kniffin.1@gsfc.nasa.gov>]

Hi all,
I edited and cleaned up the article so it's not an eye shattering pain to
read and I corrected the two mistakes in the first 4 lines (typos).  I hope
this doesn't get ugly once the net editor is done with it.  The copyright
is intact, so that shouldn't be an issue.  It's a rather interesting and
well written article that's very balanced and centered.  More of a "look
how we handcuffed ourselves and what should we do now?" type article as
opposed to the stuff we've come to expect.  Nice job.  See, helping the
media can be useful and not self defeating!  Kudos to Joel Baumbaugh!

Scott Kniffin
Engineer
RSO, Unisys Federal Systems, Lanham, MD
CHO, Radiation Effects Facility, GSFC, NASA, Greenbelt, MD
mailto:Scott.D.Kniffin.1@gsfc.nasa.gov

The opinions expressed here are my own.  They do not necessarily represent
the views of Unisys Corporation or NASA.  This information has not been
reviewed by my employer or supervisor.  

San Diego Union-Tribune Archive Document 

WHAT THE ATOMIC AGE LEFT BEHIND

At the edge of the Colorado River - San Diego County's main source of water
- sits a massive reminder of what the atomic age left behind
David Hasemyer

Union-Tribune library researcher Merrie Cline contributed to this report.

23-Aug-1998 Sunday

Chemical Waste Site in Moab, Utah

MOAB, Utah -- There are places in Utah's Canyonlands where a visitor can go
to be alone, so alone that the only sounds are the wind whispering up the
chiseled canyons and the Colorado River lapping at its muddy banks. 

Mankind's contribution to this scene is quiet, too. 

Just 750 feet from a gentle bend in the river, radioactive material is
leaking from an immense pile of nuclear waste and toxic chemicals. 

An independent study ordered by the federal government shows that each day,
as much as 28,800 gallons of it is seeping into the Colorado River.  The
same Colorado River that provides San Diego County with 62 percent of its
water. 

This is the nation's largest radioactive dump remaining by the edge of a
major river.  And because of a quirk in a 20-year-old set of federal
regulations, it appears likely to stay where it is. 

Radioactive contamination is highest along the squishy riverbanks nearest
the pile: 31 times higher than Environmental Protection Agency standards. 
The mix of chemicals also found there can kill wildlife and is dangerous to
humans in high concentration, federal officials acknowledge. 

The toxicity diminishes as the water flows past the nearby town of Moab,
which attracts millions of outdoor enthusiasts each year, and begins its
1,000-mile trip into San Diego County's faucets. 

There is bitter disagreement over what should be done with this vast dome
of waste, left over from Moab's glory days as a uranium boom town in the
1950s and early '60s. 

Nine smaller nuclear waste piles in the Southwest -- some less than
one-tenth the size of Moab's -- have been moved away from streams and
rivers and buried at safer locations. 

Donald Metzler, a Department of Energy official who supervised several of
these expensive removals, said getting the waste away from rivers was a
prime consideration when his agency weighed cost against safety. 

Protecting the water was so important, Metzler said, that several of the
piles were moved even though they met the federal requirements to be left
in place. 

But the Moab site presents special problems. 

At 130 acres, it is larger than any of the nine sites already moved,
covering about the same area as the San Diego Zoo. 

It is also the most toxic, with 10.5 million tons of radioactive waste
mixed with poisonous chemicals used in the milling process. 

Perhaps most significant, it falls under the jurisdiction of the Nuclear
Regulatory Commission, an agency that doesn't have the money to move the
pile or the regulatory power to get it moved. 

The NRC has tentatively approved a plan by Atlas Corp., the Denver-based
company that operated a uranium mill at the site, to cap the pile with
clay, surround it with rocks and leave it where it is -- for as little as
$16 million.  Atlas estimates that relocation would cost $155 million. 

The NRC's experts say the mill tailings -- a gray crud with the consistency
of toothpaste -- pose a minimal risk to some fish and no hazard to humans. 

Other government agencies disagree.  Strongly. 

The Utah Department of Environmental Quality, and water districts in
California, Arizona and Nevada want the pile moved and buried well away
from the river.  So does a long list of politicians, the Sierra Club, the
Grand Canyon Trust and other environmental groups. 

They fear traces of radiation already found in Colorado River drinking
water could increase to dangerous levels.  They fear an earthquake or flood
could dislodge the waste and dump it directly into the river.  They fear
choosing the cheaper solution now will leave future generations to pay a
high price in unforeseen health problems. 

The Department of Energy's Metzler carefully avoided commenting directly on
plans for the Moab site. 

"I would say that those are valid observations, and I'll leave it at that,"
he said of concerns raised by those who find it odd that nine less-toxic
piles have been moved and this one has been allowed to remain. 

A coalition of lawmakers has urged the director of the NRC to ask Congress
for money to move the pile.  But the agency says asking Congress for money
is not its responsibility.  And so far, no lawmaker has introduced
legislation. 

Cold War boom town 

The government's 10-year effort to deal with Moab's waste site contrasts
sharply with its eagerness to build uranium mills in the 1950s and '60s. 

In those days, America was in the midst of the Cold War and rushing
headlong into the Atomic Age. It took just two years for plans for the Moab
mill to be approved, construction completed and production begun. 

Charlie Steen, an itinerant prospector from Texas, had discovered Moab's
mother lode of uranium in 1953. He named the mine Mi Vida (My Life), and it
was soon worth $300 million, enough to allow him to move his family out of
their tar-paper shack, bronze the boots he wore on the day of his big
discovery and build the mill. 

The bonanza that Steen touched off fueled lusty times for Moab. 

Widely recognized as a backdrop for John Wayne westerns, the town grew from
a population of 1,200 to nearly 6,000 in little more than a year. 


Cadillacs rolled down Main Street.  Once-poor miners bought airplanes. 

A 1956 McCall's magazine article described Moab as "the richest town in the
U.S.A.," with more millionaires per capita than anyplace in the country.
Twenty people had seven-digit bank accounts. 

"Some people had the taste of champagne for the first time," said the
co-publisher of Moab's Times-Independent, Sam Taylor, who chronicled the
era in his family's newspaper and is now fighting to have the pile moved.  

No one thought much about the consequences of what would be going into the
water. 

For every ounce of uranium produced, six pounds of waste -- including
ammonia, arsenic, lead and mercury -- were generated.  With processed
uranium then worth 35 times more than gold, that seemed a small price to pay. 

The mill was dedicated on a hot September day in 1957, with Moab's
community band playing John Philip Sousa and with Utah's governor, a
senator and congressmen praising what was then the second-largest uranium
mill in the country. 

"The story of uranium is the story of vision.  It is the story of men with
keen anticipation," read an excerpt from the mill's dedication program. 

The vision was of profit and worldwide nuclear superiority.  And of jobs
for a town that depended on peach orchards and cattle for a hardscrabble
existence. 

What nobody envisioned was that 41 years later, 10.5 million tons of
radioactive gunk would be oozing into the water supply for 19 million
people.  What they didn't anticipate was a battle over how to safeguard one
of America's most valuable rivers. 

"What was important was getting rich and protecting the Free World from the
Red Menace," said Bill Hedden, a member of the Grand Canyon Trust, which
wants the pile moved.  "If the cost involved mucking up the riverbank, so
what?"