I was driving to the radio station out in rural Grand Forks this morning where I do my weekly call-in radio show when I saw a white Husky running along the side of the road. I pulled over to watch him when he stopped and turned to check me out, his electric blue eyes holding me, magical and fixated.

He suddenly took off at full speed, reminding me of Skoll, the wolf of Norse mythology as he blended into the snow-covered fields to greet the sunrise, replete with what I imagined to be his brothers, the sun dogs. After he finished his task of chasing Árvakr and Alsviðr to get the sun up for today, I wondered if his imagination followed the same path.

As the sun filled the clear sky, I was drawn back to the consciousness of sitting in my truck at the side of the road. I wish I’d gotten his picture as I was concerned that he might be someone’s dog that was lost on this frigid morning. Seeing he had a collar on when he flipped around and bolted toward the subdivision that rings the southern border of the city, I imagined he became aware of our presence in the 21st century too, having enjoyed the shared moment of our ancient Nordic past on this winter’s day.

North Dakota once had a high concentration of nuclear missiles, with most of the underground silos and above ground facilities developed in the 1960’s and 1970’s during the extreme arms race against the Soviet Union.  It’s hard to imagine now that these were on alert 24 hours a day, 7 days week with the idea that the crew may have actually needed to carry out their mission. Ultimately this would’ve been close to an extinction event.  Operating from the Grand Forks and Minot Air Force bases with numerous substations and radar installations, many were functioning in the the mid- to late-90’s until the Start II treaty was negotiated.  For some great documentation of the largest radar base at Nekoma, ND check Ghosts of North Dakota here:  http://www.ghostsofnorthdakota.com/category/nekoma-nd/

Cooperstown, ND is home to 2 of the missile silos decommissioned in 1997.  Oscar Zero is the above ground facility now serving as The Ronald Reagan Cold War museum, but November 33 is right along ND Highway 200 east of town.  It’s an underground silo with a security fence and cameras that no longer operate.  The fence is open now, so one can walk right up and stand on the silo cover, which would’ve slid over on rails (also still present) should a launch had occurred when it was active.  It’s location is quiet rolling hills and farmland surrounding the Sheyenne River Valley in east central North Dakota. The actual act of standing on the rail cover is a fairly unnerving act for me as I stop and read the permanent placards detailing the construction, mission, and ultimate decommission.

The pastoral setting seems disconnected and eerie inside the fence;  I imagine the missile roaring to life, likely incinerating it’s below ground operators immediately after they’d made the impossible decision.  Deafening anyone within a few hundred feet, adding to the terror that would surely await within an hour or so as a parallel experience of the rain of thermonuclear fire strikes across the globe. It’s at once overwhelming to imagine, filling my eyes with tears, that this was the intent of design and construction. Breathless for a moment, I steady myself exiting back to my pickup.

I have to back out to get out on the road, which adds to the strangeness of my stop this winter day, snow covering all.  I turn to head into the sun-filled valley,  windows down, crisp air fresh, heading home over the prairie rolling out before me-beautiful, everlasting, silent.