Biosphere 2, in Oracle, Ariz., is a bizarre and magnificent place, a temple of triangular glass and white steel erected on a high desert plain for the edification of space cowboys and the betterment of nerdkind.
On Sept. 26, 1991, eight humans locked themselves inside this futuristic structure in the name of science. They came out two years later, cantankerous and gaunt and pale as vellum.
For the uninitiated, Biosphere 2 is pure oddity; for aficionados of science, it is cause for pilgrimage. I suppose I fall into both categories: Jill will confirm that I blissfully vacillate between ignorance and geekiness depending on the mood of the day and the character of the roadside attraction at hand. So it didn’t surprise her when, after a pleasant picnic lunch at Catalina State Park, I decided we simply must see Biosphere 2 before departing metropolitan Tucson.
I drove like a bat out of hell to get there in time for the last guided tour of the day, cursing the traffic along Oracle Road, which is one of those scenic Arizona highways that has been besmirched by retail development. But if you drive northward far enough, the road narrows to one lane and the stoplights end, and there is little to distract you from snow-dusted beauty of the Santa Catalina Mountains.
It is here, on a 2,500-acre ranch in the shadow of Mount Lemmon, that Ed Bass, a Yale-educated venture capitalist from Texas, and John P. Allen, a Harvard-educated metallurgist from Oklahoma, built Biosphere 2 — an artificial ecological system they hoped might one day help humans colonize Mars.
Bass forked out $30 million to get the project off the ground in the mid ’80s, and the elaborate structure — which houses a rain forest, an ocean, a mangrove swamp, a savannah and a fog desert — took four years to construct. The four men and four women who entered Biosphere 2 in the fall of 1991 did so with the mission living inside this completely sealed ecosystem for two years, raising their own food and subsisting on recycled air and water.
All sorts of drama ensued. Ants preyed on pollinating insects. Birds died. Cockroaches prospered. Pet monkeys went rogue. Tribulations were even worse among the biosphere’s human inhabitants. Hunger was perpetual. Philosophies clashed. Romances formed and unraveled. Eventually, the eight crew members split into quarreling factions that ceased to speak to one another.
It was an epic experiment in reality TV, only without the TV.
America wasn’t able to watch back then, but anybody with $20 and a healthy curiosity can explore Biosphere 2 today. As billed, it resembles a miniature planet Earth, complete with trees and caves and a coral reef – a weird and wonderful terrarium in the middle of the desert. (In case you’re wondering, Biosphere 2’s name reflects its sequel status: Earth itself is considered “Biosphere 1.”)
While the five “biomes” of Biosphere 2 call to mind a fantastical movie set or Disneyland ride, the real genius of the place lies in its belly. The underground engineering that controls the biosphere’s “weather” — by raising and lowering air temperature and regulating moisture levels — is beyond my power
s of description. Our tour guide mentioned more than once that the 3.15-acre structure is “sealed better than the space shuttle,” and perhaps its most fascinating bit of engineering — a pair of “lungs” that modulate air pressure caused by hot days and cold nights in the desert — is the subject of scores of scientific articles.
Unfortunately for the humans who lived inside Biosphere 2, none of this technological forethought could prevent oxygen levels inside the super-sealed structure from plummeting. The atmosphere came to resemble that of a 14,000-foot mountain, causing fatigue and sleep apnea among a crew already beset by caloric deficiency. This prompted the medical team to order an injection of oxygen into Biosphere 2 a month before the mission concluded.
A second biosphere mission was launched in 1994, but it was disbanded after just six months amid defection, sabotage and a visit by a federal marshal. Disheartened, the owners relinquished management of Biosphere 2 to Columbia University, which used the facility as a research site. Columbia pulled out in 2003, and the biosphere sat relatively dormant until its owners sold it to a real estate developer for $50 million in 2007. These days, the University of Arizona pays $100 annually to the developers to keep Biosphere 2 open.
The catch phrase for Biosphere 2 on its official website is “Where Science Lives.” But a more accurate motto might be “Where Science Crashes on the Couch” or “Where Science Stops by for a Cup of Tea.” Nominally, the university uses the structure to study climate change, but I suspect its real value lies in revenue generation as a tourist attraction and conference facility. Unscientifically, I counted hundreds of tour goers and zero researchers during my visit.
About that tour experience: Throughout it, sunshine and cottony clouds were visible through the biosphere’s geodesic glass panes, and our fit and attractive guide related stories about the project’s engineering feats and scientific ambitions with confident cheer. Yet, as I strolled single-file through this surreal environment with my fellow tour goers, little pangs of sadness crackled though me like static electricity.
Creative minds dreamed up Biosphere 2, and lots of smart people worked hard to create it. But now that the $200 million compound isn’t being used for its intended purpose, it emits a faintly mournful odor of improvidence. In this way Biosphere 2 reminds me of Graceland, the late Elvis Presley’s singularly audacious home in Memphis, Ten
n. The footsteps of gawking tourists keep both places alive, but those footsteps mostly lead backwards through time. Progress, it seems, is futile.
But all may not be lost. William Shatner, a visionary in his own right (and one who, like Elvis, has a penchant for stretchy polyester), saw potential in Biosphere 2 and chose it as the setting for his low-budget sci-fi flick Groom Lake. Maybe this will lead to Biosphere 2 opening its air-locked doors to Hollywood, giving the facility new life and a fresh revenue stream.
One lonely night, I shall convince Jill to stream Groom Lake to her fancy laptop, and we will bask in the movie’s cool glow inside our tent. Until then, we will continue to muddle along in Biosphere 3 — which is a lot like Biospheres 1 and 2, except all matter within it is covered in dog hair.
—Scott
Hotel Congress has occupied the same corner in downtown Tucson for 91 years. But it sure feels like it’s been around the block a few times.
The iron-framed beds are small, the mattresses a little lumpy. But checking into Hotel Congress with sleep on your mind is folly anyway. Long past midnight bottles clank, kick drums thump, locomotives rattle ancient windows.
is when flaws cease to be flaws at all, but rather contextual definers of unique beauty and your relationship to it — like tiny flecks of rust on your 
Hotel Congress’ saving grace lies in the details. It gets them right at every turn. The blood-red Mexican tile in the lobby is burnished to a shine that catches every glint of natural light. The bare, mustard-hued bulbs that droop in arcs above the outside patio cast a perfectly dull glow on the tables below. The ornate yet worn carpet in the hallways whispers the stories of a thousand soles, including those that wobbled past the night before.
With its stylish surfaces and antiquated guts, Hotel Congress reminds me of the old muscle cars my friends and I drove in high school. The exteriors of those cars were studies in the visceral allure of paint and chrome and vinyl, but under the hood were globs of grease and burnt oil. The hidden grime didn’t matter: The engines rumbled like a Zeppelin song, and your date had oblivious fun riding to the dance.
