[music] You’d be forgiven for looking at the Route
66 State Park as just another quiet plot of land in eastern Missouri. Located off of exit 265 on Interstate 44,
the park’s 419 acres provide plenty of trails for hiking, cycling, and even fishing on the
Meramec River. The park's visitor center, a former roadhouse,
is filled with plenty of vintage Route 66 memorabilia showcasing the former beauty of
the buildings and towns that once graced the roadways of the state from the 1930s to the
1960s. On the surface, all seems fairly straightforward,
but tucked away in that simple visitor center’s museum is a small plaque vaguely commemorating
one of America's "greatest triumphs over environmental disaster" in a place called Times Beach. Yet, strangely, this supposed town is nowhere
to be found in the surrounding 419 acres. Because Times Beach is a ghost town. And to know the story, you must first turn
the clock back almost 100 years. [music] The town of Times Beach was founded in 1925
by, of all things, a newspaper: the St. Louis Star-Times. The publication owned a large plot of land
along the Meramec River, and decided to sell lots meant for summer homes packaged with
a 6-month subscription of the paper for the low price of $67.50. This bargain was an attempt at creating a
resort town near St. Louis meant for high society, and was perhaps seen as a financial
wager to ensure the St. Louis Star-Time’s economic survival into the coming decades. For a while things worked, but a combination
of factors, including the socioeconomic state of Missouri after the Great Depression, and
the fact that the town was built on a flood plain spelled an almost certain end to the
high hopes of the town’s founders. By June of 1951, The Star-Times went out of
print and the dream of Times Beach quickly began to fade. By 1970, the town had morphed into a suburb
of mostly low-income housing, with a population of only about 1200. To call the town poor was an understatement. Unable to secure enough money for infrastructure,
its 23 miles of roads and streets went unpaved, resulting in constant and unbearable dust
during the summer months. In order to combat the dust, various neighborhoods
hired a man from Ellisville named Russell Bliss to spray a layer of oil onto the dirt
roads. Bliss ran a company that disposed of waste
oil, and as a side gig, he would occasionally spray this material to treat unpaved streets. This crude method kept the dust from rising,
and was an affordable solution in for an annoying problem. Bliss gladly agreed to treat various dust-filled
neighborhoods for a small fee. By 1972 he had become so widely used by the
town's residents, that the city officially contracted with him to spray at will throughout
the entire town for the next two years. But unbeknownst to the residence of Times
Beach, a terrible truth lay behind Bliss’s oil... a tale of shady bureaucracy, and dangerous
government dealings. [music] Three and a half hours away from Times Beach
sat the town of Verona, Missouri, and in it, a chemical facility owned by the company Hoffman-Taff.
Hoffman-Taff was, among other things, contracted by the United States military to produce the
chemical 2,4,5, T - a pesticide, which, when combined with pesticide 2,4, D, produced the
chemical we refer to today as Agent Orange, used during the Vietnam War. The production of Agent Orange creates an
excess waste stream filled with Dioxin, a highly toxic carcinogen. Hoffman-Taff’s facility contained this waste
in a still residue tank, which they kept on site. By the time the United States military ended
their use of Agent Orange, Hoffman-Taff was left with this Doxin-laden holding tank, and
began looking for new business. Unable to find much work, eventually the company
began leasing part of their facility as a way to make money. They contracted with a company on the east
coast of the United States called the Northeastern Pharmaceutical and Chemical Company, Inc.,
or NEPACCO. NEPACCO produced the compound hexachlorophene,
which at that time was widely used as a disinfectant in antibacterial handsoaps, toothpaste, and
other topical products. Today, we know that hexchlorophene is toxic,
but during the 1970s, NEPACCO produced it at the facility around the clock. Manufacturing Hexachlorophene also produces
Dioxin, and so NEPACCO piped this waste into the still residue tank already in use by Hoffman-Taff. The tank can only hold so much, and soon the
facility needed to empty its contents to free up space. But, how to get rid of this toxic material? The most effective way to do this was incineration,
but that was costly. NEPACCO began looking for less expensive options
and was soon approached by the Independent Petrochemical Corporation, or IPC, who offered
to transfer the waste off-site and dispose of it for a fraction of the price. NEPACCO quickly agreed and the company was
contracted. From here, things get very, very, murky. NEPACCO agreed to pay IPC 25 cents for every
Gallon of Dioxin taken off the facility, or, about $3,000 per load. However, rather than transfer the material
directly, IPC decided to subcontract the work. While NEPACCO paid IPC, IPC in return paid
a local waste disposal company close to the facility to cut their OWN costs. In short, NEPACCO hired the lowest bidder,
who, in return hired their own lowest bidder. That subcontractor was Russell Bliss. While NEPACCO agreed to pay IPC 25 cents a
gallon, IPC offered to pay Russell Bliss a nickel. In total, IPC would be paid $3,000 per load. They would then pay Russell Bliss $125 of
that amount to do the actual work. There are varying accounts of the agreement
between IPC and Russell Bliss, but they all center around this main question: Did IPC
tell Mr. Bliss what he would be hauling? Bliss maintains that IPC simply told him the
barrels contained waste oil, which was, after all, the purpose of his company. "It never entered my mind what they were doing,
or what they were making. Uh, I was told at one time they were making
lady's face cleanser. Whether that's true or not, I don't know. I know one time some of the workers down there
said, 'What do you do with this old oil?' and I said, 'Well I spray it at horse arenas
and sell it for rerefined oil, and they make heavy industrial fuel out of it, and spray
it on country roads,' and nobody said nothin'." IPC claims that Russell Bliss agreed to take
the barrels to an atomic waste site in Rolla, MO for proper disposal. For whatever difference it makes, no such
atomic waste site exists. Regardless of who knew what and when, eventually
Russell Bliss came into the possession of the dioxin-filled waste containers. Opening one up, Bliss decided the waste could
be used as a supplement to his own oil supply… so, he mixed them. In addition to the waste oil company, Bliss
owned a farm and horse arena plagued by dust. One day, Bliss decided to spray some of his
oil on the ground to control the problem. Several visitors on Bliss’s property were
impressed at how well the technique worked, and eventually, he was asked various customers
to spray the oil on THEIR property to control their OWN dust issues, including several horse
arenas, one in Moscow Mills, and, eventually, on the dirt roads of a struggling town called
Times Beach. Due to their frequent use, the town’s roads
needed to be sprayed every few weeks. By the end 1973, Russell Bliss is estimated
to have sprayed more than 100,000 gallons of his oil. It didn’t take very long for signs that
something was terribly, terribly amiss. Within a few days of Bliss’s work at the
arena in Moscow Mills, birds began to drop dead from the rafters, and the horses developed
sores and lost their hair. The owners of the arena began exhibiting signs
of illness, too: headaches, nosebleeds, abdominal pain, and diarrhea. At another stable Bliss treated near Jefferson
City, twelve horses dropped dead, and several children developed chloracne, a skin condition
associated with dioxin poisoning. A third arena near St. Louis also experienced
evidence of poison soon after hiring Bliss to spray. Almost immediately, these events attracted
the eyes of the CDC (the Centers for Disease Control), and an investigation was launched. Little was known about the effects of many
carcinogens during this time, so it took almost four years of investigation and tests on soil
found in these stables to confirm a dioxin contamination. All the while, Russell Bliss sprayed the streets
of Times Beach. During this time, many residents experienced
cases of hives, lip and face swelling, and other unexplained general sicknesses. In 1972, the FDA issued a ban on hexachloropene
manufacturing after 32 infants in France died when exposed to high levels of the substance
through household baby powder. As a result, NEPACCO went out of business
that year. Two years pass, and in 1974, the CDC, busy
tracking down the source of the dioxin contamination, confronted Russell Bliss. Bliss denied any knowledge of the existence
of dioxin contamination in his oil, and, in fact, denied any knowledge on the substance
of dioxin, altogether. "I wouldn't have known what it was if they
HAD told me what it was, if you want the truth! You could tell me it was some kind of a new
jelly, and I'd put it on toast and eat it. I didn't know what dioxin was, and STILL don't
know exactly what it is." In return, the CDC produced a list of possible
production sites for the toxin. On that list? NEPACCO. The chemical facility in Verona, by this time
operated solely by Syntex Agribusiness (formerly Hoffman-Taff), was soon inspected. There, the CDC found a tank filled with 4,300
gallons of toxic waste, containing a concentration of dioxin leftover from NEPACCO's time at
the facility. Syntex had no incinerator to dispose of the
waste, and so kept it on site, planning to dispose of it sometime in the next five years. Soil samples around Verona revealed a small
concentration of dioxin, too - and the EPA was slowly brought in. By 1975, a confidential report from the CDC
to the EPA advised the removal and burial of the contaminated soil, however, later in
this report, the CDC stated that the half-life of dioxin was one year, and based upon THAT
estimate, Missouri officials determined a cleanup would be too costly, and unnecessary. We know today that this estimate is false. The half-life of dioxin is now believed to
be anywhere from seven to eleven years. The EPA report triggered four more years of
backdoor bureaucracy, testing, and investigation until 1979, when a former NEPACCO employee
finally tipped officials off to the burial of toxic waste on a farm near Verona. At this point, the EPA turned their full attention
to the situation, and during their investigation of the farm, unearthed ninety barrels of waste,
all of which were heavily corroded and leaking into the soil. Eleven of the barrels tested positive for
dioxin concentrations as high as 2,000 parts per million - above hazardous levels to humans. The EPA’s worst fears were confirmed: NEPACCO
had been dumping toxic waste at this Verona farm site, and, as they soon discovered, into
the nearby Spring River, where preliminary tests showed Dioxin at 62 parts per billion. A quarter mile from the chemical plant, a
dairy farmer’s cows who drank from the river began dying and losing calves. To this day, rumors still persist of hundreds
of toxic barrels still buried deep underground near Verona. In June of 1982, the EPA revisited the infected
horse arenas and took new soil samples. To their horror, the levels of dioxin had
not decreased since the initial tests years earlier. Though a decade had passed since the stables
had been sprayed, they were still hazardous. Realizing their misunderstanding of the effects
and the extent of dioxin contamination, the EPA collected and tested several hundred more
soil samples, urging all of the locations to close permanently. Later that year, documents from the EPA leaked
to the public revealed 14 confirmed and over 40 possibly contaminated sites in the the
state of Missouri. One of them was Times Beach. At the release of this report, residents were
shocked to learn that for over a decade, they had been living on poisoned soil. That November, the EPA finally arrived at
Times Beach and took samples. Residents were understandably uneasy about
the presence of men in hazmat suits canvassing the small town, and as December approached,
it brought rain. Rain in Times Beach means flooding, and the
EPA raced against the clock to gather samples before the rising tide washed their progress
away. A day after the agency completed its sampling,
Times Beach suffered the worst flood in its history. The entire town was evacuated. Two days before Christmas, as the waters finally
began to recede, the EPA’s test results came in. Dioxin. Concentrations on the town’s roadways were
as high as 100 parts per billion. Doxin is hazardous at 1 part per billion. The EPA recommended that Times Beach be abandoned. Due to the constant risk of flooding and the
possible spread of contamination, it was further recommended that the entire town and its soil
be incinerated. The government set up barricades to block
people from re-entering the town. Its residents, now displaced, vented their
frustrations at government officials. Many in Times Beach suffering from ill-effects
of the dioxin demanded to know why the EPA, which had known about the contamination for
over ten years, had failed to inform them. "I'll tell you what, if you want people to
be assured, first of all, you'd better find out who was exposed, how much they're exposed,
and get your show together before you start doin' a study!" Before long, lawsuits were filed between various
parties, and caught in the middle was Russell Bliss. Seen as the Grim Reaper by many of the townspeople,
Bliss endured constant attacks and harassment, all the while maintaining his innocence. "I swear to all of you, I had no idea this
material was bad." The national news media coverage added more
fuel to the fire as blame was passed around from one governmental department to another. What was to be done for the people of Times
Beach, who now found themselves homeless, many without a dime to their name? Estranged residents of the town demanded a
buyout from the federal government, threatening to hit the EPA, CDC, and others with lawsuit
after lawsuit. After repeated public outcry, then-President
Ronald Reagan created the Times Beach Dioxin Task Force on January 7, 1983, which consisted
of representatives from the EPA, CDC, FEMA and the Army Corps of Engineers. A month of non-stop media coverage later,
the federal government announced that they would pay $33 million dollars to buy every
single residential property and business in the town. By 1985, the residents of the town had fully
relocated, and Missouri Governor John Ashcroft issued an executive order to dis-incorporate
the town. For 10 more years, the town was gated off,
and patrolled around the clock by government officials to keep people out. During this time, the entire town was bulldozed
and placed into a massive landfill, erasing every square inch of Times Beach from the
map. By 1995, the EPA installed an incinerator
on the site, and the government finally began destroying the dioxin-laden materials. The massive cleanup project was completed
in 1997, and in total, cost close to $200 million. In 1999, the area was finally reopened to
the public as a state park. The only hint of the town that once stood
there? On a small plaque tucked away in the park’s
visitor center. Plenty of questions still go unanswered...
mainly, who is to blame? The chemical companies certainly share some
blame for their poor handling of toxic materials, and yet, at the time, there were no regulations
in place for how such materials WERE to be handled. The government certainly could have put safe
guards in place, but research and understanding of the harmful effects of dioxin at that time
was limited, and to be fair, you don't usually regulate things that you don't know will kill
you. Then, there's the IPC. Their questionable subcontracting practices
were negligent at best, and criminal at worst. And, of course, there's Russell Bliss. His decision to mix the toxic material into
his oil led to the destruction of an entire town, and the poison of both humans and animals. Whether intentional or not, many to this day
still lay the blame at his feet. Others are more sympathetic, feeling that
Bliss Oil was used as a scapegoat by all the chemical companies involved to take the heat
for the toxic material that they chose not to properly dispose of. In 1993, a lawsuit between Time’s Beach
residents, Syntex, NEPACCO, IPC, and others was settled. 2,140 residents received anywhere from $2,000
to $90,000. Russell Bliss was never found guilty of any
criminal behavior. In the summer of 2012, the EPA revisited the
Route 66 State Park to test the soil again. Later that November, they reported that "soil
samples from Route 66 State Park show no significant health risks for park visitors or workers." This video is sponsored by CuriosityStream,
a subscription streaming service that offers over 2,000 documentaries and non-fiction titles
from some of the world's best filmmakers, including exclusive originals. If true stories like Times Beach are up your
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exploration, and understanding, available now.
Short, well-researched, and fascinating. I thought this group might enjoy.
I grew up in the 70's in Eureka MO, just a couple of miles from Times Beach. Really liked this documentary. Learned a lot about what had happened there that I did not know. As a local I was aware of Dioxin oil spraying being the reason for the evacuation, but it is nice getting some more these details all these years later.
What they don't mention in the video is that Times Beach was flooded out and had to rebuild about every two to three years. Because of this everyone in the area everyone referred to the people that lived there as "River rats", including the residents themselves.
thank god for regulations, i have no idea how you could support deregulation when history is rife with events such as this.
A good example of how regulations are written in blood.