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Algetzi had bet his entire trucking company on the machine. Now, somewhere on a frozen trail north of Eagle, Alaska, in a place with no roads at all, he was about to watch it burn.
Explore the story of the Army's massive 570-foot nuclear-powered land train, its inventor Robert LeTourneau, and its role in Arctic logistics during the Cold War.
Key Takeaways
- LeTourneau's electric wheel was a groundbreaking innovation that predated modern electric vehicle technology.
- The land trains were a bold solution to Arctic supply problems during the Cold War but were ultimately impractical for sustained use.
- The story highlights the intersection of innovation, military needs, and extreme environmental challenges.
- Despite failure in widespread deployment, the land trains remain a remarkable example of engineering ambition and ingenuity.
- The legacy of LeTourneau’s inventions continues through engineering education and preserved historical artifacts.
What the video covers
- The video tells the story of the Snow Train, a 274-foot-long vehicle designed to haul heavy cargo across Arctic terrain without roads.
- Robert Gilmore LeTourneau, a self-taught inventor and industrialist, pioneered the electric wheel technology powering these massive land trains.
- LeTourneau sold his earth-moving business but retained rights to his electric wheel, leading him to develop specialized military vehicles including the land trains.
- The land trains were designed to solve the logistical challenges of supplying the Distant Early Warning (DEW) Line radar stations in the Arctic during the Cold War.
- The trains used electric motors inside each wheel powered by onboard diesel generators, enabling unprecedented off-road capabilities.
- The Snow Train was tested in extreme cold and harsh environments including Alaska, Greenland, and Michigan, proving its ruggedness and utility.
- The final and largest land train was nearly 600 feet long, powered by four jet turbines and designed to carry its own nuclear reactor.
- Despite their innovation, the land trains faced multiple challenges including mechanical complexity, high costs, and logistical issues.
- The nuclear-powered train never went beyond concept and drawings, and the land trains were eventually retired and scrapped or repurposed.
- One surviving train was rescued and is now displayed at the Yukon Transportation Museum, preserving this unique Cold War engineering legacy.
Chapters
- 00:00Introduction: The Snow Train Disaster in Alaska
- 01:26Robert LeTourneau’s Early Life and Career
- 02:43LeTourneau’s Electric Wheel Innovation
- 04:13LeTourneau’s Business Deal and New Challenges
- 05:40Building the Land Trains: Family and Innovation
- 07:06Demonstration to the U.S. Army and the DEW Line
- 08:43The Cold War Arctic Supply Challenge
- 10:12The Nuclear Overland Train Concept
- 12:00Decline and Legacy of the Land Trains
- 19:06Preservation and Lasting Impact
Full Transcript — Download SRT & Markdown
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The Snow Train was 274 ft long, built to run at 68° below zero, and it was easing 150 tons of cargo down an icy grade when the trailers behind the locomotive stopped holding back.
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They had no brakes of their own. One hundred fifty tons of dead weight folded the whole train off the trail. The generators caught fire in the snow, and 170 tons of cement were left where they fell.
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Gezi went bankrupt, but the Snow Train was only the second of five machines, and the strangest was still to come.
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The last one would stretch almost 600 ft, run on four jet turbines, and was built to carry its own nuclear reactor.
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This is the story of the machines built to cross the Arctic without a single road, and the man who was stubborn enough to build them.
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To understand how a 600-ft machine ends up rusting on a secret army base, we have to go back to the man who dreamed it.
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And he was not the kind of man anyone expected to change engineering. Robert Gilmore LeTourneau left school at 14.
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He tried woodcutting, [music] bricklaying, farm work, and mining before he ever touched a machine that mattered.
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He wanted to be a race car driver, crashed, ended up in debt, [music] and took a job grading roads to pay it off.
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And somewhere in the dirt of those early jobs, he fell in love with the machines instead of the work.
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By the 1930s, he was building his own earth-moving equipment, and it was good enough that during the Second World War, his factories turned out an estimated 70% of all the earth-moving machines the Allied armies used.
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Think about that for a second. One man's company moved most of the dirt of the largest war in human history.
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His scrapers, his bulldozer blades, and his earthmovers cleared airfields, dug harbors, and built roads across nearly every front of the war, turned out as fast as the fighting [music] could use them.
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He would eventually hold nearly 300 patents. He titled his autobiography Mover of Men and Mountains, and he meant it literally.
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He had a personal motto that tells you everything about how his mind worked. When a job looked too big, he liked to say, "The job was not too big.
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Your machines were just too small." He was also a deeply religious man who treated his inventing almost as a calling, and he would pour much of his fortune into a college in Texas that still carries his name and trains
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engineers to this day. Then, in 1950, he announced the idea that would define the rest of his life.
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He called it the electric wheel. Instead of a heavy engine sending power through a maze of shafts, clutches, and gears out to the wheels, he put a small electric motor directly inside each wheel hub. A diesel engine on board would spin a generator. The
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generator would make electricity, and cables would carry that electricity to a motor in every wheel.
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There was no transmission, no clutch, and no drive shaft, with almost nothing to break. It is more or less exactly how an electric car works today, and he was building it in 1950, decades before anyone thought it was practical.
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He was convinced it would make every other kind of drive obsolete, and he wanted to prove it on the biggest machines he could imagine.
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Now, here is the strange twist that made the land trains possible. In 1953, LeTourneau sold his entire earth moving business to the Westinghouse Air Brake Company for $31 million, an enormous fortune at the time.
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But, the deal came with a catch. He agreed not to build earth moving equipment for 5 years.
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So, the most restless machine builder in America suddenly [music] could not build the machines that made him famous.
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He kept the rights to his electric wheel, and he went looking for problems it could solve that had nothing to do with moving dirt.
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He built strange one-off machines for the military in these years, including a mobile launcher for the Corporal missile, a giant tug to drag crashed bombers off runways, and a retriever to haul landing craft out of the surf.
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He was looking for the one job big enough to be worthy of the electric [music] wheel, and he found it at the top of the world.
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He was not the first person to imagine a train that needed no tracks. Forty years earlier, a young engineer named Ferdinand Porsche had built one for the Austro-Hungarian Army in the First World War.
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It was a road train where a gasoline engine drove a generator that powered electric motors in the trailers, and each trailer steered to follow the exact path of the one ahead of it.
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The army used them to haul heavy artillery, including the enormous Skoda siege guns, through country that had no rails at all, and they built dozens of [music] the sets before the war ended.
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So, the core idea, a gas engine making electricity to drive wheels on a steerable string of cars, had been sitting quietly in history for four decades, waiting for someone with the right wheel.
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LeTourneau had the wheel, and building these machines was a family affair, dangerous from the very first part.
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To make the giant tires the land trains would need, someone first had to cut a mold 10 ft across on a huge boring mill.
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LeTourneau's own son, Ben LeTourneau, then just 18 years old, climbed onto that spinning steel mold, rode a cutting tool down into it while the whole thing turned beneath him, and shaved it smooth from the inside so it would form a
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perfect tire. One slip, one snagged sleeve, and the machine that made the tire would have taken the boy with it.
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That is the kind of nerve it took inside this family to build the impossible.
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And the LeTourneaus, that single tire mold was only the start. Almost every part of these machines had to be invented, tested, and often risked by the men who built them because nothing this size had ever been attempted before.
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And the LeTourneaus were about to try something more impossible than anyone had even asked them for.
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The first land train was almost humble. In 1953, LeTourneau built the VC-12 Tournatrain for the logging industry. A single power unit pulling a string of 20-ton trailers, every wheel driven by its own motor.
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He kept adding cars until it could support a 140-ton load. And in April 1954, he demonstrated it to the United States Army.
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The army watched a machine crawl across open ground hauling a load that would have needed a convoy of trucks, and turning in a tighter circle than anyone thought a vehicle that long could manage. They did not place an order that
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day, but they took careful notes because the army had a problem that was about to get very expensive, and this machine looked like the answer.
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High in the Arctic, along the very top of the continent, [music] the United States was racing to build a line of radar stations [music] called the Distant Early Warning Line, the DEW Line.
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[music] It stretched thousands of miles across the north of Alaska and Canada, and its job was to spot Soviet bombers the instant they came over the pole, back when a surprise attack from the north was the thing that kept American
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generals awake at night. The stations had to sit in some of the most [music] brutal country on Earth, hundreds of miles from any road, [music] in cold that could reach 68° below zero.
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Some sites could be supplied by ship in the short summer, some by aircraft, but the inland stations were a logistics [music] nightmare.
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You cannot build a highway across shifting tundra and sea ice, and you cannot fly in every ton of steel, fuel, and food that a radar base and its hundreds of men need to survive the winter.
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Someone had to move enormous loads across ground that swallowed ordinary trucks whole. The Cold War made all of it urgent.
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American planners were terrified that Soviet bombers would come streaking over the North Pole carrying nuclear weapons, and the DEW Line was the tripwire meant to buy the country a few precious hours [music] of warning.
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It had to be built, and it had to be supplied, no matter h
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Before he trusted the idea to the far north, LeTourneau built a strange little proving machine called the Snow Buggy, an eight-wheeled rig on those same 10-ft tires, powered by a single aircraft engine, and shipped it to Greenland in 1954
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to see whether electric wheels could really claw through deep snow and cold. They could.
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That test opened the door. The Snow Buggy was ugly and strange, but it answered the one question everybody doubted, whether a machine driven purely by electric wheels could really claw through deep polar snow.
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If the wheels worked in Greenland, they would work anywhere. An Alaska trucking company called Alaska Freight Lines [music] had part of the contract to supply the DEW Line, and its owner, Al Ghezzi, had already built a reputation for doing
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what no other trucker in Alaska would dare. He was the kind of operator who kept mountain passes open in the dead of winter when everyone else turned back, the sort of man Alaska produces and then tells stories about for generations.
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He heard about the land train [music] and made a bet that would either make his company or destroy it.
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He commissioned [music] the second machine in our story, the Snow Freighter, the VC-22. It was 274 ft long. Two big diesel engines drove electric [music] motors in 24 wheels. It was built to haul 150 tons, ford rivers 4 ft deep, cut through
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snow drifts, and keep running at 68 below. Getting it to work was an expedition in itself. The Snow Freighter was shipped in pieces to a tiny settlement in interior Alaska and bolted back together out on the frozen ground by LeTourneau's
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own technicians. Then it set off north, and this was not a quick trip. The journey ran hundreds of miles and could take as long as 3 months in temperatures around 50 below with five Caterpillar D8 bulldozers grinding ahead to break trail, and a
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fleet of more than 30 support trucks strung out behind, the whole convoy guided by aircraft overhead and radio across a white nothing.
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Imagine the crews out there, weeks from anywhere, keeping a 274-ft machine and its engines alive in cold that freezes diesel to jelly.
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There were no gas stations, no repair shops, no help of any kind for hundreds of miles in any direction.
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If something broke, they fixed it where it stood, or they froze. The men who ran these trains were a strange new breed, part trucker, part mechanic, part Arctic explorer, doing a job that had simply not existed a few
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years before. And for a while, it worked. The impossible machine actually did the impossible thing, and it hauled its freight across the roof of Alaska.
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For one brief, triumphant season, Al Ghezzi looked like the smartest trucker in the territory, the man who had finally tamed the Arctic with a machine that everyone else had called crazy.
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He had bet his company, and for a moment it looked like the bet of a lifetime.
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And then came the day we opened with. On a downgrade north of Eagle, Alaska, the Snow Freighter got away from its crew. The cargo trailers had no brakes of their own, so when [music] the grade steepened, 150 tons of loaded cars kept
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shoving forward while the driver could only brake the locomotive up front. The train jackknifed off the trail.
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The generators and engines caught fire out in the snow. Around 170 tons of cement were abandoned where the machine came to rest in country far too remote to easily recover them.
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Al Ghezzi's gamble was finished, and so was his company, which was later swallowed up by a competitor.
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He had bet everything on the machine, and the machine had lost. You would think that would be the end of the trackless train.
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It was actually only the beginning, because the United States Army had been watching the whole time, and the Army did not scare easily.
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All right, back to the machine. The Army wanted its own land train, and it wanted it tougher than anything a civilian would build.
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In 1955, it commissioned the LCC-1 Snow Train, sometimes called the YS-1. This was the machine that finally got it right.
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It rode on giant 10-ft Firestone tires, stretched about 173 ft, and carried 45 tons behind [music] a single 600 horsepower diesel.
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The control car was cleverly split into two halves. Up front sat a heated cab for a crew of three, insulated against the cold.
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Behind them was the engine, the generators, the fuel tanks, and a small jib crane, because when your wheels are 10 ft tall and weigh over a ton each, you need a machine on board just to change a flat or hook up another car in
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the field. The Snow Train worked, and it worked hard for years. The Army tested it first in [music] the deep snow of Michigan, then shipped it to Greenland, where it hauled cargo out across the ice cap in conditions that
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would kill a man in minutes. Crews lived aboard for days at a time as it ground across the ice, hauling the fuel and supplies that kept remote outposts alive through the long polar night.
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It kept running on the roof of the world from 1956 all the way to 1962.
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It crossed Arctic snow, the American desert, and glacier, and it kept going through all of it.
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After the fire that destroyed the Snow Train, here at last was a trackless train that simply did not quit.
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And that stubborn success convinced the army to do something genuinely reckless. They asked LeTourneau to build the biggest one [music] yet, and to make it as long as they wanted it to be, with no fixed limit at all.
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That machine was the TC-497 Overland Train Mark II. And even now the numbers sound made up.
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It measured 572 ft long, made up of a control car, two power cars, and 10 [music] cargo cars.
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It is to this day the longest off-road vehicle ever built by anyone. It rolled on 54 wheels, and every single one of them had its own electric motor.
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Not one turbine, not two, but four gas turbine engines were spread down its length. Each one making 1,170 horsepower and spinning generators that fed current to the wheels.
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It could carry 150 tons, and it could stretch its range simply by hooking on more fuel cars, which meant that in theory, the thing could roll almost forever.
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Empty, it weighed around 300 tons. Loaded, it weighed roughly 450. And it moved all of that across raw ground at about 20 mph.
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To save weight across all that length, most of it was built out of aluminum.
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The control cab stood three stories in the air, so the driver could see out over the whole train and read the terrain ahead, with a radar dish mounted on the roof to find a path through storms, darkness, and blowing snow.
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Inside, it felt less like a truck and more like a ship. There were bunks, a galley, and a bathroom for a crew of six. And the tables even had raised edges on them to stop the dishes from sliding off while
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the entire city on wheels rocked and pitched over open ground. The engineers who built it took to calling it a mobile city, [music] and that is close to the plain truth of what it was.
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Everything about it was oversized to the point of absurdity. Each of its tires stood 10 ft tall and weighed well over a ton on its own.
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The four turbines that drove it were built by Solar, a firm that normally made engines for aircraft and power plants. And together, they put out close to 4,700 horsepower.
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Two of the 10 cargo cars were not for cargo at all. They were given over entirely to carrying the turbines and their generators.
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This was a machine that needed dedicated rail cars just to haul around its own engines.
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The cleverest part of the whole machine was the way it steered, and it borrowed straight from that old Porsche idea.
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On a normal trailer, the back wheels cut the corner when you turn. On a 572-ft train, cutting the corner would have dragged the rear cars straight through anything unlucky enough to be in the way.
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So, LeTourneau built the wheels to remember. [music] When the control car turned at a certain point on the ground, every wheel behind it would turn at that exact same point [music] as it rolled through. So, the entire enormous train followed the
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leader's path, curve for curve, [music] and could bend around a rock or a stand of trees a normal vehicle would have simply flattened. [music] In February 1962, the finished machine was railed to the Army's Yuma Proving Ground in the
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Arizona desert for a test program with the wonderfully plain name Project Otier, short for overland train terrain evaluation research.
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It ran for hundreds of hours out in that desert and passed its tests. Out on the Yuma range, crews put the giant through its paces across [music] sand and scrub, proving it could turn, climb, and haul in terrain about as far
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from the Arctic as you can get. On flat hard ground, it could touch a little over 20 miles an hour, which does not sound like much until you remember you are watching a 572-ft [music] 450-ton train do it with no
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tracks underneath it at all. And there, the men running it began to talk seriously about the one upgrade that would make [music] it truly unstoppable.
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The problem with a machine this size was fuel. Those four turbines were thirsty, drinking on the order of 30 to 60 gallons a minute when the train was working hard across rough country.
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A vehicle designed to travel almost without limit was chained to its own fuel supply, forced to drag tanker cars along just to keep itself moving.
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The math was almost cruel. The bigger and more capable the train became, the more fuel it burned, and the more fuel it burned, the more of its own carrying capacity it had to surrender just to feed itself.
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A truly enormous overland train running on diesel or turbines [music] could end up hauling mostly its own gas.
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There had to be a better way. LeTourneau himself is said [music] to have viewed the turbines as a stopgap, a placeholder until a better source of power came along.
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And in 1960, the United States military believed it had found exactly that source. This next part sounds like science fiction, but it is real, and it is written down in black and white.
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The Army was running its own nuclear power program to build small mobile reactors, and one design in particular, called the MM-1, was aimed at exactly this [music] kind of job.
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A declassified Army document from November 1960 states plainly that the reactor was being developed to provide a compact mobile source of power [music] for a variety of military applications, and it names, in writing, the propulsion of the Overland Train. An Army Research
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and Development magazine in January 1961 said the same thing, promising that when nuclear power became available, it was expected to give the train almost unlimited cruising range.
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The plan was to place a reactor on board, set well back from the crew behind heavy shielding, and let it drive all 54 wheels for as long as the fuel core lasted, which could be measured in years instead of miles.
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The reactor was rated in the thousands of kilowatts, and was hoped to be running before the end of the decade.
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In the end, though, the reactor never arrived. The Army's smaller test reactor, the one meant to prove the whole technology, never worked properly, and the larger MM-1 that was supposed to drive the train was never actually built.
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The nuclear Overland Train existed only on paper and in a handful of artists' drawings. A reactor-powered giant crossing the tundra that the world would never quite get to see.
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And the Army's ambitions ran even further than just moving the train. One proposal imagined the Overland Train as a kind of mobile nuclear gas station, [music] using the heat of its reactor to pull ammonia and hydrazine out of ordinary
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air and water and fuel a whole company of vehicles rolling along behind it. On paper, [music] that was the equivalent of hundreds of thousands of gallons of fuel a day manufactured on the move in the middle of an empty wilderness.
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The idea was that a single nuclear train could keep a whole mechanized column fueled almost indefinitely, hundreds of miles from the nearest depot, turning air and water into fuel as it rolled.
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On paper, it was the ultimate supply line, one that could never be cut because it made its own fuel out of nothing.
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This was the absolute peak of the dream, a self-powered, self-fueling, city-sized machine that could cross any wilderness on Earth [music] and, in theory, never once stop for gas.
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It was 1962, and for one brief moment it genuinely looked like the future had arrived on 54 wheels.
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That future did not last the year. One more quick favor, and this one was completely free.
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Now, back to the story. So, what actually happened? Why does the longest vehicle ever built sit rusting in a desert today instead of hauling freight across the Arctic?
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The easy answer you will hear everywhere is one word, helicopters, and that is partly true.
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By 1962, heavy-lift helicopters like the Sikorsky Skycrane were coming into service, and they could carry big, heavy loads directly to remote sites without any road at all, far faster than a train traveling 20 mph and without the constant risk of getting
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stuck in soft ground. Standing next to a helicopter, a machine that crawled across the tundra suddenly looked slow and old. But helicopters alone did not kill the land train.
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And the real story is more interesting than [music] that. The Vietnam War was heating up in a serious way and the money the army might have spent on experimental arctic trains was pulled toward a completely different kind of fight in the jungle.
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There was also a deeper flaw baked into the whole idea. Every one of these land trains was a one-of-a-kind machine, custom-built by hand with no standard parts anywhere.
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If a normal truck broke down, the army had thousands of identical trucks and warehouses full of spares.
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If the overland train broke down in the middle of nowhere, there was no spare shelf on the entire planet.
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And the crew had to fabricate the broken part themselves out there in the cold.
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And there was one last problem that no amount of engineering could design away. A 572-ft aluminum machine three stories tall crawling across open ground at 20 mph is just about the easiest target a human being could imagine.
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[music] In a real war, 100 ordinary trucks are far harder to stop than one enormous train. Because when you knock out a few of the trucks, all the rest of them simply keep rolling.
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Put all of it together and the overland train was a magnificent answer to a [music] question the world had quietly stopped asking.
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It was fragile in the field, expensive to build, impossible to hide, and it arrived at the the moment a faster, cheaper solution came flying over the horizon.
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The people who argue that helicopters were not the whole story are right to argue it.
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It was never one single thing that ended the land trains. It was all of those things landing at once.
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And there is something almost sad in that. A handful of engineers and crews had built and driven the largest land machine in human history, taught its wheels to remember a path, kept it alive at 68 below, and dreamed
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of powering it with the atom itself. Then the world moved on before any of it could matter.
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The land trains never fought a war, never supplied the DEW line at full scale, and never got their reactor.
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They were simply too magnificent and far too late. The program was quietly shut down, and the machines were left to an ending that almost no one saw coming.
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In 1969, the Army put the Overland Train up for surplus with a price tag well over a million dollars, and most of it met a quiet, brutal end.
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The cargo cars and their giant wheels were cut apart and sold off for scrap aluminum over the next few years.
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All that survived the scrappers was the lead control car, that three-story cab, and its story from there is almost too strange to believe.
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For a while, it just sat in a Yuma junkyard. At one point, it was used as a giant advertising prop for a recreational vehicle dealership. A Cold War nuclear train cab parked on a lot to help sell campers [music] to families.
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Eventually, it was brought back home to the Yuma Proving Ground, where a small group of retired volunteers spent weeks cleaning it out and repainting it to near new condition.
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Today, it sits on that base, and it is so large that you can still pick it out on satellite maps from space.
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Think about [music] the strangeness of that for a moment. A machine designed to carry a nuclear reactor across the Arctic ended its working life first as roadside decoration on a camper lot, and then as a restoration project for a few
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dedicated retirees who refused to let it vanish. It is the only one of its kind left anywhere in the world.
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The successful Snow Train had an even darker chapter waiting for it. After the Army was finished with it, the machine ended up in a salvage yard outside Fairbanks, Alaska, [music] and it sat there rotting for decades.
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The real problem was the yard itself. Over the years, it had become so contaminated with old electrical transformers and industrial chemicals [music] that it was later declared a federal Superfund site, a place poisoned badly enough that the government itself had to
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step in and clean it [music] up. The last great Arctic Land Train spent years slowly rusting on that [music] toxic ground.
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Then, in 2010, someone bought it off an online auction for just $15,000 and hauled it north across the border to the Yukon Transportation Museum in Whitehorse, Canada, where it stands on display today, rescued from a poisoned junkyard [music]
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and yes, visible from space on a map. But the single strangest afterlife of all belongs to the wheels.
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Those enormous 10-ft tires [music] did not all go to the scrapper. A man named Bob Chandler, the creator of the very first monster truck, found a set of them sitting in a junkyard [music] and bought them for around
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$1,000. He bolted them onto a machine he called Bigfoot [music] 5. And to this very day, Bigfoot 5 holds the record as the tallest widest [music] and heaviest monster truck in the world, standing over 15 ft tall on tires that
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once carried a nuclear dreamed army land train across the frozen north. Chandler had found the tires in a Seattle junkyard, and the truck he built around them weighs a staggering 38,000 lb.
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At one point, Bigfoot 5 [music] even ran eight of those land train tires at once.
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It is one of the most beloved monster trucks ever built, [music] and almost nobody in the crowd knows its tires are hiding a Cold War secret.
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Every single time that monster truck rolls out in front of a crowd, it is riding on the last living pieces of the overland train.
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And there is one more thread from this story that never died at all. LeTourneau's electric wheel, the idea he bet the entire last chapter of his life on, quietly outlived every one of the land trains.
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His company changed hands over the years, and eventually became part of Komatsu. And that very same in-wheel electric drive lives on right now in the L2350, a wheel loader that holds the record as the single largest earth mover on the
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planet. The man left school at 14, and the idea he built in 1950 is still, at this very moment, moving more earth than almost anything else alive.
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That loader can scoop [music] roughly 80 tons of rock in a single pass, and Guinness recognizes it as the biggest earth mover on the planet.
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Somewhere in a mine right now, the ghost of a Cold War Arctic train is quietly at work, one enormous bucket [music] at a time.
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Robert LeTourneau died in 1969, just months after the last [music] of his land trains was mothballed for good.
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He never did get his nuclear train. The tundra he wanted to conquer without roads is, even now, still mostly roadless.
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But go to Yuma, or to Whitehorse, or to a monster truck arena on a Saturday night, and the machines are still there, or at least pieces of them are, standing as monuments to a time when one stubborn man could look out at the emptiest,
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coldest, most impossible ground on Earth, and simply decide that he would build a machine big enough to cross it.
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They told him his job was too big. He was convinced, right to the end, that his machines were only too small.
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Nearly everything he built has been scrapped or forgotten. But the ambition behind it, that flat refusal to accept that any patch of ground on Earth was truly impossible, is the thing that actually lasted.
Speaker A
If you want to see how that exact same stubbornness played out on the ice itself, we tracked down the full story of the Snow Freighters' doomed run through the Arctic, and it is waiting for you so you right here.
Topics:Snow TrainRobert LeTourneauelectric wheelland trainCold WarArctic logisticsDistant Early Warning Linenuclear trainmilitary engineeringoff-road vehicle
![[EN] How To Make Your Bigger And Stronger‼ everything you need to know — Transcript](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/q6wOgvbfJwM/maxresdefault.jpg)
