Would-Be Martians Are Roaming the Utah Desert

All week, Motherboard contributor Daniel Oberhaus has been exploring life (and death) at those isolated space analogs from around the world that have become integral in planning for long-duration space flight. This is the final installment.

On a warm morning in early April, I find myself driving up and down the interstate that doubles as the main boulevard through Hanksville, Utah, desperately searching for the turn off to Cow Dung Road. Few of the innumerable dirt trails meandering away from the interstate are marked with street signs. I begin to lose both my hope and patience. In all honesty, they all looked like they could be named Cow Dung Road. With a population of just over 200, getting lost in the sleepy desert town of Hanksville is no easy feat. But here I am, lost nonetheless.

I drive around looking for someone who might be able to point me in the right direction, but Hanksville is the sort of place where the bartender is also the hotel manager, grocer and doctor, and as such the streets are seemingly devoid of life. In desperation, I decide to turn down a side road where I estimate Cow Dung should be and begin climbing a red rock hill in my cheap rental sedan. As I top the hill, I look down into a shallow valley of red rock, the hills striped in various shades of rust, maroon and gray, making the entire scene look like something straight from the mind of Dr. Seuss. Take away the low, dead grass and the blue skies, and it truly would be indistinguishable from the Martian surface.

On the horizon a small cloud of dust appears, soon followed by a white SUV. I begin my rough descent into the valley and after about ten minutes of driving, I round a corner and see the SUV again. The vehicle's bandana clad driver rolls down his window and flags me over.

"Are you the journalist guy?"

I tell him that I am.

"We were just heading into town for some burgers," he said, gesturing to the handful of college co-eds jammed into the back seat. "Want to join us?"

"I didn't know they had burger shacks on Mars," I admit.

The driver smiles at me. "They have more than that. Great shakes, too."

Not exactly what I was expecting, but never having been one to turn down a shake, I oblige and follow them back into Hanksville, where we discuss their time at the Mars Desert Research Station before heading back for a tour of the module. The group looks dirty and exhausted, and they inhale their celebratory meal with the enthusiasm that only a week spent eating dehydrated rations can warrant. Today was their final day at MDRS, where they have just spent the last week isolated from the rest of the world as they partook in the 152nd mock Mars mission at the base.

Of all the space analog experiments covered in this series, MDRS, just outside of Hanksville, is by far the most unorthodox. The two-story white, cylindrical MDRS habitat is the only sign of life for miles in all directions. It looks all too out of place as it rises up from the barren backdrop of red rock.

Yet for Liz Mitchell, the leader of this team on her third trip to the station, the sight is all too familiar: a wire shell clings to the side of the base, a skeletal reminder of the greenhouse which once stood there. The habitat's observatory is connected to the main module via a long mesh tunnel. Around back three ATVs, which are used by the crew for extravehicular activities, sit idle under tarps which are a few sizes too small for their frames.

Inside, the bottom floor serves as the crew's laboratory. Beakers, electronic equipment, makeshift space helmets, earth samples, and a portable greenhouse clutter the space, evidence of the scientific work that has been occupying the crew for the majority of their last few days at the base. Upstairs is even more claustrophobic, if such a thing is possible. The crew's sleeping quarters are little more than a series of small, side-by-side walk-in closets, suggesting that privacy isn't really an option at MDRS. A laptop connected to the internet sits on a small table, accessible to the crew in small daily doses throughout their time at the base.

After a quick tour of the facility, I am led back downstairs where a few of the crew members are getting suited up in their space suits, which more closely resemble a mechanic's uniform outfitted with a Plexiglas fish tank for a helmet. A far cry from the multimillion dollar suits worn by astronauts in space, these space suits were never meant to be hyper-realistic and really stand as a token symbol of the attitude of the Mars Society toward their experiment in general.

Unlike many other space analogs, MDRS has a much more loose approach to space analog simulations. While the isolation experienced by the crews is certainly a factor (even more so at the Utah base's cousin located in northern Canada), it is not uncommon for the curious tourist or journalist to wander onto the property and make contact with the crew. Furthermore, unlike many other simulated space environments, the crews that man MDRS are generally not professionals in the space sector, but rather come from all different walks of life and professions, sharing only a passion for Martian exploration and an odd sense of what constitutes a "holiday."

Nonetheless, Michael Stoltz, Director of the Mars Society, the all volunteer organization that makes MDRS possible, said it isn't fair to simply dismiss MDRS as an amateur effort. While many of the participants are not directly involved in aerospace, MDRS has hosted crew members affiliated with NASA and Boeing, and the vast majority of their participants come from STEM backgrounds.

"The MDRS is currently not funded by NASA or the US government, so no, there are not 'professional' astronauts coming to use our habitat," said Stoltz. "But the work being done by our crew members is contributing to planning for a human mission to Mars and the eventual stay on the Martian surface."

MDRS is certainly not the most rigorous space analog experiment around, but there were protocols in place that definitely made the experience feel other-worldly. For instance, every time the crew members venture out of the habitat, they are required to don the suits and spend two minutes in a mock decompression chamber to simulate what it would actually be like to spend time on Martian soil. While out on extravehicular missions, the crew was required to communicate with "mission control" at the module through radios. A lot of the science done at the station yields actual results: Engineering student Samuel Thomas demonstrated his reinvention of MDRS space suit design for me, which he jerry-rigged with a hair dryer fan to yield better cooling results.

According to MDRS' website, the point of its analog stations (it has another one on Devon Island in northern Canada) is to learn how to live and work on another planet, something which seems was admirably accomplished by its 152nd crew and all of its predecessors.

Watch more: Motherboard's 2010 trip to the Mars Desert Research Station

"The end goal for the MDRS is to see the establishment of a permanent human presence on Mars," said Stoltz. "We feel that the Utah and Canadian analog facilities are playing an important role in helping researchers, scientists, and students consider and work through the challenges that future Mars explorers are likely to face when they arrive on the surface of the Red Planet."

As the race to make space a more accessible place to the general population heats up, it is not inconceivable that less-formal analogs like MDRS might start cropping up to get the lay population ready for their forays into the cosmos. For now though, MDRS stands alone in its unique approach to non-governmental analog missions, helping to bring the stars down to earth for everybody.