Smoke billows from the slightly tardy blast commemorating the beginning of the construction of Glen Canyon Dam.

As early as 1916, noises were made about building a dam at Glen Canyon to regulate the torrents of the mighty Colorado River. Noise of equal proportion was made by conservationists and environmentalists who decried desiccation of pristine wilderness and predicted that plugging the river would create an ecological nightmare.
Still, the dam noises continued.
Forty years later, on March 1, 1956, President Dwight D. Eisenhower announced his re-election bid and told Congress to “get on with” passage of a bill authorizing the controversial Colorado River Storage Project. Congress did just that. On April 11, Eisenhower signed legislation allocating $900-million for construction of five dams—including $200-million to dam the river at Glen Canyon.
On a late summer day, Arthur V. Watkins, a man of no piddling persuasive skill, charged unannounced into Lem Wylie’s office at Kanab, Utah, 73 miles west of the dam site. Wylie, chief engineer for the Bureau of Reclamation, listened as Utah’s senior senator gave him an earful. His state had been short changed — the location of the dam was midway between Phoenix and Salt Lake City — with all the spoils slated for Arizona. Watkins insisted that the supply depots and the construction town itself be built on the Utah side of the Colorado River.
Wylie, an irascible man, listened patiently, but with no intention of giving in to the hot-blooded senator. Then, in mid-harangue, Watkins introduced an unrelated subject more to the bureau chief’s liking. The Glen Canyon Dam project ought to begin with a bang — a big bang that would focus attention on the Republican Party and boost the president’s re-election campaign. To reinforce his argument, he commandeered Wylie’s telephone and placed a call to Richard Nixon. Not surprisingly, the vice president thought a big bang was a splendid idea. It was surprising, however, when the senator told Wylie he would leave details of the noise making up to him.
Wylie conceived the notion of planting explosives behind a huge slab of rock deep within the canyon walls. Wire would be attached to a plunger topside. In this era of pre-touch tone telephones, pre-satellites, and pre-microwave transmission, Eisenhower would signal Kanab by tapping a telegraph key at the White House. Kanab would relay the signal by radio to the dam site where a flagman would signal the plunger operator to blow up the rock. If all went well, a dust cloud of debris would make a spiffy photo opportunity.
The grand occasion was set for Oct. 15, 1956. Reporters and film crews converged on the canyon, and radio stations from Phoenix and Salt Lake City set up microphones to broadcast the blast. With all systems at the ready, a grinning Eisenhower tapped the telegraph key. Nothing happened. As newsreel cameras whirred, he tapped it again. Nothing happened.
Secretary of the Interior Fred Seaton saved the day when he whispered frantically into a long distance line to Kanab that Eisenhower had tapped the telegraph key — twice. An urgent radio call was made from Kanab to the dam site, and the flagman was told by walkie-talkie to signal the plunger operator. He did. Nothing happened.
Finally, after clarifying garbled communications, the plunger was depressed. A loud explosion was heard and an impressive dust cloud choked the air commemorating commencement of the Glen Canyon Dam project — never mind that the prime construction contract had yet to be let.
If, indeed, the big boom helped Eisenhower’s re-election bid, he failed to acknowledge it in his memoirs. In fact, he made no mention of the incident.
— W. Lane Rogers. Photo courtesy of author.