A dilapidated network of concrete bunkers lies half-submerged in dry grass just outside Tulsa’s city limits. More than 800 munitions igloos, formerly part of the Black Hills Ordnance Depot, were housed on the property. Originally designed for military use, off-grid survivalists now subtly claim it as their own. It pulsates with a very different kind of energy, one that is characterized by secrecy, isolation, and resilience.
Unbelievably immaculate, some of the igloos have been preserved like lost artifacts. Others have been outfitted with blast doors and solar panels, and they are encircled by fences and hand-painted signs that deter trespassers. The locals refer to it as “Bunker Town.” The facility is far from empty, even though it was formally closed decades ago.
| Feature | Details |
|---|---|
| Location | Near Tulsa, Oklahoma |
| Origin | Black Hills Ordnance Depot (WWII-era munitions storage site) |
| Total Bunkers | 802 concrete bunkers |
| Historical Use | Used through WWII and Korean War for weapons storage |
| Transformation | Repurposed by Vivos (2016) into private, off-grid survival community |
| Current Use | Some bunkers still occupied by residents |
| Notable Incidents | 1946 white phosphorus explosion |
| Other Hidden Sites in Tulsa | Underground tunnels (oil baron escape routes, now limited public tours) |
| Cultural Significance | Symbol of secrecy, survivalism, and Tulsa’s hidden past |
Vivos, a private disaster preparedness company, bought the property in 2016 with the goal of creating an independent community protected from civil unrest and nuclear threats. Every bunker has been equipped with off-grid energy sources and highly efficient filtration systems for long-term use. However, the uneasiness persists more than the technology.
The place’s troubled history hasn’t completely disappeared. There are still rumors of mustard gas experiments, and a white phosphorus explosion at the depot in 1946 caused permanent harm and suffering. Residents in the area are troubled by the memory of chemical accidents, despite claims of modern safety.
A second layer of secrecy, meanwhile, is hidden beneath Tulsa’s downtown streets. Oil barons began digging tunnels between their buildings in the late 1920s, not for show but for security. During the roaring oil boom, Tulsa’s elite carved out escape routes, guarded walkways, and hidden entries out of fear of kidnapping.
The network of tunnels quietly grew over the decades. Some routes were only a block or two long. Others slithered beneath parking garages, banks, and iconic towers such as the Mid-Continent and the Philtower. Many of these tunnels are still closed off today and can only be accessed by private tour or permission from the building owners.
Twice a year, the Tulsa Foundation for Architecture provides guided tours that turn obscure history into an exceptionally tactile experience. Visitors travel through echoing hallways, elaborate lobbies, and underground vaults that once protected oil tycoons from a volatile metropolis. The faded marble, the elaborate ironwork, and the surprising walkways all have an irresistible charm.
The original vault beneath the Bank of Oklahoma, a 1928 relic with intact walls made of reinforced concrete, was recalled by one guide. Although taking pictures is strictly prohibited, the chilly atmosphere and intense quiet serve as a kind of documentation in and of themselves. Last spring, while on a tour, I stopped in front of a sealed tunnel whose purpose had long since been forgotten. I recall wondering why and by whom it was last walked.
Tulsa’s identity has unexpectedly intersected with tunnel tourism and the bunker craze in recent years. Wartime necessity gave rise to practical engineering, on the one hand. Conversely, a carefully planned journey through abandoned hallways that is advertised with the ideal level of mystery.
Both address a more profound issue—a community’s connection to its own hidden history. Tulsa’s underground stories keep expanding, whether it’s a history buff exploring beneath the Atlas Life Building or a survivalist extracting water from a solar-powered cistern in an abandoned depot.
It’s interesting to note that, in terms of infrastructure, the tunnels are not that old. Many were built following World War II, mostly to facilitate workers’ transitions between offices and garages protected from Oklahoma’s severe weather. Nevertheless, their place in the city’s mythology seems much older—possibly as a result of their incomplete mapping.
The tunnels in Tulsa are more than just the lingering effects of oil baron anxiety. They have been transformed into cultural corridors, which serve as routes connecting not just structures but also times, beliefs, and fears. Reflection is encouraged by the ancient vaults and cramped passageways, which arouse more than nostalgia.
However, the very fact that “Bunker Town” isn’t an artifact makes it unsettling. It is living. Those bunkers are still inhabited by people. They keep to themselves, trade tools, and raise livestock. A wood stove’s smoke floats past camouflage netting. From behind steel doors comes the sound of a child laughing.
These communities are deliberately decentralized, incredibly resilient, and run under the radar. Being prepared is seen by some as an act of empowerment, while others see it as an overreaction. The uncertainty about who is present and what they are getting ready for is what causes the tension.
They therefore appeal to something primordial when rumors of “the forgotten bunker” reappear. Not merely curiosity or urban legend, but a silent struggle between the past and the future. The decisions made by people who must deal with risk, resiliency, and control are literally beneath Tulsa’s surface.
The city above is still changing. However, when no one is looking, what’s below presents a remarkably different picture of who we are.
