Once
upon a time, Alaska had nothing but land valued at 2-cents an acre. We still
have nothing, and missing a lot of oil. That’s because of the dipstick. Yes indeed,
a pipeline won out over several other possibilities to transport crude oil from
the North Slope of Alaska to the lower 48 states. The pipeline was the most
controversial method of choice. Some said it couldn’t be done. That was 40
years ago! Some say it still can’t be done. Now the intellectual losers that
still believe it was impossible to weld pieces of pipe together for 800-miles
in the wilds of the wilds, well it was the same people that believed in radical
means of getting the much needed commodity to markets. They had special
interests. Take for instance, modified 747-jets with super-sized wings for
transporting crude oil. Or crude oil submarines that could - supposedly -
safely navigate the ice-covered waters of the Bearing Sea and Chuchi Sea and
Whatever Name Sea. Or how about ice-breaking tankers? Those that could make
mince meat out of age-old glacier ice. Now the ice-breaking tanker was
attempted as an exercise in futility that ended up an embarrassment. One outfit
modified the heck out of an old tanker, a decrepit rust bucket that was
destined to be mothballed. When it sailed off from the boat-yard, it looked
like a ship with a beak! Would have made a great Green Peace boat. During its
maiden voyage to the Arctic Ocean, it was assisted by the Navy’s bravest
ice-breakers – hi-tech marvels of marine architecture. Guess who got stuck?
Anyway, there where exhaustive stories that followed the construction era of
the pipeline. There are many untold stories of interest that follows the
operation of the pipeline – by now just shy of 30-years in the making. So comes
the time for those stories, documenting the trials and tribulations of the men
and women who braved an insane world to make believers out of those that said
it couldn’t be done time after time after time. Then some!
In celebration of 30 years since the first pipe hit the
ditch!
(Mouse
Click Choice)
2) Pig
Out
5) Crash Harvey
7) What
Boss?
8) Trajectory of an Airborne Phone
9) DooDah Man
11) Incoming
12) Mr.
Green Jeans
14) Brown
Trout and the Mound’s Bar Theory
15) Key
Hole Smith
17) Chlorine
Coca-Cola, Aye Carumba!
19) Grey
Poupon
20) A
True Memorial
22) Pump
Station 8
23) Dummy
Brigade
24) Aunt
Ruth
25) Egg’m On
26) Barney
Fife of Anutuvik Pass
27) Fallen Worrier
29) Mad
Mac & Geronimo’s Cadillac
I was working the projects
group. This position was probably the best of the best of jobs. Let’s face it,
the pipeline worker’s motto, “The Best of the Best”, was a sentiment that
rattled up and down the entire 800-mile pipeline. We were good at what we did.
Now this particular position, it meant a whole lot of freedom. It meant if the
job was complete, a hightailing from places unknown to places known about
became the priority. Fairbanks remained our rendezvous point and home away from
home. Now Fairbanks never got over the hangover from pipeline construction
days. So when work turned to play, it meant time for a few “yards” of beer.
That was the advantage with this job over working a steady job out at one of
the pumping stations. I had done that routine for just too many years. The only
bad thing about the projects group, there was no set schedule. If manpower was
needed for emergencies, we were on the way. It meant the possibility of
postponing a trip home to Anchorage, even if one was cleaned up and boarding a
plane south. This one particular day, that indeed happened. I had a crew of
electrical and instrument guys who knew their stuff. We would go up and down
the pipeline fixing things that were not part of the station equipment, like
remote gate valves. These 48-inch valves are designed to control the head
pressure of accumulated oil after it rushes down the pipeline through various
mountain passes. If a valve fails when it is supposed to go closed, it can pop
the pipeline out of the ground! Just like a big zit. It means oil spill time.
Anyway, after we had just completed a job at Pump Station 10 in Isabel Pass, we
were all cleaned up and waiting for the call to board a plane heading to
Anchorage – for at least a weekend off. But the other call came in. So
dedicated as we were, we abandoned our attempt to go home and went north
instead. It was towards Anatuvik Pass we were headed. The remote gate valves in
the area of the Brooks Range had been causing some nervousness, so in efforts
to protect the pipeline, the company had stationed an around the clock
caretaker operator. Remember, money is no object to the operation of this
beast. It makes a whole lot of money. Now these valves are out in the middle of
nowhere land. No hotels, no camps, nothing. And to make matters worse, off a
road that doesn’t meet any definition of drivability, unless you are a seasoned
semi-truck driver. A nut is a better description. These sites, being
temporarily manned, consisted of an ATCO trailer with a generator and a mobile
radio. As far as food, these guys were catered too by the security helicopter.
Basically, they received the same food fare as the pump station crews – good
stuff. Anyway, there had been a report that this one particular site we were
directed to go was having a higher then normal use of diesel fuel to run the
generator. Now the ATCO had a heater, lights and a small refrigerator. Not to
forget the propane John. That is it. So we headed north to check to see if
maybe the generator was malfunctioning. Hey, run out of fuel in the dead of
wintertime, it may mean a dead worker! As we approached the valley that would
take us into the pass, we could hear something that caught our attention. There
is nothing out here except wildlife. And about the only living thing that makes
noise, is that of the Raven. Anyway, it sounded like music. I slowed the truck
down to a standstill. Sure enough, it was music, loud music at that. It sounded
like an outdoor concert was playing out. But in Anatuvik Pass? No way. As we
approached the exit off the road to the one-man camp, the music was getting
louder and louder. In fact, it could be heard loud and clear, even with the
truck’s windows closed. When we finally exited the main road, there on a
makeshift porch of the ATCO one-man camp was a one-man concert. I think the
decibel level was causing an early migration, as nearby caribou could be seen
scrambling about. Well there stood this guy named Johnny, wailing away on a
Fender Stratocaster. And to make his picking noticeable, giant speakers lined
the entire side of the 40-foot trailer. This was major good, good, good, good
vibrations! The tune was familiar, Jimi Hendrix’s Voodoo Child. Johnny was so
into the after work rock out, he didn’t even notice our presence. We didn’t
even have to get out of the truck to realize just why the fuel usage around
here was questionable. In fact, every so often the lights would dim when the
speakers hit overdrive. And these were not no rink dink Sears type generators.
I think it was a Cummins! So what to do? I called my boss. Told him of the
dilemma. At first he told us to shut it down. Then I told him who the guy was.
That meant a completely different story. My boss was a good friend with this
guy’s dad. They both served in Vietnam. So the next day, a flatbed truck with a
larger fuel tank would be dispatched from Fairbanks. Hey, music was this
operator’s only entertainment. And like I said before, who really cared about
the money aspect. It was hard to find people who would be comfortable just
sitting around all day watching a valve. So it was OK to give this guy a little
extra special attention. We headed back to Fairbanks, had a few beers and
caught the next plane south. Another job completed! It felt good to give this
guy a break. But that was how business was handled on the pipeline. People
cared!
It
was the holidays. Some us had to work. And work meant being some 800-miles away
from home. Pumping crude oil doesn’t take a break! Now normally, come a day
like Thanksgiving or Christmas and unless for an emergency critical situation,
things are pretty quiet around the pump stations. Not true with the kitchen
crew over at the camp. It was not unusual to have activities around the clock
in preparation for yet another feast. They don’t employ cooks out here, just
real “chefs”! This had been the norm for several years now. How come that
saying, “that all good things must come to an end” holds so true? With some
most recent management changes, we ended up getting a district manager that
thought we were all a bunch of lazy high paid cry-babies. He soon acquired the
nickname, “His Majesty’s Lard Ass”. Sure we made good money. And working a
holiday meant triple time wages. That included an inflated wage for the day
before and the day after. And sure we complained when in efforts to save money
the head nutritional intuitionalist - a townie - switched to cheaper hotdogs.
But who wants to knowingly eat rat hair? So one Thanksgiving morning, when in
fact everybody was about to have a slow day, this new manager initiates a work
order to send a pig through the pipeline. Of course, he did it from the comfort
of his home way back in Anchorage. He was at home with his family! Pigs are
used to clean the wax off of the pipeline’s inner walls. It has to do with
efficiency. The more wax buildup, the more horsepower it takes to pump a given
amount of oil over the mountain peaks to Valdez. Now this isn’t a big deal -
launching a pig - just a messy ordeal. We got too thinking. What if we didn’t
send a pig? According to our local engineer, there was no immediate need for
such a gyration as his calculations indicated that the efficiency standards
were being surpassed. So what if we could fake the launch switch to think a
“pig out” was initiated. Hey, then we could go “pig out”. So over brewed coffee
we brewed up the scheme. We talked to the electrician. Everybody was all for
it. The pump station operator called the main pipeline controller in Valdez to
inform that the station was ready to launch. The OK was given. We went through
the motions of switching the appropriate 48-inch valves, then at the precise
moment, the electrician shorted out the switch to send a launch signal to the
computer that would send that signal all the way to Valdez. That is where the
pipeline controllers would begin a timer that would in effect monitor the
travel of the 4000-pound beast along the line. Pigs had a nickname, Alex - in
honor of the pipeline’s superintendent. Alex was big. In fact he also had a
nickname, “Two Chairs”. He was an alright guy, just don’t cross him. Now the
plan would work only if it could be coordinated with the guys down the line.
Pipeline workers stick together. See, there exists a pig launcher and a pig
receiver at several of the pumping stations. The guy at the 4th station down
the line would have to fake the “pig in” switch at the precise time. All went
without a hitch. We didn’t even get our hands dirty. Hey, what they didn’t know
wouldn’t hurt them. What we had accomplished with the pig “faking” was indeed
due to our understanding of the operation and equipment. Now pigs are nothing
to mess around with, as there exists some pretty good momentum behind that head
of oil – at 1000-pounds of pressure. One time, the pig wasn’t sent to the
receiver at the precise moment. Instead of being diverted, it ended up in the
suction piping of the main pumps. It physically bent 1-inch cold rolled steel
bars designed to prevent a pig from entering the system. When caught, these
things are no match for the flowing oil and self-destruction is imminent. The
strainers upstream of the pumps catch all the shrapnel and debris. So don’t
mess with pigs and don’t mess with the workers – especially on a holiday! Right
when we were heading to the chow hall to grab a piece of pie, we get another
call to run another pig. From the same idiot sitting comfortably back at home.
Supposedly, he didn’t see the results he was hoping for. Why? Everything was
OK. That is why we employ engineers at each location. Guys that know pipeline
dynamics. Our supervisor said that this jerk was behaving this way because he
could not stand the thought that we were all sitting around watching football
and “pigging” out. We were. Hey, even the drilling rig crews take a break on
the holidays – unless an emergency. As we were pulled away from our duties - TV
and pie - it pissed us off. So it was decided amongst a chosen few that we
would just fake another pig launch. And as before, we went thorough the
gyrations that simulated an actual launch. It was back to pie and football!
Well come about midnight, all hell broke loose. The “ghost” pig did not show up
at the 4th station down the pipeline. Damn, we forgot to call ahead
about our plan of attack. Maybe too much food was to blame. Regardless, this
was not good by any stretch of the imagination. The next day, which was
supposed to be an extended holiday weekend for the townies, it was panic from
Valdez to Prudhoe Bay. Oil spill reconnaissance was in effect. The command
center in Anchorage was powered up, which meant all the high rollers of
management – including the president – had adjourned away from the comfort of
their homes. Something stuck in the pipeline can mean serious business,
especially if it requires a bypass operation. Believe it or not, at one point,
they honestly accused us of not putting a pig in the line. But like was said
before, we stick together out here. When one of the line surveyors heard the
rumor that we were suspects, he told the chief civil engineer that one of the
check valves about 60-miles south indicated a stuck gate – like a blockage. It
meant the “ghost” pig was stuck at that point in the pipeline. And like
mentioned before, if a pig was stuck, it was in the self-destruct mode. We had
nothing to sweat, as by now the belief all around was a “stuck” pig at that
check-valve, which really wasn’t all that bad an ordeal. It has happened before
when the clapper on the valve fails. Soon “His Majesty’s Lard Ass” shows up
with “Fat Alex”. We need more chairs! Being in the clear, we couldn’t help not
laughing. So after about two days of panic, it was written off as a destroyed
pig. The only other problem we had to contend with? The inventory showed one
too many pigs! How in hell were we going to get rid of a “hog” out here on the
tundra? No problem, as one guy needed a flowerpot for his cabin outside of
Fairbanks. It was a done deal. Hey, we own the roads up here. Nobody questions
what really goes on up and down this pipeline – just to remote. And remember,
we feed the regulators! By the beginning of the week, which was the end of our
workweek, we were heading home, delayed a day because of the “missing” pig. It
meant free booze on the company. And what a paycheck for our shenanigans! We
never had to worry about launching another holiday pig, unless it was a
scheduled event. And Lard Ass found it difficult to talk his way out of why he
initiated the work order in the first place. When he admitted to the president
that he felt the workers were not very productive, a phone went flying across the
room at the command center. See that was the company president’s indication
that he was pissed off. The president made it clear and convincing that he
didn’t give a rat’s ass if the crews sat around for ever, as long as they were
running when the shit hits the fan! As long as throughput met the daily target,
they were doing the job they were paid for. Managers learn early on that their
survival depends on us. They learn early on to respect us. And we don’t need a
union!
Ely
was a proud individual. Proud to be part of the Trans-Alaska-Pipeline efforts
that allowed lifting in the neighborhood of 2-million barrels a day of crude oil
- safely that is. This of course, before Hazlewood wrecked his boat on Bligh’s
Reef. Anyway, Ely was in charge of operating the vapor recovery system at the
Valdez marine terminal. This was the beast that consisted of three odd looking
chimneys and a bunch of pipes chaotically crisscrossing one another around
massive support beams – a monster of an erection. Vapor recovery was a fancy name for an incinerator. The engineers
called it a thermal oxidizer. They used to get into arguments with each other
over the differences between combustion versus oxidation. With words like
exothermic and endothermic reactions thrown in to confuse everyone not
listening. Hey, fire is fire. The system was supposed to annihilate unburned
hydrocarbon gases that were sucked off of the giant 550,000-barrel crude oil
storage tanks. That’s a tank that is 60-feet high and 250-feet in diameter. It
is a big tank. There were 18 tanks. It meant about 9-million barrels of crude
oil stored at any given time. Enough to make about 650-million gallons of motor
fuel. Now these tanks are not very rigid, so maintaining the proper internal
pressure was part of Ely’s job. Any imbalance could cause a tank to collapse in
seconds. And the worst-case scenario would be a collapsing tank’s contents catching
on fire. And crude oil likes to burn. But even fire didn’t scare us operators.
We had these systems that could blast a bunch of fire retardant into the tanks
at the wink of an eye. It had to be designed this way, as there was a city of
people across the bay. Anyway, one morning just after the workday commenced, we
were sitting around drinking coffee and catching up on the fishing stories.
Most of us had just finished our week of R&R, so it was back to work for 7
days, for 12-hours a day. The crew that we replaced had installed a CB radio in
the break room office where Ely hangs out. It was pretty interesting listening
to the truck traffic, especially the semi-trucks roaring down through
Thompson’s Pass. It is an all down hill stretch for about 22-miles. And it was
the time of year when “black” ice starts to show up. Then the fishing story
chatter quieted down, as everybody was tuned to the radio wave gossip. Some
gal, who went by the call name “Sweater Girl”, was talking up an erotic storm.
And then she invited one lonely trucker over for coffee, donuts and you know
what. Now the crew didn’t seem to be amused over this as would be the norm –
all guys. Then some buzzer like alarm grabbed Ely’s attention and he quickly
vacated the break room towards the control room. Like I said, he was a real
good operator. Then Brian informed us that “Sweater Girl” was Ely’s wife. So
here was Ely at work and his wife was 10-Whoring truck drivers! Well Ely didn’t
seem to be all that upset over the fact that this truck driver may have just
gotten a quickie off of his wife, while he was busy at work! Well paybacks are
interesting. And to make matters worse, the guy that just visited Sweater Girl
was heading towards the terminal with a load of dog food. Purina is used in the
STP plant to generate bugs that eats human wastes. And Ely had the job of
unloading the stuff. In about an hour, the truck pulls up to be unloaded.
Everybody made it a point to get back to the office, for the fireworks. The
trucker walks in. Right off the bat, he starts talking about “Sweater Girl. He
drew a southern accent and told everybody that it was his first trip up to
Alaska, and it was going to be one to remember. In fact, he started pushing his
weight around and asked how long it was going to be before the freight was
unloaded, as he had a return date back up the pass. Guess with who? Up to this
point, Ely was really cool. He told the guy to relax, have some coffee, take a
nap. When Ely said nap, the guy thought that was not a bad idea, mentioning something
to the effect that he needed rest, something about Alaskan woman keep on
humping. Ely was up to something. Off to the side of the main control room
office was an ATCO trailer that was used for projects. There was a bed towards
the back room. Ely told the trucker about it and in no time, this guy was into
z-land. Then one of the security cameras caught what Ely was up too. He was
coaxing a black bear towards the trailer, and sure enough, once he had lured
the beast inside by throwing a sandwich through the open door, he ran up and
barricaded the door. The bear was now stuck inside with the truck driver. What
a commotion. Ely let this go on for a few minutes, then opened the door. The
bear came running out first. Then nothing. We thought maybe the guy was dead.
But he was to embarrassed to exit, as he had pissed his pants. He walked like a
guy that had one too many bronco busting rides. And to even it off, Ely had
thrown bear shit into the guys boots. Mr. Trucker realized he hadn’t made any
friends around here and quickly hightailed it north. Ely didn’t have to worry
about this guy having a return affair with “Sweater Girl”. In fact and to our
surprise, Ely called his wife and told her what had happened. I guess this was
not unusual for Ely, his wife’s sideline business. And Ely finished his
conversation by sending a kiss and telling “Sweater Girl” he loved her. Life on
the pipeline I guess.
The
workers housed in the camps at the pumping stations along the pipeline enjoy
first class accommodations, unless one was a contractor. There existed a
definite class system. But everybody worked together in a team spirit
mentality. There really wasn’t a class system when it came to the nuts and
bolts of the operation – keeping the 800-mile long beast running 365 days a
year around the clock. But the camps were a little different. The management
saw to it. Why? It was anybodies guess. Some say it had to do with one’s
religion. There was a pipeline superintendent who carried around a bible. In
fact when a technician went into a review board meeting - for a pay raise -
questions of religious affiliation were sure to enter into the picture. Anyway,
the direct hires - the elitists - these high paid workers enjoyed single status
room accommodations, it meant you could sit around naked after wearing
fireproof coveralls all day. The atmospheres inside the pumping stations are
hazardous, so the company provides fireproof
NOMEX coveralls. Basically it is just a convenient body bag should an
accident occur. Fires burn quick and fast when crude oil gets loose. Now along
with one’s own room, a shared bathroom was common. None of those cafeteria
style latrines. Anyway, I shared a bathroom with a guy named Joe. Even though
he was on in age, not to be messed with. Joe looked like your typical marine
drill sergeant. He was at one time, and had many tours of Vietnam. Maybe one
too many! I would hear Joe at night, when he should have been getting a good
nights sleep, engaged in battle - flashbacks. On many mornings when he showed
up for work, it looked like it was an all night battle. Everybody was aware of
Joe’s nightmares. One morning I woke to relieve myself and found Joe sound
asleep on the stool. Didn’t want to bother the poor guy, so I pissed out the
window. For years, nobody shared with Joe, for reasons. And his room was
situated at the buildings end, so his flashback showdowns didn’t really bother
another person’s sleeping habits. But I didn’t work directly for the pipeline,
so I was the unfortunate individual, as it was required that I get single
status accommodations. Joe showed up late for work this one particular morning.
No big deal. Things are pretty routine and low keyed at a pumping station,
since most of the activities are controlled some many miles away in Valdez.
After lunch as I approached the outside entrance to the control room, I noticed
a white like smoke billowing from the exhaust stack of gas turbine generator
unit 1. These units are natural gas powered jet engines that produce massive
amounts of thrust to turn a giant fan, which in turn powers a pump. Realizing
something was wrong, I ran into the control room. Joe was on the floor and
underneath the desk. He was yelling incoming. It was the sound from the
vibration alarms that startled his imagination. What made matters worse off,
the trip out circuits had been bypassed. So as Joe went for cover, the gas
turbine blew its cover. It was totaled in no time, to shrapnel. Joe felt bad,
but we all knew that the failed generator was nothing more then some minor loss
in oil throughput. Big deal! This place rakes in millions each day! And
contingency plans accepted worse case scenarios. So within minutes, the Herc
C-130 in reserve from Anchorage was airborne with a crew of mechanics. In
6-hours, it was business as usual. And what can you say to an individual if the
shutdown circuits were bypassed? The station manager wasn’t about to open a can
of worms about the systems not working correctly. So nothing happened to Joe,
business as usual. The crew felt sorry for Joe, he was probably a great marine.
Still is, as he served his country beyond duty. May he rest in peace upon the Great
Plains where the buffalo roams free!
The
bad thing about working some 600-miles away from home? It meant a plane was the
only way to get back and forth. So after a week away from the family, what
wasn’t appreciated was bad weather. The management didn’t like bad weather and
delays, as morale went downhill real fast. Sure the overtime was good, but we
made good money to begin with, so the extra wasn’t all that exciting. Just more
taxes! We just wanted to get home. And in Prudhoe Bay, along with all the other
sites along the pipeline, weather rules. If its not fog, its blowing snow. The
weather was bad more then good. Now some of the southern pump stations could
use buses if necessary to get the crews changed out. But up in Prudhoe, it was
just too dangerous an option. And the other bad thing about Prudhoe? The
chartered plane outfit wasn’t allowed to land at the oil companies’ private
runway. It was allowed to land only at the Dead Horse runway, a DOT facility.
The minimums were higher at the state approved airport. So when an oil
company’s plane was landing at the gravel runway just 5-miles from the paved
runway, we were stuck. The company needed a solution. So that is where “Crash
Harvey” came to the rescue. When the weather was below minimums, “Crash Harvey”
would come out of semi-retirement and get the job done. It was interesting. He
would ferry the plane north and run passes at the socked in runway. Then, he
would declare a low fuel emergency and the controllers had no other option then
to let the plane attempt a landing. It worked every time. Nobody really cared
if the rules were bent a little bit up this far north. And it was just oil
workers! When the plane would finally land, you could see the pilot’s red faced
glow even before the engines shutdown. It was “Crash Harvey’s” trademark. What
caused the red face was anybodies guess. We didn’t really care, just get us
home. Now it wasn’t bad for the workers waiting to get out of Dodge, as anybody
can take off with a plane. It is landing that is scary, especially when it
takes a Red Barron like Harvey to get the job done. Now this one particular
time when the plane came to a halt, about a dozen sick workers came running
out. It was windy from Anchorage all the way to Prudhoe Bay, some 600-miles.
Super turbulent was a better reading. So even though we were homeward bound
after a 3-hour delay, we were ready. And another fringe benefit, if a delay
lasted longer then 1-hour, it meant free booze on the company. We needed it, as
it was tremendously bumpy flight. In fact, some of the other flights were
already cancelled for this day. Maybe Harvey had met his match. Anyway, booze
helped the misery. There was a tenderfoot member of the crew aboard this
flight. She looked not so well. Dub called the attention of the sickly looking
stewardess. He informed the new girl that Leon was sick. Now Leon was holding a
“puck bag” as if he had just unloaded. What she didn’t know was the fact that
the bag had already been loaded up with a can of chicken soup. From those
little cans. We keep a lot of those cans around the stations, as backup
provisions. She reached to retrieve the bag, and as she was about to take it
away, Dub grabbed it, opened it up and guzzled the contents. This sent the
stewardess AWOL to the plane’s rear galley. But soon enough, it was wheels down
in Anchorage. With the booze, everybody would most likely forget about just how
bad it truly was. Crash Harvey did his thing again. A true “Bush Rat” pilot he
was. What really mattered, I was home with my family!
For
the most part, working at a pumping station is pretty slow work. Routine means
hanging around the break-room. Every so often, we hit the deck pretty hard. Our
job responsibility is to keep the oil flowing through the pipeline. Of course,
we have other jobs that really aren’t part of our job statement but it comes
with the territory. Like being a member of the fire brigade and the oil spill
response team. The fire brigade, it is a joke. Should a fire break out where
crude oil is available to stoke the storm, run. As far as the oil spill
response, the pipeline company is required to have a set number of available
workers to respond to a pipeline leak. Now that doesn’t mean available from a
city like Fairbanks or Anchorage, it means available within 30-minutes. So that
is why we have a full staff of workers at each pump station along the 800-mile
long dipstick. The pipeline is actually controlled from Valdez. So we are just
a bunch of baby-sitters. Every so often we have to play out the part of oil
spill response workers. It sucks. It is a waste of time. Cleaning up oil is
impossible. We know it, the regulators know it. But they make us practice
anyway. At least it pays good! And what would normally be a 12-hour day can
easily turn into a 16-hour day. The overtime makes it worth it. Plus one can’t
complain about the scenery. When the call comes in that the controllers in
Valdez have observed an anomaly, it basically means heading out in some type of
vehicle to score the pipeline right-of-way. Oil spills are bad business. Even a
little spilled oil is cause for concern. Take for instance oil from a broken
oil pan. Not a problem unless it gets into a stream or river. And each vehicle
is equipped with a diaper. This thing is placed under the engine when not in
use, to catch oil. Now about the word “anomaly”! One guy was out doing recon
one day. He high centered his truck in one of the river crossings. When he
radioed in his predicament to the security office in Fairbanks, he just
happened to mention that an oil “sheen” was observed dissipating in the flowing
water surrounding his stuck truck. That was a no-no. See, everybody listens to
the radio conversations, even the regulators. Before you know it, helicopters
are flying above this guy. Oil spill reconnaissance teams were dispatched to
the scene from north and south of his location. It became a big deal. Just for
using the wrong word! He was given a class in radio etiquette. Anyway, this
particular day we were out patrolling the pipeline. Now these drills can go on for
hours. And as usual, about a few hours into the drill, we were hungry. Pipeline
workers are always hungry! But nobody remembered to pack a stash of snacks. Not
to worry said Frank. He put in a radio call to Reese. Now Reese operated the
big cat. It was a monster of a contraption that was on tracks. It could go
anywhere. It could go over anything. The main use was to rescue workers should
they get stuck in bad weather. Anyway, contact was made and no sooner we were
heading in a different direction. We all knew it was a drill, so our
coordinates were faked when we communicated with the command center. They
thought we were still going south, when in reality we were backtracking. We
finally showed up to where Reese was hanging out. It was like a scene form the
days of the old west. Reese’s machine was a chuck wagon. Hee ha! Evidently, he
would head out and find a good place to set up camp. One that was sheltered
from the wind and sheltered from the bosses. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about
spilled oil. So his job was to pack up the tracked rig with all kinds of food.
There was a bunch of other vehicles hanging around. So we knew that everybody
else was also calling in fake coordinates. Reese had a barbeque going. You name
it, Reese had it cooking. It meant a well planned raid on the camp’s supply
pantry. From steak to chops to prime-rib. And of course camp coffee. A little
heavy on the coffee grounds, but satisfying. Man everything but alcohol. Now we
didn’t get to look out on the prairies for steers and cattle. Hey, around here
it was looking out on the vast wilderness of tundra, caribou country. On this
particular day, thousands could be seen just a stone’s throw away. And as
everybody enjoyed the food, Reese was off wetting a line, hoping to cook up
some fresh fish. Sure enough, he even knew where the good fishing spots were,
for arctic grayling. Then the drill was called off. Hey we were just beginning
with our fun. So after about an hour, we headed back to the station. When we
arrived back at the camp, because of our delay, the chow line was purposely
left open. Hey, we weren’t hungry. That was the sentiment from most of the crew
that had come upon Reese’s chuck wagon. The camp cook said something to the
effect it was either a bunch of sick guys or Reese was at it again. Come to
find out, this had been going on for sometime now. Innocent fun. So now when we
hear the call to respond, we all watch the direction Reese is heading towards.
Must be where the oil spill is, or at least the action. Chuck wagon Alaskan style.
On overtime! Try to top that Mr. Texan!
It
was my first trip north, to where the pipeline begins. I had been stationed in
Valdez, where the big steel tankers take on loads of crude oil and then depart
somewhere. Who knows where that stuff ends up? Anyway, there seemed to be a
delay in our departure from the airport. Delays were not the typical, as this
was a private charter. And I didn’t know any of the workers well enough to ask
what the problem was. Then I heard a few guys discussing what to do. Seems the
plane cannot depart until the station supervisor gives the go ahead. And the
supervisor was nowhere to be found. Then a few guys huddled together and before
you know it, they were vacating the concourse and flagging down several taxis,
as each was going in a different direction. Where to? Still a mystery. Then
about 30-minutes later, here comes a taxi, returning one of the guys who
earlier vacated the concourse. Now along for the ride was another guy that
looked drunk. In fact, past drunk and unconscious! Soon several of the workers
went to the assistance of the man. He seemed to recognize the workers hanging
about in efforts to help out. The guy, well he now sported an, “Oh shit” grin.
Now one would think that this kind of behavior would not be tolerated. We
really weren’t at work yet, but attempting to head that way. I was used to
working at the Marine Terminal in Valdez, where a “UI” meant a trip to the
unemployment line. Maybe the pipeline worked a little differently. The pipeline
and Marine Terminal where separate, like two different companies all together.
Well without further delay, the dead-weighted guy was man-handled on to the
plane, and before you know it, we were airborne. He was the supervisor. His OK
was required for the liftoff. Now when we arrived in Deadhorse, the same guys
had to carry the unconscious dude off the plane. And when we arrived at the
camp, same thing. I guess they just carried him to his room and threw him in
the bed. Nobody mentioned anything unusual about this ordeal, like it was a
common occurrence. This guy liked his booze. Some said he would go on week’s
binge. Hey with a week on week off schedule, there’s enough time to get loaded
and also accomplish a whole lot of things. But just booze? For the next four
days, there was no supervisor present at the shift change. Wow, a five day
sleep off so far! Then on the sixth day all hell broke loose. They called Carl,
he was right there. Now this guy was good. He had a hairdo that could have used
a comb, but there were more important things to think about then personal
hygiene and he knew it. See, most of the time it is business as usual. Pumping
oil is not that complicated. But some changes with the Prudhoe Bay oil field
was causing the oil to separate, from too high a vapor pressure. Pumps were
going crazy, as cavitation from gas bubbles unloaded the jet engine driven
units. Now when the pumps aren’t happy, the entire football sized complex
starts walking! Normally, the controllers in Valdez would just shut-in the
pipeline, but shutting down the pumps wasn’t an options this time around. For a
reason, as a collapsing oil column following even an orderly shutdown could
prove to be dangerous in the “slack” line regions of the pipeline. That is
where the oil’s velocity is almost zero. It starts at the top of the mountain
peaks. The falling oil gains momentum when it travels downhill, unabated. What
occurs in these regions is the formation of giant gas bubbles. Over time, the
bubbles get to big and pieces break away. When these outlaws hit the downstream
stations’ piping, it causes strange things. Now being the first station on the
line heading south, we had the duty to minimize what was happening the rest of
the 800-miles. So Carl did his thing. He quickly gained manual control of the
pumps. He had one operator adjust the speed on one unit. He knew the
particulars of each pump and with each system. He saved the day. Maybe the
entire pipeline this time around. It was an all day affair. Finally when things
calmed down, he asked what day it was? Good, tomorrow was going home day. He
needed a drink! But for sure, he knew how to tame the beast, the pipeline that
is. Hey, as far as the operators were concerned, he could sleep all day, as
long as he showed when the shit hit the fan.
Oil spill preparedness drills
are part of the everyday workouts up and down the pipeline. Every worker has a
designated job function during a spill drill. Some of these drills can last an
entire 12-hour day. It means mobilizing equipment and heading out convoy style
to head off an environmental nightmare. When a call comes in, the
reconnaissance teams head out to perform a visual along the 800-mile pipeline.
We have 3 and 4-wheeled vehicles to cover the path of the pipeline. We have
track rigs, the kind used to rescue skiers. You name it, the pipeline has it at
its disposal. Even a few helicopters on standby. Some equipped with infrared
sensors to pick up heat loss from a crude oil leak. Now oil spill drills are
kept secret. Nobody really knows when one will occur. And the authorities don’t
wait for good weather to make the call. Now this one particular time, an
imbalance in the pipeline flow caused the pipeline controllers to issue a
reconnaissance check. Any suspected failure involves the entire length of the
pipeline, it involves the entire workforce. In Anchorage, a hi-tech command
center comes alive. With the recon request, we didn’t know if it was a drill or
the real thing. As the first responder teams headed out, we mobilized the heavy
equipment. There were enough construction rigs to build a town involved in a
drill. The word came to head north to a rendezvous point up on Thompson’s Pass.
From here, the heavy equipment could respond in either direction. This kind of
mobilization was occurring up and down the line. After a few hours, the recon
teams still had not come across a pipeline leak. How this was done for a drill
was to place a large spread of “black” plastic to appear as if a crude oil leak
had tortured the ground. It was easy to locate in the wintertime. A little more
difficult with the green scene. We would be graded on the response time to find
the leak and the time to get the appropriate equipment on the site and begin
capture and clean-up. Now some mandatory drills must cover both shifts. So the
authorities use oranges - as a simulator - to see how well the crews can
retrieve waterborne runaway crude oil. Cases of oranges are let go in the
rivers upstream of the fake leaking pipe and the clean-up crews must boom the
rivers to capture the oranges. Oranges that get free cause the score to go low.
If a score is too low, the drill is failed and a follow up must be arranged.
Oil spill drills are time intensive. Rigs get stuck. People get stuck. This is
wilderness we’re talking about up here in Alaska. The Scout motto rings so
true, “Be prepared”. There was one particular time when an on-scene oil spill
manager was upset that the crews had not retrieved enough oranges. It was a
windy and cold day, which made the booming operation tough. So he directed the
crews to go downstream and retrieve shore-side oranges to make it look like the
booming process was successful. We found all kinds of oranges, as a week
earlier, the first drill was called and it was a failure - so un-captured
oranges littered the shores. A second failure was not what the bosses in
Anchorage were willing to accept. The pipeline’s operating permit required an
oil spill contingency plan approved by the regulators. So failure could
jeopardize the operations. It could mean fines. He could mean shutting the
beast down! So we had the oranges. But little did we know was the fact that the
state authorities were smart and used a different kind of orange on the second
drill. We failed bad! Now on this most recent drill, after about 6-hours of
gallivanting here there and everywhere, the drill was called off. It was
reported that there was not a leak found. The imbalance was written off as a
computer glitch. As we headed back towards the Valdez Terminal, an operator
that stayed behind to monitor the facility reported that a big piece of “black”
plastic was on the ground behind the West Tank Farm. We never thought to look
for a leak at the terminal, it was always a pipeline leak! There was a new
regulator working for the state. He threw us a curveball. Anyhow, this was not
good. I guess when the company president heard this, as all radio traffic is
monitored at the command central, he did his usual thing. He pulled the phone
out of the wall jack and sent it sailing across the room. He was known for
this, it was his trademark reaction to bad news. I guess the phone technician
always had a handy supply of phones, just incase. And the engineers would place
bets, trying to figure out the trajectory of the airborne phone. In fact, they
would set up invisible targets in the command central, just as an exercise in
aerodynamics. Supposedly there was this one engineer who had a PHD. He liked
the drills because he was good at the trajectory stuff and always made a
killing on the betting scheme. I guess at times, these guys would purposely get
the president upset, to get the phones airborne if it looked like it was going
to be a calm day! In fact, when he would make his appearance out at the pumping
stations, which was rare, the technicians would hide the phones. We like phones
in efforts to call home! Now the best thing we heard is when one of the phone
techs became tired of George’s behavior. So he hard wired the phone into an
outlet at the office in Anchorage. Sure enough, something caused the postal
reaction during some kind of meeting. They say when George got finished, there
was a hole in the sheet-rock about 2-feet in diameter. It was really hard
wired! What made matters worse, when the building contractor repaired the hole,
it was discovered that the building contained asbestos imbedded in the
insulation! It required a major building overhaul to make it a safe workplace.
All because of an un-airborne phone!
Truck’n! The tune we would all
hum when Bo Peters made his arrival noticeable. He walked just like the DooDah
man made famous by the Grateful Dead. We used to imitate the long stride gait
as we followed him around the pump station, he was an alright guy. Just seemed
to have a few screws missing. Some were convinced that was a prerequisite of
getting a job on the line. He was the supervisor, so he had the final say on
many things. One day he came strolling into the control room. We were in the
middle of an isolation procedure. Now anything done at a station followed a
pre-approved plan of attack. It was a “don’t miss” anything written procedure
with a checklist and each step required more approval signatures then a declaration
of war. Anyway, the stations were starting to show signs of wear and tear, so
some mundane things, like valve status lights, didn’t always work. But good
operators didn’t need all the fancy bells and whistles to determine the
immediate status of the pipeline’s operation. A lot of the stuff was redundant
BS. Now the procedure we were dealing with was in efforts to take a
250,000-barrel storage tank out of service so the inspectors could check things
out. There were two of these cylindrical beasts at the first station on the
800-mile line and building such structures on permafrost had made for some
design challenges that were still in the experimental stage. Basically, the
bottoms were falling out! Once the 10,000 year old frost starts to melt, it can’t
be stopped. The bottom of the tanks were well insulated, so it was hoped that
it wasn’t the permafrost melting, just the fact that the entire sea-level North
Slope was sinking. Some geologists were convinced that the oil removal was
allowing the surface to subside. It was like a marshland to begin with, so it
wouldn’t take much more before it became part of the Arctic Ocean. Anyway, Bo
made mention that the valve on the mimic board was not showing the correct
status. The light was burnt out! We all knew it. The valve was supposed to be
open thus allowing oil flow into the tank that was still in operation. We had
physically checked the position of the valve in the field prior to Bo’s
unwanted appearance. An argument engaged that “whose on first” scenario. Soon
the head operator and Bo were face to face and the argument crept closer and
closer to the mimic board that showed the valve being somewhere. Besides status
lights, there is a switch that allows manually opening or closing a valve from
the board incase the computer systems don’t work. Well Bo, while pointing
fingers, gets a little carried away with his emotions and hits the close
button. Now these valves are designed to go in transit once commanded. There is
no stopping the valve travel. And in order to reverse the operation, the valve
has to travel all the way to the opposite condition. This is a 4-foot diameter
valve with a load of oil behind it. So if it started to go closed, it would
have to travel all the way closed before it could be open again. As we all
know, mistakes of this magnitude must be avoided at all costs. Unfortunately it
was to late. We scrambled, in efforts to cut off the electricity energizing the
valve. But the switchgear was out in the yard and construction equipment
barricaded our efforts. As the valve traveled closed, it allowed all of the
incoming oil under pressure from the largest oil field in North America to go
straight to the booster pump building. Even though the piping is of welded
construction, there existed many flanges in this one particular building. Well
there was nothing we could do. Oil sprayed out of every possible opening made
possible by pipes buckling in every possible direction. It was a mess. It
caused the station to shutdown on high gas vapors. What was once a concrete
walled building, we think blue in color, was now saturated with crude oil.
Anyway, a few days later, the incident was cleaned up and we were getting ready
to initiate a pipeline start-up. Downtime is bad in this business. Bo still
didn’t understand that he screwed up. Now when the gas detection system
initiated a station shutdown, that also dumps halon. Each building is equipped
with about a hundred bottles of this stuff, which is banned. So dumping the
stuff is not good because the pipeline gets fined. And before start-up can
commence, the discharged bottles have to be replaced. No fire protection, no
start-up. There is hardly any water up here for fighting fires. And this halon
stuff is getting scarce. As we were replacing one of the bottles, a gas leak
was heard. It started really pouring out of the bottle, enough to send
everybody to cover and bouncing the bottle around until it fell on its side.
That’s what happens under 2000-pounds of pressure! The bottle then began a
floor spin as by now the gas was blowing out at maximum pressure. Then it found
a target, it shot forward like a rocket, right towards the janitor. He didn’t
know anything about this stuff. He was usually over at the camp cleaning
toilets. The bottle was a direct hit, you could hear the leg bone crushing. You
could hear his shrieks of pain over that of the escaping gas. There was nothing
we could do until the pressure bled off enough to attempt a rescue, and the
arriving medics could calm his pain. It was pretty ugly. Then somebody
commented. What the hell was the janitor doing here anyway? We all looked at
Bo. Strike two for this week! It was his screw-up that put us here to begin
with. He was the person that corralled every able-bodied person to help out, as
he wanted to look good. Soon everything was back to normal. Now in the
meantime, the weather conditions outside had turned for the worse. We heard
that the medi-vac plane had made it in to take the janitor back to Anchorage.
But after that, everything was closed down. Now at the station, in efforts to
get back to the camp, it required the placement of a guide rope, that’s how bad
it was with the blowing snow - zero visibility. In fact, it got so bad that the
decision was made that if you were at the station, you stayed at the station.
If you were lucky enough to be at the camp, stay there. This went on for a few
more days. Temperatures with the wind chill fell to minus 100 degrees! At the
camp, it meant a pinochle-playing marathon, and we were getting paid. Soon we
heard an emergency call come in from the control room. Somebody was missing, it
was Bo. Even with restrictions still on, he decided he wanted a donut. With no
traffic allowed between the station and the camp, provisions were dwindling.
Still not a big deal as the stations have a well stocked canteen. Just no fresh
fat pills! Now Bo was lost, as he decided to walk over to the camp, really only
about a 100-yards away. The saving grace was the fact that the entire station
perimeter was surrounded by a fence, so no one could really get lost. But we
knew the victim was Bo. And Bo was known to do stupid things. So the fire chief
made the decision to make a rescue. His plan was to send out a rescue team,
tied together by ropes. But before the first rescue team could head out, we
received a panic call, from Bo. He had made it into the mechanics shop. A
little on the frostbite side but nothing serious. Reese, the fire chief, told
him to stay put and the rescue team would make advancements to rescue the boss.
Of course, the chief had no inclination to send out a rescue team, Bo could
stay put in the shop. It was warm, and there was most likely a supply of Lipton
soup. But the dumb shit wanted a donut, so after about a half hour, Bo tried to
rescue himself, once again. Guess what, lost again! This guy’s brain must have
been frozen. Was this strike three or four? And once radio communications
stopped, as the batteries freeze up pretty quick, the chief had to attempt a
rescue. It was pretty dangerous, and of course, one always had the realization
that a polar bear could be sniffing around, even though these bears were few
and far between around this part of the oil field. Soon the rescue was over.
And according to the rescue team, Bo was nowhere close to finding his way back
to the camp. He was going completely in the opposite direction. And come to
find out, the gate that headed south towards the out going pipeline had been
forced open by the effects of the storm. It could have been disastrous if Bo
had found freedom outside the fence. But once back in the camp, he acted like
nothing was wrong and headed right for the donut tray. And he was convinced
that he wasn’t lost. But his radio was nowhere to be found. He said he lost it
when he slipped on the ice. Most likely from the DooDah walk, as it makes one
unstable. And after pigging out on jelly filled donuts, Bo tried to head back
over to the station. Our sentiment at that point in time, let him go! The
weather had calmed down a little bit, so he did find his way back. We all
realized that to work for this guy it was just like a babysitting job. The good
thing, in efforts to keep the idiocy out of what really happened, we were all
awarded a safety award. Yes indeed, $150.00 dollar gift certificate. Hey Bo,
there’s the door! Don’t come back now, ya hear!
As the new kid on the block,
it meant the work orders nobody else was interested in – like the “dirty” jobs.
I was hired to work at the southern end of the pipeline, at the Valdez Marine
Terminal. This was a monster of a facility. After an 800-mile journey, the
crude oil would be stored here first before being loaded aboard supertankers.
Then those tankers would head south through the “narrows” on to the open
Pacific Ocean and eventually end the journey at refineries on the West Coast.
All in all, the oil traveled some 2000-miles from wellheads in Prudhoe Bay to
be made into motor gasoline. The tank farm here, carved out of a mountainside,
it could hold 9-million barrels of crude oil. That’s about 430-million gallons.
And in March of 1994, the pipeline reached the 10-billion barrel mark! The
operation was like a small city, with around the clock activities. There
existed four loading berths in operation at the peak of pipeline throughput,
some 2-million barrels a day. Now each loading berth was located some distance
from land by a causeway. And with an average 18-hours to unload the ballast
water then switch gears to take on crude oil, the big problem for the workers
was the fact that “duty” does call. Basically, “I have to pee”! Due to
liability concerns, we were not allowed to board a tanker. And due to fire
watch requirements, it meant constant vigilance by the on-duty operator. If an
oil leak occurred, the operator had to initiate an emergency shutdown, which
would close off the flow of oil in 3-seconds! So the relieving problem solution
was to provide an on-site John. I wanted to say “portable”, but that really
wouldn’t fit. Now due to environmental constraints, it was a specially designed
John. About the size of a small house. In time, these were called the
million-dollar “Shitters”. And like mentioned beforehand, none of the seasoned
maintenance workers would go near these beasts, so news guys like myself ended
up getting the “shit” detail. These things never graduated out of the
experimental stage. It was based on a technology that was new and would never
be used anywhere else except up here in Alaska. So during the first few years
of operation, the operators still pissed over the railing into the sound.
Pissing was no problem. The other thing? Now to get caught in either act, it
meant a direct termination offense. Hey to loose a job like this for the act of
relieving oneself, it would be better to piss in one’s pants! So the attempt
was made to get the things working correctly. Anyway, there was a staff of
maintenance workers whose full time job was to baby-sit the latrines. The
design engineers were constantly trying out a new gadget here and there to make
the things “flush”. What made it difficult, no potable water was available.
Seawater couldn’t be used. Add to the dilemma that there was no way to get rid
of the contaminated water. No bilging allowed here. So it meant a Rudy Goldberg
“dry-flush” contraption designed to annihilate the human waste by mechanical
separators, pressure cookers, sludge buckets and something called anaerobic
bugs. The room that held the stall also held all the processing equipment to
handle what went into the can. These things were designed on an “up-lift”
theory. From the can, the contents would be sucked up into fancy separators
then sent to a pressure cooker like tank. All in all, the cycle to take human
waste and turn it into something that would eventually disintegrate, it would
take at least a month. So the stench of decaying human waste was everywhere.
Probably the biggest design problem on the Trans-Alaskan-Pipeline were the
Johns! Even up and down the pipeline it was a challenge. With very little
water, it meant collecting the human waste and burning it in the high
temperature exhaust stacks of the turbine pumps. If it didn’t work right, it
caused a yellow like haze to surround the station. When it rained, it was
“yellow” rain. Here in Valdez, we finally had something that worked, after
about an entire year of nothing else accomplished. These “shitters” had become
the most costly of systems. The only problem, don’t be sitting on the “can”
when it flushes. And flushing was an automatic ritual, a hands off type of
approach. Now with the different shifts and varying change out days, some
information is wilted down by the time it is passed down. Somebody forgot to
pass down the flushing problem with the Johns now in service and reported as
working. Basically, it sounded like “Hell” and the “can” would jump and vibrate
like all hell was indeed breaking loose. To make matters worse, the vibrating
“can” was enough to shake the berths super-structure and initiate the strong
motion accelerometers. These devices were used to measure seismic activity –
earthquakes! Anyway, there was this one particular operator named Hotai. Many
said his real name was “Hotair”. What a character. He wore a sea captain’s hat,
the old fashion kind, like Captain Cook. He had a black patch over one eye. And
he was equipped with a sheathed dagger that went from waist to knee. He could
flip that metal blade out in seconds flat. This guy was living proof that
pirates did exist – today even! When he wasn’t loading crude oil onto tankers,
he was practicing the switchblade act. He was always up to something. Now one
day when a tanker was closing in on the berth for tie-up, right after the Johns
were supposedly in working order, Hotai had to relieve himself. The tie-up was
another crews’ responsibility, so this was a good time for him to take a break
before his job responsibilities were in effect. During the act, the toilet
decided to flush, when he was still sitting on the can! He came running out
with his pants down. Still had his pirate hat on, and the knife was ready to
make mincemeat. He thought the tanker had crashed into the berth. He was
pissed. Enough was enough. So when the tanker was ready to take on a load of
crude oil, Hotai refused to engage the loading valves. That action or inaction
pissed the captain off. An argument broke loose between Hotai and the tanker
captain. Guess who won! Anyway a deal was made. This must have been Hotai’s
plan of attack. If the tanker captain would let Hotai on board to use a decent
restroom, in return it meant free phone calls for the tanker crew. We stood
around listening to what was going on. Hotai was a wheeler and a dealer.
Anyway, they struck a deal. And this captain was so pleased with the fact that
his crew would have unabated access to phone calls to the lower 48 states, not
only was a restroom made available, but so was access to the tanker’s galley!
It meant free food, and good food at that. There was a pay phone at each berth,
so the crewmembers could call home. Now Hotai had figured out a way to switch a
few wires around so the pay phone worked off the same pair of wires as the
operations phone. It meant long distance phone calls were looked upon as local
calls, because the phone signals were sent to Anchorage over the company’s
satellite system. Once to Anchorage, there was no accountability whatsoever,
just normal business calls. So over time, when word was out that tankers tied
up at Berth #5 offered free food, work orders that came in for John work were
scoffed up by everyone. It was no longer the “dirty” work, but the job that had
the fringe benefits. Thanks to Hotai the Pirate! Now working the berths
initiates a pirate like atmosphere. Fog hangs over the operation for most of
the year. And tankers make creepy creaky noises as the football length hulls
bend to accommodate the crude oil being pumped onboard. And the size of these
beasts is mind-boggling. The entire scene is kind of aerie like. In one of the
operating shelters, somebody had scribbled, “Old pirates yes they rob I”, a Bob
Marley song. Yes pirates! One guy spent his spare time fishing for halibut,
just below the berths, as it was pretty deep water. The catch was traded to the
tankers’ chefs, for what in exchange was anybodies guess. Some say the tanker
crews had call girls in town. So rumor was catch for snatch. And two guys found
a way to get to a small island just off of the number 4 berth. It was a
trapper’s paradise, on company time! One guy, a native Alaskan, spent time
carving. He would sell his goods to the tanker crews. And then there arrived
the tankers with the strange flags. Along with crews that couldn’t speak any
English, accept for one word, marijuana! The only problem with that? No place
to flush away the evidence! Oh, and at one time during the pipeline’s
construction days, there existed real live “Million Dollar Johns”.
The pipeline was constructed
out of temporary “cold storage” buildings, sometimes referred to as the Sue Lay
buildings. Cold storage because inside it was just like a refrigerator. With
steel walls and concrete floors upon permafrost, what else could one expect?
Now for the Sue Lay? Sue was a hooker. Lay wasn’t her real last name, just a
nickname. After the oil started flowing, these steel sided buildings were just
to valuable to tear down. Costly at that to demolish, as all the materials
would have to be shipped to a disposal site many miles away, like 800! So what
was once a pipe welding shop or a fabrication shop, these bygones became things
like a mechanic’s shop or a pipeline oil-spill contingency office. Now these
shops were usually manned by the contractors, so there was no direct
supervision from the pumping station management. Well after a few years, we
became very efficient with our job responsibilities. It allowed time for long
lunches, even longer afternoon siestas and time to think up crazy things.
Bostick was one of those grown-up guys that was a kid at heart, just stuck
inside a football players body. He liked the crazy stuff. Like joining you on
the treadmill and ramping up the speed to maximum, until Humpty takes a great
fall! One day I was walking from the station over to my shop, located in one of
the old buildings. I was the radio guy. The path would take me by the
mechanic’s shop where Bostick and Rooster hung out. Now Rooster, well the best
way to describe his character is like this. He would hang out with his
father-in-law on his week off. They were always looking for deals. Well they
found a camper, one that fits in the bed of a pick-up truck. They decided to
buy the used thing because Rooster had just returned from the “slope”, which
meant a pocket full of cash. Besides that, they were driving around in a
pick-up truck. So when the seller made an offer they couldn’t refuse, it was a
done deal. It meant packing it up. Now they had no idea what they were gong to
do with the camper. And the bed of the pick-up wasn’t prepared to accept the camper,
like holes drilled in the bed’s sides for bolts to secure the camper. So it was
decided that Rooster would sit in the camper to stabilize it. Now after a few
miles on the road, I guess the father-in-law forgot about the camper’s loose
security and rounded a steep corner a little too fast, the camper toppled off
of the truck and rolled down a steep ravine, all the time Rooster was still in
it. According to Rooster, this was a normal week off! Anyway, as soon as I was
ready to open the door to my shop, I here this “whump” and feel this thump! I
was hit in the back by something. It looked like whipped cream, with chocolate
and some sort of pastry. Then I heard the laughing. It was Bostik and Rooster.
They were experimenting with a cream puff launcher. It was a piece of pipe, the
diameter sized to fit cream puffs that were readily available at the camp. And
acetylene was used to propel the load. These guys were crazy. So over the next
few weeks they refined their weapon. See there was increased emphasis on the
pipeline’s security. It had something to do with the possibility that terrorist
would try to disrupt the flow of oil. So security guards were now allowed to
carry “loaded” guns. The “cream puff” launcher was these guys salute to the
flag. They were doing their duty. The only bad thing about their efforts, it
takes a lot of puffs to get it down right. At lunch, I heard someone complain
that all the cream puffs were disappearing. Well one day, Rooster comes
storming into my shop. He’s running scared, something about the fact that
Bostik is going to kill himself. It wasn’t a few minutes later when we heard a
horrendously loud explosion and the entire building started shaking. We ran
outside, just in time to see Bostik struggling out of the mechanics shop. Looked
as if he was having an epileptic fit. He was holding his hands over his ears,
as if deafened by the concussion. Now the “slope” doesn’t get that much snow,
but it does accumulate. So the roof above the mechanics shop had a three-foot
packing, and it was sloped towards Bostik, who was still trying to recover from
a premature explosion caused by a little too much acetylene gas. Rooster
grabbed my attention. The snow, in one continuous batch, found a target. The
explosion from the cream puff launcher had loosened the pack. The target was
Bostik, now covered from head to toe. Damn, we had a live snowman. Just like
the abominable snowman. We took a picture of him. For years, workers up here
had been trying to build a snowman. The snow is more like ice, so it doesn’t
pack. But the snow over the mechanics shop goes through thawing and freezing
cycles, so it packs because it gains moisture. People don’t realize that this
place is considered a desert. It was a first for a Prudhoe Bay snowman! In
fact, it looked so real that the picture was used as the cover on one of the
monthly worker magazines. Only a few of us realized that it was a “real live”
snowman. Over time, people started telling Bostik that the snowman looked like
him. He never let on that it was. And since he didn’t want anybody to find out,
for the remainder of the winter, which lasts at least 6-months up here, he
would start our trucks up, so they would be warm when we headed for work. It
was nice, to walk out into a nice warm truck. On top of that, he would keep the
gas tank topped off! Hey, when it is 60 below zero and the winds are calling
for a minus 90 chill factor, self-service is bad business. We had Bostik
service!
During the construction phase
of the Trans-Alaska-Pipeline, many research projects found unlimited funding to
pursue things that had nothing to do with pumping oil some 800-miles. It is
said that the design project in itself was a PHD dissertation give-away haven.
Some projects were beneficial. Take for instance the project to determine if a
hunter’s bullet could pierce the steel walled pipe. A pressurized test section
of pipe was set-up to challenge the laws of probability. And there came no
rules of engagement, just pride, integrity and guts. The pride came from the
fact that if anybody could breach the pipeline it would be the law, as they had
the most sophisticated weapons and armament. Integrity, because they were
sharpshooters and could pick out a weak section of pipe even if it were covered
with a bunch of insulation some 2-feet thick. And guts? Well anybody crazy
enough to take a close-up shot at the pipeline, it meant guts. A hole from a bullet,
based on the fact that to every action there exists an equal and opposite
reaction, would allow a high velocity stream of hot crude oil to impale the
scoundrel. It could mean death by a hot prod like piercing. Anyway, the lawmen
said it was an impossibility. They were wrong! There came along other
beneficial research projects, like how to keep the work crew buses’ beer kegs
cold, so you didn’t have a bunch of disgruntled welders come quitting time. If
they quit, kiss it all goodbye. One low life project that didn’t arouse much
curiosity or fanfare was the reseeding project. Yes indeed, outfits like
Bechtel were assigned the duty to come up with a seed mix that mimicked the
pipeline corridor’s ecosystem. It was required, because after the construction crews
left, the gravel work-pad was to be restored to its original habitat. Now one
just can’t go to the local lawn and garden and pick up something that would
grow along the wilderness route. And with 800-miles of pipe, it meant several
different growth zones. So the scientists were hard at work and came up with
the perfect seed mixture. It was imbedded with a super duper fertilizer. So
tolerant this stuff was, that it was kept under lock and key. A few years after
start-up of the pipeline and during an equipment auction, the outfit in charge
of getting rid of everything, well they came across a few bags of seed that
never made it into the vault. This was leftover stuff, in-case reseeding was
necessary in the future. Now right before it was supposed to go on the auction
block, the pipeline police confiscated the stuff. But before they could get it
back in the vault, it was stolen, from out of a truck in Valdez. Little things
like this gains attention in little towns. The bandits had no idea what they
had gotten away with, except it must have been important stuff. Valdez is at
the end of the pipeline, in Prince William’s Sound. Now this town had become a
family town after the construction hookers headed south. So houses were
springing up, in neighborhoods, with cul-de-sacs. Anyway, the guys that stole
the specialty seed sold it to a local “we-have-everything” store. And come the
summer construction season, the general contractor for one of the big housing
projects decided to save some money, so he purchased the stolen seed. Now, like
mentioned before, this wasn’t your ordinary seed stuff. It could grow on a bald
spot, just add water. So soon, new houses were sporting these immaculate lawns,
like overnight. But not known was the fact that the seed mixture also contained,
“Devils Club”. It started growing everywhere. Now this stuff grows about 5-feet
high. And it contains these sharp barbs that can rip Carharts. Pretty soon,
some people couldn’t even get into their houses. And kids were scared silly of
the ugly looking plants, like something out of Jurassic Park. It was so
prevalent come Halloween, the authorities banned outside trick or treating. And
once this stuff starts growing, it keeps on going. It is a weed. It grows just
beneath the surface, sending out tentacles that can bust through concrete
foundations. And it is an invading type species. So where there once was the
possibility of grass, well it required the entire lawn to be up-routed and
replaced with small pea gravel to keep the stuff at bay. And all it takes is
one seed to take hold and the entire cycle starts all over again. It actually
grows on rocks, from the super duper fertilizer. Not to fear, as some outfit on
the East Coast, some exterminating firm, well they had a solution. Wrong, the
local authorities said no and placed a ban on the use of anything that could
stop the “Devil”. It had to do with the fact that if the poison made its way
into the environment, it could cause the wilderness to sprout lawns. It could
affect the animals’ migratory patterns! So, when visiting Valdez, enjoy the
rock gardens.
I
worked out on the pipeline with a bunch of young through middle-aged men who
thought a good day at work meant a good farting contest. I could keep up with
them. And when a lady farts in the crowd, and takes the credit, men get pretty
weird. Better then that, find out who was showing the porno-movies over at the
camp at night and barge in for the entertainment. I didn’t really like the
smut. It was my way to intimidate the younger guys. Hey, just what the hell was
that guy trying to do with that women? It’s all fake! Now being the token
worker of the opposite sex, there existed some advantages besides being around
a bunch of horny guys all the time. Guys away from their wives for a whole
week! And way far away at that, some 600-miles! Now if there was some kind of
social gathering, say in town, I would always get an invite. “Fat Man” my boss
thought that was the proper thing to do. He was from the south. It meant
putting on a dress. I preferred the Nomex coveralls! I was the token female for
the southern section of the pipeline. Sue held the reigns for the northern section.
There was not a proportionate minority head count on the pipeline. It was more
like the military, where men ruled, white men that is. In fact, most of the
after construction workforce consisted of ex-military men. So they more or less
minded their business in the company of a female. I was also ex-military. My
main job was that of a pumps and drivers mechanic. Yes indeed, it was a
no-brainer to tear down a Rolls-Royce jet engine. We had a lot of territory to
cover. Like 400-miles of wilderness. But we could hold our own. And this was
before all that sexual harassment crap. When we first heard of this EEOC
garbage, we thought it was the sound of a good orgasm. Eeee, Eeee. Oooo! Hey on
the pipeline, if a gal couldn’t handle the abuse and dish it back, my as well
take a job in town. So when there was some touchy-feely thing in town, a woman
only thing, it meant shedding the coveralls for a dress. Like mentioned before,
I preferred the coveralls. The only thing underneath was underwear. I used to
tell the young guys that fact. Must would blush. Now there was a rumor going
around that a secret club had started up, and once the cat was out of the bag,
well that secret had to disappear quickly. It was called the 801-mile club. It
had something to do with that employee that went the extra mile. Now when the
pipeline company president held a photo-shoot with the club’s first recipients
of the 801-Award, well it was a farce. The Fat Man’s son was in the picture. We
all knew about this guy. In fact we thought he was fired a long time ago. I
guess the secret club could also camouflage one’s existent, along with a
paycheck. Not to mention nepotism. It was a club that was doomed as soon as it
went public to the employees. It was a joke and nobody wanted anything to do with
it. And Sue and I already had a club. It was the 800 Club. Guess what the 800
stands for? It’s not that bad when you divide 800 by 2! Anyway, to soften the
blow that the company management was getting over this secret club, they tried
in vain to get the employees to accept it and become part of it. That is how
the token broads were involved. Hey, for a few days off work with paid leave
and a free diner in town, we decided to accept the offer. So we went to this
get together sponsored by the Pipeline Wives Club – called the “Pip” club for
short. Gag me with a spoon. It was a bunch of desperate housewives who had
nothing better to do with their time then assemble to complain when their
husbands were away at work. Now the first thing that was a turnoff was the
British accent. This weekly gathering consisted mostly of the uppity-up society
of pipeline management. They seemed to be a bunch of lonely housewives. During
the luncheon, one snobbish lady asked Sue what she did for a living. Sue was
sharp. She went on to tell the women that she had a building named after her.
Going on to boast that it was called the Sue Lay building and located at a pump
station up north. This lady had no idea what Sue was eluding to. Then the lady
said that her husband was in charge of that station and never heard anything as
ridiculous as naming a building after a worker. Sue asked for a phone. In no
time Ken was on the line. Sue then asked if the Sue Lay building was still
around. Sue then gave the phone to this lady. An interesting conversation
continued, with all the other bitches tuned in. What a miserable life these
broads must live. Sue was getting a lift off the wine and hinted that this
lunch needed some excitement. She called one of those male stripper numbers.
Soon the lunch group had company! I guess she had a friend that was the manager
of this dance outfit. So this group of guys shows up. Now the club had a
private room at this eatery. So what looked like a boring lunch was about to
have a face lift! At first, the stuck up ladies were shocked. So shocked that
they were stuck in their stools. Then the wine started disappearing. Either
they were afraid to leave or starting to enjoy this out of fashion phenomenon.
It was the latter! Then Sue was on the stage. She pointed to Ken’s wife. “Now
your man likes to do it like this”. Wow, talk about erotic. The other broads
soon started loosening up. Must have been the wine. A few ladies were into the
champagne by now. I guess money was no object with this class. Before you know
it, another gal is stripping down to her underwear and joining in. These ladies
were having an orgasm and didn’t even know it! We thought we were goners after
this. But when we returned to work, nothing was said. Then I received a call
from the Fat Man. He said that the Club had requested our presence again. He
said his wife had the time of her life! Sue nor I had any idea that his wife
was present at the luncheon. Hey, what the husbands don’t know about won’t hurt
them. And out on the line? What the wives don’t know about the workers, well it
seems they were to busy at the club. We never went back. Once was enough. But
Sue’s contact with the male dance outfit is testament that it is not only crab
legs that are being enjoyed each Tuesday. I guess it is a real live “Pimp”
wives club!
The
workers hired to maintain and operate the 812-mile long Trans-Alaskan-Pipeline sport
all kinds of experiences and educational levels. It’s a pretty complex system,
even though the art of pumping oil from point A to point B is in some locals a
no-brainer. The company remained stingy in the recruiting and hiring process,
only the “Best of the Best” need apply. And that allowed some pretty innovative
thinkers and tinkering. For instance, everybody thought the pipeline was only
800-miles long. A big “can’t miss” milepost marker in Valdez that signifies the
“end-of-the-line” indeed displays the figure 8 leading two zeros. But one of
the bean counters saw an advantage in the true length. The pipeline expands and
contracts, by 12-miles! An extra 12-miles means an lawful lot come tax time. It
means a depreciation in the neighborhood of an extra 13-million a year. And the
guy that thought of this was not a seasoned bookkeeper, just a mindset that was
innovative. The entire workforce had that same mentality. We wanted to be the
best. We were the best! Out at Pump Station #1 in Prudhoe Bay, there was one
gentleman of an operator who went by the nickname of “Brown Trout”. Now when
not talking about trout fishing, he was glued to some book titled
“Multivariable Calculus”. He wrote the book in his younger days. But he wasn’t
a mathematician anymore, just an operator. But he would coach some of the young
engineers when their calculations on some event didn’t hold water. So with this
guy I found a relationship. He was definitely a scientist by my standards. He
was a good friend with another older guy, Bernie. Now Bernie was the sharpest
power generation operator I had come across in my career. One day these two
guys were engaged in some new theory called the “big bang”. It had nothing to
do with fishing and something to do with the origin of everything. It was
pretty interesting to hear these two guys get into such a heavy discussion.
There wasn’t much else to do around the stations when things were running on
normal, which was most of the time. This place was built tough! Anyway, I had
to vacate the tabletop discussion because I had another engagement to see too.
I worked for a guy named Leon out of Fairbanks, for the SCADA department. My
job entailed maintaining the electronic and communications systems up and down
the line. My main area of responsibility started in Dead Horse and ended some
160-miles south, at Pump Station #4. So I was the lucky one. A company vehicle
gave me freedom. My boss had asked me to pick up two G-men at the Deadhorse
airport. These guys were running some kind of study up and down the line. It
had something to do with stray magnetic currents given off by the Aurora
Borealis – the northern lights. And this study was tied in with the “big bang”
thing Bernie and Brown Trout were talking about. The race was on to map the
origin of the beginning! So all kinds of experiments were on the drawing board.
One involved using the pipeline as an 800-mile long antennae. Some thought it
was possible to get the “big bang” signature from background radio waves. The
steel pipeline was the thing some government investigators thought would give
them the edge up in the “battle of the bang”. All the other proposals warranted
building massive antennae like structures or deploying specially designed
satellites. So we were talking years before data could be retrieved and
analyzed. And according to Brown Trout, the signature would probably look like
a “Mound’s Bar” and nobody would really understand what it really meant. So I
picked these two guys up. They had a truckload of equipment. That is why my
boss offered his department’s assistance. The company truck was a Chevy
Suburban and provided the platform required to perform the “Mound’s Bar” test.
It was October, and this time of year in the arctic can bring daytime
temperatures up into the low 10’s and 20’s. The fall season takes a hiatus from
Alaska’s north. So all this gear was strategically placed in the back of the
big red pipeline truck. We headed back to the station. The SCADA shop here had
a garage, used for radio communication installation work. This would provide a
sheltered bay were the G-men could check out the electronic eavesdropping
equipment. We could also load up on a good lunch before heading out to run the
tests. Imagine getting paid to do this! I was to accompany these guys and take
them were they thought the testing would provide something of interest. So
after lunch, we headed back to the airport. The Deadhorse airport is manned
around the clock. It is a DOT approved asphalt runway. Maybe one flight a day
comes this way. The oil companies have their own runway about 5-miles from
here. Now the G-men scientist thought the airport runway would be the best
place to perform the tests. Since they worked for some department that was
connected to the FAA, they had already contacted the control tower and were
made aware that there were no scheduled flights until the evening. They needed
about 4 hours of “quiet” time to run the tests. So we were granted the
privilege to drive on the runway. Looked like a great place to do brodys! I was
asked to pull up close to the control tower. We opened the back doors to the
suburban and these guys positioned several weird looking antennas and then
turned all the equipment on, which included a few data recorders, the paper
chart kind as this was before the new age computer stuff. Anyway, the sun was
in the sky, but the low elevation was in anticipation of its upcoming
disappearance for 3-months, so it was a little cold. And these guys were not
prepared to stand out in the cold for several hours. So they came up with the
bright idea to go up into the control tower. They called somebody with my bag
phone - radio phone - and the next thing we are being invited in for a cup of
coffee. I am sure that the guys that man this establishment love to have
visitors. But I didn’t have the proper clearance badge - like the G-men - so I
was told, sorry! I told them I didn’t mind hanging around outside. You learn an
important lesson real quick up this far north, always go places prepared. My
truck, besides a transport vehicle, it was also set up as a survival rig. That
was a company requirement. I had enough gear to last a night in the dead of
winter. And my truck never left the camp without a full thermos of coffee.
Anyway, after about a half hour into the testing - as the G-men sat in comfort
- I decided to get a little heat. My truck had a big engine, so a few minutes
with the engine running allowed a revival. So about once every 30-minutes, it
was a trip to the cab, some heat and a good cup of camp coffee - pretty stiff
stuff. Then the G-men finally showed up. Looked like naptime had ended. Now
this one guy gets really excited. He calls the attention of his partner and
soon both have their eyes glued to the data recorder. What gained their
interest were these unaccounted for “spikes”. They showed me what they were now
interested in. Damn! I knew what caused the spikes. Remember, I was a
radio-man. A spike occurred on the paper recorder every time I started up the
engine! Now I wasn’t about to spill the beans on their discovery, they were
just too damn excited. Back at the station, I told Brown Trout all about my
time with the G-men. He laughed, especially when I told him about the “spikes”.
He reiterated that it was indeed a prime case for the “Mound’s Bar” theory. I
still didn’t get it. A few weeks later, I had a visit from my boss Leon. At
lunch, we were joined by both Bernie and Brown Trout. We started talking
about the G-men tests. Now Leon informs
us that the tests showed some interesting interference. In fact, Leon went into
some detail to explain that the guys had recorded several “spikes” of
un-definable origin. And it had caught the interest of the head scientists back
in D.C. This stuff could indicate signals from the origin! So future tests were
on the consideration drawing board. Brown Trout couldn’t help but tell Leon
what caused the “spikes”. At first Leon was a little concerned, then laughed.
We all knew it was too late to tell anybody. You would think that scientist
would be able to differentiate the engine noise over God’s wrath. Then Brown
Trout explained the “Mound’s Bar” theory. Supposedly some years ago, a
scientist was doing some kind of research and a technician had left ½ of a
frozen Mound’s bar out to thaw. The scintillation device recorded the outline
of the mounds bar as the temperature difference was resonating a signal that
was suspect. In the meantime, the technician devours the candy. The evidence
disappears! So this guy’s discovery made its debut into the scientific
community as plausible, as a come and go signal from space! All the time, it
was nothing more then a “Mound’s Bar.” But many scientists are afraid of
defeat, so the man-made object has become part of the “big bang” theory. Now
the other day, some years after this episode out on the pipeline, I was watching
the discovery channel. It was a show on the “big bang” theory. So after about
an hour and waiting for the conclusion to what hundreds of scientists have been
involved with for many years and millions of dollars to boot - taxpayer money -
the scientists have a clear and convincing picture of the “big bang”. You know
what, it looks just like a Mound’s Bar!
Why
does man’s behavior warrant sayings like “All good things must come to an end”?
We had it made down at the Valdez end of the 800-mile pipeline. And even though
the same company was responsible for the pipeline and the marine loading
terminal, it acted like two entirely different organizations. We did our own
thing here in Valdez. As long as oil was loaded on-time to the tankers, we were
out of sight and out of mind. Then some executive woke up on the wrong side of
bed and decided to make things miserable for us. We ended up getting some
flunky managers that had no idea or prior experiences at running a loading
terminal the size of this complex that rested on the side of a mountain. Now it
wouldn’t have been bad if they just minded their own business and let us do
what we were good at. But interference seems to be part of their game. Anyway,
Valdez was different. The work crew could head to town after work and enjoy a
cold one. There was a bus that catered to our back and forth drive to work
routine. Even had a coffee pot on board. Nothing like a warm bus ride in the
winter when overnight storms have deposited 6-feet of snow in the drive. So
come payday Friday, we wanted our paychecks in hand. This was before all of
that automatic banking bullshit. So when this new manager showed up and decided
that his shortcut Fridays were more important then getting our paychecks
delivered, it meant disgruntled workers. See this new superintendent headed to
Anchorage every Friday morning so he could enjoy the big city lights over the
northern lights. Remember, he was a pipeline transplant. So come about the
second month, he still would not deliver the checks on-time. It pissed the
workers wives off big time. It meant no shopping come the weekend. So this one
particular Friday bash at the local pub, none of us had any cash. We used to
cash our checks at the bar. Some good betting machines could be found in the
back. Nobody really cared what went on here. Even the police chief encouraged
the need for charity! Good thing our credit was good. Anyway, a retired
superintendent we all respected came in one Friday evening to say hello. He
owned some rental property in town and was here to check some things out. He
was a great guy. We told him about the predicament with the paychecks. He had a
solution. Since I was the lead technician, I listened real well. It was
definitely a plan. See, Smith told us to break into the office where the checks
were located. His plan called for stealing the checks and shredding them. Then
come Monday and nobody was paid, this guy’s ass would be in a bind. And there
was no excuses allowed, since he had to sign for the checks. And there was some
policy that the company was held responsible for not getting the checks off in
a timely manner. So we could steal the checks then send our wives on a spending
spree, as bounced checks would be covered courtesy of the company. And this guy
would then be pulled out of the loop for disbursing the payola. Smith told us
that the guy was doing it on purpose. Something he had done when they both
worked together at a Texas refinery. So Smith knew what plan of attack would
get this situation straightened out. Now Smith also knew the easiest way to
break into the monster office door locks. It was a rather odd procedure, but I
was no crook. It was interesting to find a CEO who was well versed in this
method of sabotage. The next day, we mobilized to pull off the plan. Now on the
weekends, there is no direct supervision and the lead technicians have the run
of the mill. There was not anything big going on, so this weekend called for
smooth sailing. Now Smith’s plan called for sizing a key to break into the
office. This rather odd procedure involved setting a screw through the keyhole
then filling the lock with that foam type spray. Once the spray expanded, it
was office trespass time. Now what made the foam so handy was the fact that the
expansion characteristics and the rigidity with the lock and screw made for a
perfect key. Plus, a can of Electra-clean would not only diffuse any fingerprints,
it would also disintegrate any remaining foam. It was a clean-cut way to
perform a Watergate. Now we couldn’t find any small cans of the foam spray.
What we had was recently used to fill a few toolboxes as a practical joke. It
works great. It was the best way to get a free set of tools. And we ordered the
best around here. Really, if somebody played a practical joke and a toolbox
became an insulated box, the bosses realized it was cheaper to buy new tools
then to spend time trying to clean all the cured foam off of the individual
tools. So the tools would be sent home and a new set ordered. Remember, money
was no object around here. So without the small cans, it meant using the “big”
can. There was a trailer that held a 500-gallon tank located up in the salvage
yard. It was used during construction to insulate the propane tanks. So I sent
Jim to get the trailer and I spent time assembling a hose that could be dragged
into the office building. We were on scene before morning break! First we set
the screw into the keyhole and duct-taped the foam hose so it could squirt the
stuff into the hole. We had installed a valve so the amount could be adjusted.
I had Jim go out and open up the main valve as I observed what was happening
inside. At first, the flow of foam was pretty stubborn. Maybe its shelf life
had expired and the stuff was no good. But something started flowing. I called
Jim on the radio and had him open the valve all the way. Just as I un-keyed my
radio mike, I heard the fire alarm on the “hill” go off. This was the “all
call” alarm that is sounded when something isn’t right. I was headed out. At
the same time, it was reported that a “fire-foam” dump had occurred in the East
Metering building. This was serious, Jim was right behind me. We drove to the
fire-hall and waited as the assault teams mobilized. We were in a hurry but
cautious, as we were dealing with highly flammable crude oil around here. The
workers make up the fire-crew. We train every Saturday. Now the worse case
scenario is when the operators get an indication that the “fire-foam” has
discharged. It means a fire or flame was detected. The fire-foam systems are
designed to flood the building equipment in micro-seconds. You don’t want to be
in the vicinity when this ejaculation takes place. And the worse, worse case is
when the “fire-foam” is supposed to be discharged and a malfunction occurs. We
don’t know if it works. Now if the building becomes airborne, we know it didn’t
work. And the East Metering building is the receiving end of the pipeline.
Right then, crude oil at about 60,000-gallons per minute was entering the
piping in that building. A “fire-foam” dump shuts the entire 800-mile long
pipeline down. And when the line shuts down, we are talking several hours to
get things up and running to normal. So with the fire crews prepared, we
hightailed it over to the staging area that was supposed to provide a safe
distance to command the evaluation efforts. What was happening inside was still
anybodies guess. Soon the delegated fire chief made the decision to attempt a
reconnaissance of the building interior. The building was still standing, so
that was clear and convincing evidence that it was not a major incident.
Several fire fighters prepped for the check. It required full body protection
and fire suppression backup available to shower the workers should something
happen as they made their approach. We all hold our breaths when this type of
procedure is going on. Soon the door was opened. The thumbs up gave an
indication that everything looked OK. It was a false alarm and the system had
not discharged any foam. We had the alarm technicians check everything out and
a go-ahead was given to start the pipeline back up. Then the response went to
the stand down mode. Now Jim and I had to get back to our priority job. As we
approached the office administration building, something looked odd. There was
something drooling down one of the office windows. Oh shit Jim yelled. This was
the office we were trying to break into. Evidently, what was causing the
reduced flow of foam had by now dislodged and because of the good holding
abilities of duct tape, a full stream of foam was flooding the office. Now this
stuff has an amazing expansion factor. We quickly shut down the foam and were
afraid to access our efforts. We let the foam in the keyhole dry. By this time
we had several interested workers laughing their “you know what” off. You could
see from the outside window not even the desk. And this stuff cures really
fast. We were screwed. But it was so funny that we just kept on laughing. Why
cry when you know the un-employment line was our next gig. We did make progress
getting the office door opened. But there was no way to find the checks. The
room was filled with at least 4-feet of foam that was now taking on a weathered
sheen. I called my boss Horse to tell him what we had done. He laughed. Said
the bastard had it coming to him. What we didn’t know was the fact that the new
guy was trying to displace the Horse for one of his pipeline buddies. So we
realized then if the Horse was leaving, we are to. Lynn said he would get back
with us. Come Monday, we thought all hell was going to break loose. Horse came
into the morning meeting and scalded us out. Not for what we had done, but
because he wasn’t here to have a good laugh. Nothing was ever said about this
ordeal. The office was remodeled and we never once again had a problem with our
paychecks delivered on time. Evidently, there was some bad blood between Smith
and the Earl, so Smith went to bat for us. Basically, Smith had something on
Earl. Just another workday in Valdez!
Yes
indeed, the way to a man’s you know what is through his stomach. The
Trans-Alaska-Pipeline project created new name jobs. Or maybe it was “name your
own job” in some instances. Sure we had the typical craft type workers like
welders, pipe-fitters, electricians and grunts. But what I am talking about
here is the inspectors. Some would say borderline on the imposter side more
then the oversight side. With well over a thousand permits to operate, it
indeed required an army of “specialist”. Over ranked and over hyped was
especially true for Wonder’s Worriers. We never met the Wonder, just his field
men. They acted like the “Untouchables”. And maybe Wonder thought he was the
“Nest”. His job was to protect the “nest”. These guys represented the state of
Alaska “revenue men”. The entire pipeline and oil field infrastructure had
pretty severe security restrictions. Bottom line, no way was a terrorist or
unwanted going to make an appearance at a pumping station. First off, this was
a pretty remote pipeline. And to top the remoteness issue, the security
outposts sported an M-16 assault rifle stash. These guys would use the weapons
if need be. Now the “revenuers” had carte’ blanc access to any place on the
pipeline. It was without warning that the inspectors could show up. Pump
Station #1 was most vulnerable for crash inspections. And not only did these
guys have unabated access to the facilities, they could demand access to any
and all paper work or data that dealt with crude oil inventories. The big
problem came about not by any of our duties derelict, but by the inspectors’
lack of knowledge. The inventory side of the Alaskan oil business was a
complicated paper-shuffling ordeal. Nightmare was more like it! Now the
unannounced visits are what threw us off. We tried to keep things up to snuff,
just incase. But when it came down to the nuts and bolts of the measurement end
of the pipeline business, it was a constant headache. See Pump Station #1 was
the official receipt point. Not only for the seven different oil companies’
separate interests, but also for the state’s share of the “black gold”. The
state had the option of taking its royalty share of oil “in-kind” or
“in-value”. It means if the state wanted barrels of oil, it got oil in barrels.
But all of the time the state opted for its fair share “in value” – basically the
going rate for North Slope crude oil. How that was determined was anybodies
guess. Now these oil companies were pretty stingy with the goods. There existed
constant arguing over ownership of the oil. See, when a company’s oil was
delivered to this station, it was mixed with the other companies’ oil. So what
came out of the pipe in Valdez, it was “commingled” oil. It didn’t have the
same characteristics as the oil that a company put into the pipe. It meant some
of the good stuff was watered down - literally - and not so good stuff
enhanced. So the degradation would have to be accounted for. That is why
accurate measurement was a constant battle royale. The station was equipped
with turbine meters to measure the amount of oil entering from the various
trunk lines. The propeller like measuring devices had to be calibrated every
24-hours. That was accomplished by sending a 36” ball through a calibrated
piece of pipe followed by countless calculations to adjust for just about
everything. The state was suspect of the oil companies right off the bat, so
the “revenuers” required two types of measurements. A computer generated
measurement along with an analog generated measurement. Now when I say
“computer”, I am talking about onetime state of the art computers as big as a
small office. And it was a big no-no if somebody was caught “tweaking” the
analog computer without first getting permission from the “revenuers”. They had
the option of being on-sight when any adjustments were necessary. It meant if
there was a problem at the station with regards to accurate measurement that
warranted a fix, the prerequisite notice period allowed inaccuracies to make a
small problem a bigger problem. If a problem occurred on a Friday, it turned
into a 4-day problem before a fix was permitted. The pipeline bosses didn’t
like this because the oil companies didn’t like it. So “tweaking” was starting
to go on without notification. We didn’t have time to wait. Now Wonder’s
Worriers didn’t maintain an office in Prudhoe Bay. Their presence could be at
anytime. Convenience seemed to rule. Besides responsible for checking out the
station equipment, they also had the job of overseeing the blow out preventors
at the oil field wellheads. It was these guys’ job to make sure the oil
companies were not cutting corners with respect to eliminating all
possibilities of creating a “blowout” situation. If a well blew its stack, the
heat could melt the permafrost. That was a worse case scenario. Hey once the
10,000 year old ice starts to melt, there is not enough “cold” in the world to
re-freeze the stuff. It meant the entire “slope” could become a swamp. It is
almost a swamp to begin with but scientists call it a desert? Now we despised
the inspectors’ unannounced visits. So we came up with a plan. These guys liked
to hang out at this station. It wasn’t because of the atmosphere – being
explosive most of the time – but because they were treated like royalty. That
is where we needed to change directions. We thought if we made it miserable for
them, then they might stay away. Now when I first met Charlie the new
inspector, I could tell right off that there may be a way to control this
“revenuers” appearance. He was a good-sized individual. Which meant he liked to
eat. Now the grub that was doled out at this station, it was gourmet
extraordinaire. So that was the key. Not to make it miserable, but
extraordinarily over-comfortable. One day, we decided to try it out, as we had
some “tweaking” to do. I called the inspector and told him we were going to
perform some maintenance. Now the notice period meant it was to occur on a
Sunday. Sundays are reserved for real good menus. The inspector showed up
around lunchtime, as the flights into and out of Prudhoe were limited on the
weekends. We stuffed his face. With that, he needed a nap. He told us to do
what we had to do and in the quiet comfort of the camp. It was z-time. This
became a routine. It worked rather well. So over time and when we were required
to notify the inspector, the first thing Charlie would ask, “What’s on the
menu”. Now if we really didn’t need his appearance, we told him “Spam”
sandwiches. The sigh of dissatisfaction would be our ticket to “tweak” as we
please, Charlie wasn’t about to ruin his weekend for “Spam”. And the “Spam” was
kind of like an “SOS”. He knew what we meant. And when something really good
was happening out at this station, like a special diner, which included
lobster, we would call Charlie and invite him “for diner”. And most of the
time, his appearance at the chow hall meant the required annual inspections
were a done deal. It seems he didn’t really give a rat’s ass what we did. So it
all boiled down to what was happening in the kitchen, not really what was
happening with the state’s share of oil. This went on for a few years until the
old computers were replaced. Then the complexity of the entire inventory
accounting system was held up in the courts. With that, the inspectors were few
and far between. And they realized that computers were hard to fake. What they
didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them!
The
pipeline camps are equipped with washer and dryer combinations, for washing
one’s work clothes. At Pump Station #1, there was a washroom on the second deck
of the camp, down past the sleeping quarters. One night, when most were already
asleep, a worker decided to wash his clothes. Now besides a box of dry
laundering soap, there was also a box of dry bleach. Anyway, this guy threw his
clothes into the machine and left for the dessert tray. He forgot about a can
of coke that had accompanied him to the laundromat. Anyway, when the washer hit
the spin-rinse cycle and went into fibrillations due to an unbalanced load, the
can of carbonated coke found freedom in the box of bleach. Well, chemistry
rules. Before you now it, a bad-ass gas is filling the hallway of the living
quarters. Now the station had an alarm system that remotely monitored the camps
vital signs, like smoke detectors. When the operators over at the station
received the chlorine gas alarm, they had no idea what it meant. But they were
vigilant enough to insist that the rover run over to check it out. Of course
the biggest reason to head that way was to fill up the cookie jar. Anyway this
guy Fred walks into the arctic entryway of the camp. Before he figured out what
the problem was, he realized something bad was going on inside. He radioed over
to the control room to sound the general alarm. When workers were awakened from
their sleep and hit the hallway to inquire whether it was a false alarm or not,
they knew better. Soon, everybody was filing out of the camp, double time. Now
it was late October. Up here that means the dead of winter. So everybody headed
over to the station’s break-room until the source of the gas could be
pinpointed. It was no big deal, except for one thing. During the work shift, we
usually all walk around with blue Nomex coveralls on. The only time you see
someone dressed differently is when we are coming to work or returning home.
That is when street clothes are preferred for the long airplane joy ride. But
seeing your fellow worker in pajamas? It was a gas. See, with everybody
awakened form a somewhat sound sleep, most forgot that they were now sitting in
the break-room in pajamas. There were all kinds. Hey, Mickey Mouse and Donald
Duck. Joe had an outfit that was from Star Wars. One worker asked him where the
Luke Skywalker wand was? But that guy should have heeded the warning to be
quiet, as he was wearing these orange pajamas with pumpkins. It was close to
Halloween! Now Jim? Well he wore this thing that a male stripper would wear.
And Randy had white stuff all over his face? Rhonda, she had this flimsy
nightshirt on that revealed some things that seemed to get the guys attention.
Soon all realized the predicament we were all part of by now. Hey, during the
day we are rough and tough roustabouts working with wrenches and pipes. But
now, just a bunch of fuddy duds in pajamas. Hey what the heck, no big deal. Not
until the camp manager snuck in and snapped a group photo-shot. He said he was
going to use it as “blackmail”. So for a few weeks down the road, we all kept a
vigil as to when and where that picture would show up. It never did, but most
of us realize that it is out there somewhere. And someday it will make its
debut when least expected. I can still hear Hose’ saying “Aye carumba, aye
carumba”. He was the guy with the “hot lip” PJ’s, ones that were not a gift
from his wife!
I was
a new engineer working on the pipeline. When this thing was being built I was
only seven years old. But I remember it happening while living and growing up
in Fairbanks. What I remember about that time was the fact that the grocery
stores were always running short of supplies, especially toilet paper. So right
out of school from a university in Fairbanks and getting a job with some of the
best engineers in the business, it was a real thrill. The money was pretty good
for a beginner. My first job was basically as an engineer in training. First
off, when big projects like the Pump Station #3 by-pass come up, it takes a
whole lot of coordination. It takes at least a year of planning. And the entire
engineering department gets involved, along with a cast of outside consultants.
Some of the consultants worked on the original pipeline design. One guy seemed
to be familiar with every inch of the 800-mile line that stretches from Prudhoe
Bay to Valdez. So it was meeting after meeting. The entire project was
simulated on some of the fastest computers available. This project was a big
deal because it required by-passing the entire station. It meant reduced flow
in the line, as without this critical station, there just wasn’t enough
upstream horsepower to push the oil head through Atigan Pass. And once the
project conception was approved, it would be practiced out by the crews that
would perform the work. Now my job was to coordinate the heavy equipment
required, making sure the cranes and stuff like that could handle the loads
efficiently and safely. This project called for a lot of pipe to be moved around,
from 36-inch to 48-inch in varying lengths. It meant excavating equipment that
could quickly dig up and expose the pipe. The project called for welding
strings of pipe together that would allow the entire station to be bypassed in
a chaotic fashion. See, corrosion had made its debut in the area. Corrosion is
the pipeline’s engineers’ worst nightmare. A little moisture, which is
prevalent along the entire pipeline route and some heat, it can spell disaster.
And since the pipeline is insulated, the 140-degree oil heats things up. With a
bypass in place, then the entire underground pipeline system that leads into
and out of the station could be refurbished then embedded in concrete. But
adding this much concrete posses a problem unto itself, like settling. So some
civil engineers spent days and days trying to figure out what effect settling
may have now and into the future. One must remember that the pipeline’s
original design called for at the most 10-years in operation. We were already
5-years past the “end-of-the-line” time! Some guys said that they would be
around for the 20th and the 25th and the 30th
anniversary. Concrete is a pretty interesting subject when working at a remote
location. It isn’t just a phone call away up here. A concrete factory had to be
built, on site. Which means materials for such has to be trucked in. It is easy
to see how these projects take a whole lot of everything from a whole lot of
disciplines. Now my job wasn’t all that interesting, but at least it was part
of the project. Talk about starting at the bottom. And when the crews were
picked to do the jobs, like the welders and the mechanics, well it was just
like a draft pick for a major league hockey team. Really! Crew bosses would sit
in these meetings and basically argue about this guy and that guy. Now about a
week before the first critical benchmark meeting, I was called to the office of
the chief roads and pads supervisor. He reamed my you know what pretty good. He
told me my figures for equipment requirements were way off basis. This guy was
mean. He literally threw the report at me like a paper airplane and instructed
me to correct it. Now this wasn’t really rocket science. See, the engineering
department had these industry accepted best practices guidelines. To move a given
amount of pipe, you need so much equipment. So with that kind of information
and with interviews with the crew bosses, it was like getting the ingredients
for a recipe. It was back to the computer. Now I had based my report on what I
had learned in school. It was based on ethics of economics. Basically, don’t
rip off the customer. I went over my figures. Everything seemed in check. So I
confided with another engineer who was new but had worked several projects
already. He grabbed my report and within seconds had found the flaw. I guess he
was good. All he did was take my numbers and figures and multiply it by three.
That was the key. It meant three times as much stuff for the same job. That was
the rule of the road around here. See, downtime costs money, a whole lot of
money. Some of the figures that floated around, the revenue loses while the
station was temporarily shutdown, was in the millions. So having a back-up for
the back-up, that is how it was done on the pipeline. So even though there
would be three crews for everything, that is what made these monster projects
so successful, for the last 15-years. So out the window with the economic
stuff, this was the big pipeline! It meant three cranes instead of one. With my
first job, I learned that money was no object with this thing that some people
have called the 8th “Wonder of the World”. Hey, I wonder if that
means our paychecks will be three times as much?
Pipeline
work is pretty good work. It pays great. And with the week on week off
schedule, one only works in reality for 6-months in a year. Now take a few
weeks vacation and back to back shift swapping, hey it amounts to less then
5-months work. Now there was one station that had it over all the others. Pump
Station #5 was considered the retirement home. It was just like a regular pump
station, except it didn’t have any mainline pumps, just a few booster pumps. It
was basically just a relief station to control the oil coming over the Brooks
Range. So it was a real easy job. Now when I talk of retirement, hey we were
still good technicians, just a little on the senile side. One of the on-going
problems plaguing the stations up and down the pipeline was how to handle the
human waste disposal. It was a predicament. See, there is very little water at
these remote places. Most of it has to be trucked in. And it is no place for a
septic system. The ground is just to cold to allow the bugs to thrive and
destroy the waste. So the human waste is sent to the jet engines’ exhaust
stacks. We use jet engines, just like you see on a 727, and the thrust drives a
pump. So the exhaust stack is pretty hot. The waste is normally pumped into the
exhaust plume and annihilated. Basically cooked to death. Now it doesn’t always
work all that well. In fact, when not working correctly, it allows a yellow
cloud to form in the atmosphere above the station. And let it rain? Hey we have
“yellow” raindrops falling on our heads. It falls down upon all of the outside
piping and structures, leaving a paste that looks just like “Grey Poupon”. Now
to keep the systems running in efforts to prevent the “yellow rain” stuff, it
requires a lot of maintenance. At this station, with no big pumps, we had to
find a different way. Plus nobody liked cleaning the “shit bags”. Hey, we were
semi-retired. So over coffee one day, we proposed a project. Now due to cost
cutting measures, we didn’t have a manager. So we were on our own. Hey we
thought, lets just pump the stuff right into the pipeline. We figured it all
looked the same, dark and gooey. So we set out on our own to design and
implement a septic and human waste removal system. And not being a critical
station, nobody really knew what we were doing. So in a few weeks, we had the
station’s urinal tapped into the big pipeline. Now we were smart enough to
realize that chlorine would have to be added into the line to protect the
workers south of this station. But having a need for chlorine was a no-brainer,
as we used it for other things. So adding a zero on the order provided us with
plenty of the chemical. Of course being senile, we didn’t realize one thing.
See, chlorine is bad for a refinery. And it doesn’t dissipate in the crude oil
with vapor boil-off. So all the chlorine we were pumping into the main pipeline
was corrupting the crude oil. I guess it can raise cane with a catalytic
converter used to turn crude oil into gasoline. And it backfired on us. Sure
enough, the chlorine attacked a refinery’s cracking unit. It doesn’t take very
much to poison the catalyst. Now this happened real soon after we had completed
the project, and all patted each-other on the back. Well when the “War Room”
was mobilized to find out where the chlorine was coming from, we got rid of the
evidence. Hey, semi-retirement was looking at full retirement! We got caught.
Somebody ratted us out. No big deal. It wasn’t that big of a deal. As it was
found sooner then later, eliminating major problems. But all the maintenance
workers were pissed off at us. See, chlorine constituents can be found in many
and most of the cleaning solutions used up and down the pipeline. Well our
shenanigans led to a ban of the stuff, everywhere. That is what the managers
blamed the problem on. See they weren’t about to admit stupidity. To do that
would have meant an inquiry, then maybe a few terminations. And nobody else
wanted to work the retirement home. Actually, the company was afraid if they
terminated a bunch of senile pipeline workers, they would be faced with an age
discrimination suit. Now as a penance, we were tasked with finding a new type
of cleaning solution, to replace the banned stuff. Once again, not a big deal!
We found this stuff that was a “citrus” based solution. Nobody really liked it.
But you know what, it doubled as an air freshener for the urinals. Killing two
birds with one stone! Who says age is a detriment!
Meeting
after meeting. It seems that is all we did to pass the time away here in
Valdez. Finally, the boss interrupted the meeting, gaining the attention of the
participants as he pointed to the wall clock. Today was a special day for the
workers here in Valdez. The oil companies had hired a famous artist to design
and sculpture a monument - as a dedication to the 28 thousand or so
construction workers who helped build the pipeline. Valdez had been picked as
the home base of this statue, a bronze masterpiece that was 3 years in the
making. It was well deserved, especially in memory of the 31 lives lost during
construction days – 5 years all total in the making. In this day and age,
that’s pretty high on the fatality graph, but the environment made it a
dangerous job. If you ever saw the pictures of the construction workers’ faces
cast in fright as they lowered the pipe down the Thompson Pass drop, you would
know what I was talking about! As we drove towards the festivities in progress
down at a specially set aside and manicured outcropping overlooking the bay,
one could see that the still unveiled statue was indeed going to be a
well-deserved memorial. It towered over the landscape. Closing in, one couldn’t
help but become emotional. A band played music, tents were set up to shelter
the dignitaries. There was an open invite to the residents of Valdez. This was
the big time. Someone said the tarmac out at the airport was “nose to tail”
with private corporate jets, and a few bearing the insignia of the U.S.
Department of State. Over the past week or so, it was rumored that some
pranksters were planning a sabotage of the monument. Security was beefed up. As
the band played the uncloaking song, I forget what it was, the removal of the
canvass like cover reveled multiple figurines - the detail was unbelievable.
There was the engineer, as depicted by hands in possession of scrolled
documents. Then came the surveyor, a transit the give-away. Onto a replica of a
worker with a face easily recognized as that of an Alaskan Native, a tribute to
the 5000 young men who left the village life for a taste of a different
lifestyle. In honor of 3000 or so females who braved the daily affiliation of
“farts and burps” from the roughest and toughest band of construction worriers,
came a ponytailed head and face - accompanied by a time forever smile. This one
brought out the oohs and ahs. Then the crowd became silent, as did the band
except for the slow rhythmic beat of that big drum. Low and behold, as the
cover inched up over the last figure, something that was not part of the
sculpture had gained the attention of the entire assemblage. It was the figure
of the welder, as hanging from his welding torch, a six-pack of Budweiser beer,
easily distinguishable as the red, white and blue shouted out against the
dullness of the bronze background. All it took was that first laugh from a
brave soul in the crowd to break the silence. The cheers followed, the band
continued to play. Everybody realized that item should have been included
anyway!
West looked
the typical oilman. He had that lanky type Texan build. He had that Texas
drawl. He had that Texas drool, when it was cigar chewing time. And he drove
like a longhorn steer on the loose. Anyway, this guy’s job required his
presence in Anchorage at least once every other week. And flying in and out of
Valdez can be a test of craziness. Add the fact that this guy didn’t like
flying at all. So, his choice was pedal to the metal an away we go. Now this
guy had a tendency of driving a little on the fast side. And driving a little
too fast can be a devastating mistake, as most of the roads between Valdez and
Anchorage do not come equipped with shoulders for erasing minute perturbations
behind the wheel. So it is easy for one to steer into the wilderness. The
pipeline’s security detail worried that West would one day find himself off the
road. And with winter coming on, a season that can bring temperatures down to
the minus 70’s around the Thompson Pass area, well they needed a plan. Now the
Thompson Pass area is avalanche area. So getting stuck there can become a
missing persons story – forever! Hey, if you get stuck in an avalanche racing
down a mountain side, you’re going with it. And some of the gullies that corral
the snow breaking away, it gets deeper and deeper every season. But not to
worry as ingenuity was about to solve the problem. All of the company vehicles
were painted with bright white identifying numbers on the roof. The vehicles
were painted this god-ugly red, so the identifiers could be seen in just about
any weather conditions. It was a contrast that would allow an off the road
vehicle to be located from the air. So West’s vehicle was taken into the prep
shop and the numbers were painted on the bottom of the rig. Sure enough, the
first time that West was on a return voyage from Anchorage and about half way
home, the wilderness became his personalized parking spot. And the truck was
capsized. Security sent out a chopper after getting a report of an off the road
vehicle. A red one! They surmised that it could only be one person. And these
roads don’t get that much traffic, except pipeline trucks. Now when the
mechanic’s shop dispatched a wrecker to travel some 100-miles to retrieve the
overturned truck, West had already confiscated a ride back to Valdez. The
mechanics that arrived on the scene were aghast as to how far off the road the
vehicle had landed. And nobody got hurt? Anyway, when West was filling out the
accident report with security a few days later, he said that the new
identifiers worked pretty well. Of course, he admitted that once you are
heading off the road, you have to gun it big time in order to make a good flip!
Only West could come up with this off the wall thinking. And he was the boss of
the entire facility here in Valdez. That brings up another interesting story
about nature. See, we had more then one idiot at the wheel on the pipeline
roster. What I mean, some of the managers that worked in Anchorage had no idea
what it was like to work out on the pipeline. We had this one president who
really thought his deposits didn’t stink. He showed up one day at the security
post in Valdez. Now no employees can have access to the pipeline or terminal
without a picture ID badge. And even though we trudge through the security post
day in and day out, we still have to show the badge, to the same guy who has
been looking at the same photo mug shots for many years by now. Well the
president thought it was above him that he had to prove to the security police
who he was. Everybody knew George’s mean demeanor. But this one security guy
was not going to temporarily amend the policy, that everybody must show a
badge. Now the president was at the gate with two owner company
representatives. These guys have authority above and beyond what George was used
to having being in charge of the entire pipeline. These guys own the pipeline
and the oil fields, big power brokers. So they were happy to present their
ID’s, but not George. And it was a miserable day. Finally George knew he wasn’t
going anywhere soon and it was getting down to the stage of embarrassment. But
George was known to have a temper. Well he produces the badge. But instead of
nicely presenting it to the patient security guard, he flips it out the window.
Hey, we get some pretty good gusts here in Valdez. The wind propelled the badge
about 20-feet from the vehicle, right smack down in the middle of a mud puddle.
Well the security guard walked over to the puddle, shined his flashlight on the
badge, and wrote down the ID, then walked away. George was pissed, as by now
the gate had been opened but George didn’t have his badge, it was still in the
puddle. So he jumps out of the truck rip roaring mad. Now being another lanky
type dude, hey the wind was his match. And in his haste, he was soon airborne.
It was a great landing! Mud covered him from head to toe, good old Valdez mud.
And these guys where expensive suits. It was one of the best paybacks to a
manager most of us could remember. The good thing, it was recorded on the video
surveillance camera!
It
was always interesting to get new help. Especially young energetic guys with an
attitude, the right attitude that is. The turnover over rate for pipeline
workers was almost non-existent. The pay was just too damn good. And with a
week on week off work schedule, it was in reality station life for only half a
year throughout the year. I used to be a teacher, this technician job tops it
all around. And with my seniority and vacation accrual, I get almost the entire
summer off, to go fishing. I clock in for about 20 weeks a year now. Been here
for 25-years. I pull down about 85k without overtime. Don’t take to kindly to
OT. See this station is a little different then the remote stations. There is a
road right out that window that takes me home every night, to Fairbanks. I like
being home at night. I guess you could say it is semi-retirement. And the work
isn’t very hard. In actuality, because this pipeline was built so well, the
reliability factor called for more time in the break room then anywhere else.
But when the “you know what” hits the fan, we respond. One year we had a 100
percent reliability factor. It means every station up and down the line ran
around the clock and made the daily target deliveries. That is when we were
pumping 2-million barrels a day. Things have slowed way down. Now getting back
to the new guys that come this way. When new help would arrive, it was important
to set them straight right off the bat. New recruits were usually hired as
contractors, to see just how good a worker one was. It takes more then brains
around here, teamwork is the key. Some have it, some don’t. That is why there
was such an ex-military workforce presence, most from the Vietnam era. That
conflict meant teamwork. Maybe not to claim victory for an un-winnable war, but
to protect your buddy. The pumping stations are designed pretty much the same.
A pump house, a “pig” receiving and launching facility, an electrical generator
building, a turbine building. Nothing that complicated. It’s just a pipeline
trying to get oil over those mountains to Valdez. And because of extreme
temperatures in the winter and hordes of mosquitoes in the summer, the
buildings were connected together via covered walkways. This was a bone of
contention during the early pipeline design efforts. Not because of the costs.
Money was really no object. Some engineers felt it was unsafe to have the
building tied together. If crude oil leaked from some piping, the concern was
the possibility that the oil could make its way through the corridors and find
a source of ignition. So these special doors, double doors, were installed to
eliminate that possibility. They worked. Now one of the things the new guys do
is try to please the bosses. With that, they take to cleaning things up. The
stations are pretty clean to begin with. Hey, we live here. So cleaning becomes
a habit. Some things need not be touched. Let me show you what I am talking
about. There is a section of concrete down in front of the doorway that leads
into the incoming manifold building that remains untouched. Most of the
concrete has been resurfaced with that shinning looking stuff. So when new guys
come around, they all make an attempt to paint that one odd-colored square.
There is a reason it remains untouched. Back when the pipeline was starting up,
the oil was slowly moving this way. Now with a new line, there is a lot of
crud, like welding slag, that is forced this way by the oil front. When the oil
arrived here, we had to monitor the filters, as they had a tendency to choke
up. Better have the filter plug then the pump become contaminated. Now these
are huge filters, a guy could stand in one. And that is exactly what happened
the day this station burned to the ground. A few mechanics were busily cleaning
out one of the filters. The pipeline was blocked in with valves, but open to
accommodate the maintenance, Then all hell broke loose. Somebody unlocked the
electrical cubicle that powers the valves. Somebody or something directed the
valves to go open. On one side of the valve, the maintenance guys. On the other
side, a 4-foot diameter pipe filled with crude oil. When the valve started
opening the maintenance workers tried to evacuate, as they realized this was a
bad news day. The oil shut out from the open filter, hit the ceiling,
vaporized, then ignited in a fireball. The entire station melted, it was a
total loss. Except for the concrete. It doesn’t burn. The structural I-beams
melted, everything. When the smoke cleared, one worker was unaccounted for. We
all think that Joe made it out of the building, to that spot. If one looks
close enough, there is a faint impression of a body in the fetal position,
seeking protection. It was a bad day. So the concrete is a reminder that no
matter how well planned, somebody will try to circumvent the best made plans!
Pump
stations pump crude oil. Crude oil contains many nasty things. It contains many
volatile things. Like natural gasoline, propane and butane to name but a few.
It is highly flammable and explosive. And because Alaska is a cold climate, the
oil enters the pipeline at about 140 degrees Fahrenheit. That hot! And when the
oil is exposed to the atmosphere at that temperature, it boils and gives off
dense fumes. Don’t light a match! In fact getting caught with a book of matches
or a cigarette lighter at a pump station meant immediate termination.
Everything is build to withstand an explosion or fire. But sometimes things can
get out of control really quick. Not to long ago, somebody did a study, one of
those worse case scenario studies. It involved pump stations along the 800-mile
long Trans-Alaska-Pipeline. At one time, there were 11 stations in operations.
This study was exclusive for pump station 1, up north in Prudhoe Bay. This
station was a little out of the ordinary as it contained storage tanks. Now the
study indicated that if one of the two storage tanks caught on fire, there
would be enough heat to overheat the adjacent tank and an explosion would level
everything within a three-mile radius. Now there isn’t much surrounding the
pump station except tundra. Oh, I forgot one important thing, the camp living
quarters. So in no time, the camp was vacated, turned into offices, and the
crews were put up in a safer place. It had something to do with liability. See,
if somebody dies in a fire when at work, workman’s compensation takes care of
the misery. It is the exclusive remedy here in Alaska, so a death brings a real
quick and cheap settlement, not much. Now if the camp was ransacked by the
tanks turning into a big “Bic” lighter, well then the families of the deceased
could bring big lawsuits. So the crew now sleeps safely far and away at the
Prudhoe Bay base camp owned by one of the big oil companies. Anyway, all of the
crew members are trained to fight a fire. We all know that the only escape away
from a station on fire was to grab on to a loose hose hanging off the fire
truck and hang on for dear life. This
was a direct order from the fire chief, as he was headed out if it ever
happened, Right through the fence if need be. There was no way we could tame an
out of control fire. We practiced anyway. Every Saturday, it was fire training.
Now one of the things that we practiced was rescuing a fallen comrade named
Annie. Annie was the dummy that was used and abused for CPR and anything else,
sometimes as a punching bag. And a guy named Rooster used to take it to his
room at night? So on this one particular training day, the chief called for a
rescue mission. Everybody was teamed up. Now nobody knew what kind of event
would get us into the fireman mode. I was teamed up with Casanova. The call
came in. There was an earthquake and the office area personnel were unaccounted
for. Now when we grabbed our self-contained breathing apparatuses, the face
shields had been duct taped to simulate a black smoke fire. So we downed the
proper equipment, and with word from the chief, we were given the direction
that Annie was trapped in the office adjacent to the break-room. It wasn’t that
difficult to maneuver our way up the stairwell through the break-room and into the
office area. But furniture had been purposely placed to hinder our egress. We
kept tripping, so it was down to our knees, like real firemen. Now all the
time, Cass and myself were roped together with a buddy rope. Soon we were
making headway around the office, looking for Annie. Since these breathing
devices have built in radios, the entire crew was listening to our progress.
This was all part of the training. Now we were beginning to sweat as we were
all decked out in full fire fighting gear. And the fact that it was dark, due
the duct tape, it was like the real thing. Cass radioed that it would have been
nice to have a real thing right about now. He was talking about a Coke. Then I
felt a body. It was Annie. I informed Cass about the find. He was right behind
me. He said he felt a crotch. Then I felt something familiar, like a boob. But
there was something strange. The boob felt too real. I asked Cass if the crotch
felt like a real crotch. He laughed, but it was a serious type laugh. Well
little did we know, a gal that worked at the station decided to take Annie’s
place. Now here we were feeling up what we thought was a dummy. And we were
commenting about this over the radio, so everybody could here us. Now as we
started moving the “dummy” it was definitely not some plastic artificial human.
It was. So we ended manhandling this dead weight body. I think she enjoyed the
all thing.
I was heading towards Pump
Station 12 with another pipeline worker named Frank. I had not yet really
worked with this guy as he worked the opposite shift. Pipeline work commands a
week on week off schedule. Not bad, especially when vacation time comes around.
It basically boils down to at least an entire month off! Frank was an
Athabaskan Native and knew the area very well, especially between Thompson Pass
and Gulkana – his birthplace. Even with the scenery looking nothing more then
wilderness for some 100-miles, the area was rich with a silent history. Frank’s
knowledge about this part of Alaska was testament to a story that hasn’t been
recorded. And the reason we were headed toward Pump Station 12, well it was
lunch time! That was the only good thing about maintenance work this far north
from our home base, we could invite ourselves to lunch at the station’s camp.
Frank and I worked out of Valdez, at the marine terminal. This is where the
storage of 9-million barrels of crude oil and loading of such aboard super-tankers
takes place. It is a monster of an industrial facility, but small in comparison
to the backdrop, big mountains. It marked the end of the 800-mile long
pipeline. Now pipeline workers that worked in Valdez lived with their families,
so we didn’t have the luxury of dining at a camp. Camp food is dynamite. No
cutting corners around these remote places. So when maintenance details allowed
getting away from the terminal for a few days, everybody pushed and shoved for
this job. Basically, we were performing maintenance on the DSMA system. Along
the pipeline route there exists strategically placed Digital Strong Motion
Accelerometers. A pretty fancy name for a device that monitors the earth’s
movement. It is supposed to predict an earthquake. So these devices, which
consist of specialized gyroscopes with a radio link to Fairbanks, are used as a
means to access the potential of a major earthquake heading our way. Anyway, we
had been on the maintenance detail between the last station on the pipeline and
Valdez for about three days now. So lunch was always appreciated. Now Frank
knew most of the workers at the camp, especially the cook. And right before we
would leave for our road trip back to Valdez, following a gut wrenching meal,
he would get a “To Go” sack. Along with a fresh thermos of coffee, to go along
with the cookies. It is a crime to head out on the pipeline without a fresh
thermos of coffee! Anyway, soon after we would depart the station, Frank would
pull the truck over and disappear into the woods, with the “To Go” sack. Now on
the first few days, I thought he was just throwing it away. I surely couldn’t
eat any more! But on this one particular day, he seemed to be looking for
something before he pulled over. In fact, he would scan the horizon. And when
something of interest caught his fancy, it was time to pull over. And it looked
as if he was relying on the sighting of a Raven as his guide. Curious, I
followed along when Frank departed the truck. Sure enough, he would head off
the beaten path and place the contents of the “To Go” bag on a perch. Now the
stuff wasn’t just thrown about. It was painstakingly positioned about, as if
someone was coming for diner. I didn’t have to ask what he was up to. He
offered an explanation. It was for his Aunt Ruth. See, the Athabaskan legend
talks of the deceased becoming members of the Raven Clan. So Frank was doing
his duty. And he said that Ruth loved hamburgers and fries. So when in this
area, he would look for a Raven that fit Ruth’s character and description. Now
on our forth and last day, sure enough, when we left the camp a Raven invaded
the air space above the truck. It stayed with the vehicle for a few miles, then
started this gawking. Frank pulled over and proceeded into the woods. I
followed. Sure enough, in a tree limb, a Raven awaited our arrival. Frank did
his duty. It seemed the Raven was still making a lot of racket as we departed.
He mentioned she was mad! Why I asked? She knows we won’t be here tomorrow!
Deadhorse
is the only town this far north that isn’t off limits to visitors. Around the
oil fields were talking about here. One can fly here, or drive. But the driver
finds no facilities for about 400-miles. And to catch a plane, it is pretty
costly. The oil companies like it that way. And one would think that a town
that skirts the biggest oil fields in America would be teaming with booze and
women. Not up here. No booze, no prostitution. Now Deadhorse has an airport, a
novelty store and a post-office all in one. And that’s about it. This town is
asleep by 7pm. But every so often, the betting urge gets to people. So if you
can catch a ride, hey maybe one can find a card game. But the stakes are pretty
high. So we came up with our own betting scheme. It starts with a raid on the
hen house. At night, some of us would sneak down and steal a few dozen eggs
from the hardboiled egg bin. These were prepared the night before by the bull
cooks in preparation for the next day’s hungry lions. Anyway, we finally were
successful in acquiring a good amount of eggs. We kept the stash over in the
mechanics shop. It doesn’t really get warm up here, even in the summer time, so
spoilage wasn’t a problem. We needed about 4-dozen eggs, for the start-up pot.
Saturday night was betting night. After diner and when most of the workers had
hobbled to their rooms, it was game time. It was all kind of secretive. Now
anybody who showed up was automatically in the betting pool. Frank was in
charge of the game. It wasn’t like a cockfight or anything like that, but it
did involve a bird. Up here, the gulls stand about 3-feet tall. Pretty good
size birds. And they will scarf up anything that looks or smells like food.
These birds love hardboiled eggs. Just how many will they consume and still be
able to lift off was the game. So Frank coaxed a bird into the open bay. One
dozen was no problem. Then two, the betting was on the increase. Now when
everybody had placed the bets, then Frank would do something to scare the bird
into flight. After about 4-dozen, it was time. One could see this bird’s
waistline had turned into a bulge line. Well little did we know that the
manager had caught wind of the game. The cook complained about the missing
eggs! So right before “Gertrude” was given the scare, here comes the chief,
barrel assing our direction in his pipeline manager’s truck. Well the bird saw
what was coming and started its retreat, right towards the truck. It looked like
it was going to be a windshield grounding event. But right before it was a
smash, the bird let one go. Like it was determined to escape by getting rid of
some ballast. There was green gooey shit flying everywhere, a direct hit on the
manager’s truck windshield. In fact, he had his side window down and you could
see the stuff had speckled his glasses! By that time, we had all vacated the
bay. After that, the hardboiled eggs were locked up. Nothing was ever said.
Probably out of embarrassment. In fact, one could still see the damage left by
the goop. It acted like a paint remover. So nothing said meant play ball.
Except, the eggs were under lock and key. We tried everything else, but these
birds were fussy. They didn’t like donuts. They didn’t like hot dogs. Eggs,
that was the key. We started looking for other ways to have fun!
We
were on an emergency project up in the Brooks’ Range. Now if this place isn’t a
prelude to what heaven will look like, I don’t know what to expect. But when
work duty calls up here, it means stuck in some shelter that houses batteries
and electronic control gear. What makes it worse, no windows to observe the
surrounding natural beauty. Smells and looks just like an old fashion type bomb
shelter. That musty smell! And it remains on the dark side, even with plenty of
lights. Could prop the doors open, but the mosquitoes would suck us dry. On one
wall of this particular shelter we were working at, some graffiti from pipeline
construction days. It was a drawing of a marijuana plant. Ken looked for some
roaches, not the bug type. Then one has to put up with the smell of sulfide
from the charging batteries. John, the electrician, he thought it was Ken
passing gas. Pipeline food will do that for you. This shelter was the control
shack for one of the remote gate valves. These valves are critical when an
orderly shutdown of the pipeline is called for from the control center in
Valdez, some 650-miles south. Now this is remote work. First, it takes a road
trip to get to these places. In this case, three hours on something that looks
like a road and far away from the nearest pumping station. Now when I say
emergency, the bosses in town wanted the project completed and tested by the
weekend. And the state regulators had proposed a penalty and fine if the
midnight Friday deadline went unaccomplished. So we worked diligently to get
the problem fixed. The problem we faced went like this. These valves control
the oil’s pressure head and isolates sections of the 4-foot diameter pipeline
in the event of a rupture somewhere along the 800-mile line. The valves are
commanded closed by a super-duper sophisticated computer located in Valdez.
These valves are heavy duty and require about 250-volts of DC power. It takes a
pretty good-sized battery pack to accomplish this feat. Like 200 military type
vehicle batteries! Anyway, should a valve go closed “un-commanded”, the head
backup from upstream pressure can easily cause the pipeline’s half-inch thick
pipe to burst wide open. And the “un-commanded” valve closure was starting to
become more then just a nuisance. In fact, the FBI was investigating the
possibility that a local terrorist group, some greenie following, had some how
gotten a hold of the command codes. With that information in hand, then all it
required was a radio at the same frequency that was used during the normal
operation, to close or open a valve. And radio frequencies are part of the
public domain. Now once these valves start to go closed, it is impossible to
stop the activity, meaning the valve would have to travel all the way closed
before it could open back up again. So a decision was made to install a remote
supervisory system that would basically take the operator power away should the
controllers in Valdez see an “un-commanded” valve go in transit. The only way
to do this without failure was to “crow-bar” the power supply. The term
crow-bar originates from when that guy was changing a flat tire and placed the
lug wrench across the battery terminals. Talk about a flash, Gordon! So this
system that we were gainfully employed installing would in essence place a
“live-bus” to ground. It would basically blow the fuses that were part of the
valve’s motor control circuit, a “dead-bus”. Now it was late on a Thursday when
we waited patiently for an inspector to show up. I was the inspector for the
crew, but this project had to be signed off by the state regulators. I guess
the state doesn’t keep regular inspectors around. There is a lot of territory
to cover up here. So come about 7pm, here comes this “green” fish and feather
vehicle towards the shelter. We were just hanging around, as our work was
finished. In fact, we were one day ahead of schedule. It meant the bosses were
happy. It meant we were happy. Because as soon as this guy put his “Hancock” on
the inspection report, we were headed to the airport in Fairbanks, then home to
Anchorage. Now the inspection report required the inspector to verify that the
motor control fuse was indeed “blown” by the action of the “crow-bar” dead bus.
These fuses are just like the ones you find in household appliances, except
bigger, like 1-inch in diameter and about 1-foot long. We had tested the
circuit’s operation enough times before the “so-called” state inspector arrived
that we were confident that it would pass the test. Anyway, we went through the
gyrations and you could here the in-rush current zap the fuse. One cannot see
if the fuse was blown. It has to be verified with a meter. Now this inspector
had no idea what I was talking about when I tried to explain this “crow-bar”
stuff. He was a biologist or a game warden! Well he refused to sign off the
blown fuse section of the report. Because he couldn’t see that the fuse was
indeed blown. And he had no idea what this “meter” business was all about. We
laughed. He said that he would have to check with the guys in town. So we were
delayed and had to find a place to stay for the night, as in the morning,
hopefully this guy would have his brain in gear! Then again, maybe we would get
a real inspector. We headed north. Each pump station along the way was pretty
busy with summertime activity, so the camps were full. It meant heading to
Deadhorse for a stay in the Hotel North El-Raunchy! There isn’t much in
Deadhorse. We stopped at the local store. This store sells everything. John had
in idea. He was checking out the kinky section. You won’t find any blow-up
dolls up here, just inflatable sheep! Anyway, he finds this remotely controlled
dildo, that looked just like the fuses we were fussing with on the valve
control system. When you work with the same crew long enough, you start
thinking the same. We knew what John was thinking about! Now we were pretty
pissed. The plan was to substitute the fuse with the dildo, then we could fake
the test and hand the inspector a real doozy of a fuse. Now this would only
work if the same guy showed up. Anyway, the next morning we headed out bright
and early. We stopped at each pump station along the way for a breakfast.
Before we arrived at our destination, we stopped for lunch. Sure enough, the
dildo looked just like a fuse when it was placed in the fuse holder. Soon the
inspector showed again, same guy, same attitude. Now we went through the
gyrations of initiating a test. John really played the part of a high-voltage
electrician. He had the high-voltage gloves on and the big old glasses, like it
was real dangerous work, it was. Anyway, you could tell today that “Barney
Fife” wasn’t going to be made a fool. Oh no, he now knew everything there was
to now about electricity. Anyway, the signal was given and then John removed
the fuse, the dildo. He handed it to the officer. Now this guy still had no
idea what in hell he is looking for. I asked him if he would like to use the
meter, to check continuity to see if the fuse was still live. He then said the
fuse looked like it was dead. Just then, Ken hit the remote switch to turn on
the dildo It started vibrating, still in the officers hand. This guy didn’t
even realize he was playing with a dildo. Next thing you know, he is running
out of the building, still holding the vibrating dido as if he was getting
electrocuted. We laughed so hard that tears rolled! Then I guess he caught on
to the joke. But it wasn’t a joke to him. Dam, he comes strolling back into the
shelter, banishing a handgun and waving his fancy brass badge. He pointed the
gun right at John. This was scary. When he realized that he had us and that the
one who laughs last laughs best, he lowered the weapon. The gun was made of
plastic. He told us that he carried the plastic one as a decoy. I guess he runs
into some pretty strange things running up and down the pipeline. Anyway,
everything was signed off. We headed to the nearest station, had the guy join
us for dinner. Now right before we left, he asked John if he could borrow the
vibrator. Said he had a Friday night date in Deadhorse. We laughed again, with
who? Life on the pipeline!
Roy
was the guy that was always stealing other workers’ tools. Now we don’t know if
he did it unconsciously, or out of stupidity. Some say it was his Oklahoma
manners. Hey, you don’t mess around with another guy’s tool belt! You’d be
better off messing around with a guy’s wife then his tools! And the other
technicians would play mind games with old Roy. One day a technician made this
fancy jumper cable with insulated alligator clips at each end. It was
strategically placed so Roy couldn’t miss it hanging from this guy’s toolbox.
The bad thing? It wasn’t made out of copper wire, but fabricated out of a
fiber-optic cable! I guess the expression on his face when he was trying to
bypass an emergency shutdown system caused one heck of an embarrassment.
Especially when he realized the jumper wasn’t working and cut it in half, in
front of the supervisor. Laughs were heard all around the Valdez Marine
Terminal. Now I wasn’t one to play games. But over the course, I reported an
increase in disappearance of my good tools, and replaced with not so good ones.
Like a screwdriver that looked like it was chewed up by a bolt of lightening.
And these were good tools, all Kliens! So one day I just happened to play a
joke on old Roy. It wasn’t intentional, just happened to be in the right spot
at the right time. Timing is everything, just ask a wife! Anyway, I had been
diagnosed with a kidney stone. So the doctor in Valdez prescribed this pill to
protect the inner wall of the tract that the stone was trying to navigate. It
was just a prescription pill that would prevent an infection. These stones have
a tendency to scarf the innards. Infections can be a nightmare to heal. Now I
hate taking pills, always have. It is that swallowing paranoia. So I would
place a pill in my coffee, in efforts to get it to dissolve, then I would enjoy
my coffee and drugs at the same time. Now this pill had no side effects, like
drowsiness or anything like that. It was just a precautionary medication. Well
I came back from the foreman’s office to pick up my cup of coffee. It was gone.
I asked Jim what happened to it. Roy was here was the answer. Oh well, but I
forgot about the medication that most likely by now had been consumed by Roy.
No big deal, except for one thing! This prescription turns the urine a bright
MacDonald’s cheese orange! At lunchtime, we were all sitting around, almost to
the nap stage. Then all hell broke loose. Dave came running out of the men’s
room, calling for the medic. Roy had passed out, right after he pissed. We went
running into the men’s room, to see if we could help. Sure enough, as Roy
urinated he freaked out when the ugly orange urine hit the spittoon. There was
this orange stuff all over the place, and Roy was coming too. By this time, the
medics had arrived. I had to admit what happened as it was just too damn funny.
A few days later, things were back to normal. Well it didn’t change Roy’s bad
habits. But the guys were on to a new thrill. Yes indeed. They would set up a
cup of coffee, just too inviting for Roy to pass up. And the coffee was laced
with a liquid type Ex-lax!. Now it didn’t seem to be affecting Roy, at least not
to the point that the pranksters expected. So they kept increasing the dosage.
Well one day, Roy was sitting down at the break room table with his feet up in
the air. Pretty relaxed I must admit and he had that mentality that said it was
OK to pass wind, while others are eating! He tried. It woke him up. His face
turned red. He limped off to the rest room. That cured him! It was revenge on
the wild side.
It was already winter like, with respect to the present
weather conditions in Valdez. November was upon us. A non-disappearing blanket
of snow had already started to accumulate out and about town with temperatures in
the low thirties at night. Not bad considering the temperatures in Prudhoe Bay
some 800 miles north were hovering at around zero with wind chills of –20
degrees Fahrenheit – so far mild according to one of the three permanent
residents of Deadhorse, Alaska. Anyway, winter brings delays for travelers. I
was told that the sooner I moved over to Valdez, the better. As it was not
unusual to have the one road into and out of town blocked by the packing of
snow some 30 feet deep, an almost impenetrable fortress left by a passing
avalanche. This in concert with a three day long blizzard, so brutal that it
takes as many days just to get the airport runway opened back up again when
blue sky appears. As work ended for the day, and brought an end to my first
7-day workweek, it was one of those blizzards that would delay my departure
back to Anchorage. No planes flying. Open roads, “iffy” according to the
recording from the Department of Transportation’s road maintenance site at the
top of Thompson Pass - a camp that looked like it was situated on a moonscape.
I was waiting at the security post with several other workers who were also
hoping to somehow get back to Anchorage. But before to long a few workers with
weather delaying experience resigned themselves and their wishes – accepting
the fact that they were stuck here. With that, they decided to head back into
town for the night. They knew what I didn’t, so I followed. We caught the
company bus that was just departing the Terminal. This bus would take the
workers back and forth from work, it was front door to front door service. Even
had a coffee brewing machine on-board, for those early morning runs. A good
idea since work started at 6:00 am. Bus service, excellent pay, benefits not to
shabby. Hey, this was a first class operation. The only thing open for
complaining about was the weather! In short time I had acquainted myself with
this group of stranded workers as we tagged along with other workers on the
road back to town. One guy named Faller invited me for a drink at one of the
local hangouts. I accepted. It seems all those with nowhere to go headed in the
same direction. Damn, the entire busload was heading that way, causing a
bottleneck at the pub’s entry – hey, it was the end of the workweek! Faller was
a Vapor Recovery operator. Had worked pipeline construction for many years,
then became a permanent as soon as the construction work began to dry up.
Faller said the pipeline construction era spoiled him. No way was he willing to
go back to the routine 40-hour workweek. Not to mention 20-hours a week on top
of that for traveling back and forth to work – which was routine for his old
job somewhere back on the Texas panhandle. Upon entering the drinking
establishment, Faller pointed to a table occupied by a group of men who looked
a little out of place. Instead of the flannel shirt attire common amongst the
clientele who lived and worked in these parts and lacking beards, these guys
wore uniforms - spiff and proper. Shirt collars even looked starched! Following
a Snidely Whiplash like grin, Faller mentioned that it was the guys that sail
the tankers in and out of Valdez. He knew most of the table patrons on a first
name basis. They were enjoying themselves, as witnessed by several empty
pitchers of beer about the table and cigar smoke so thick that it cast a noon
time shadow to the ceiling lights above. Next it was on to a round table where
several pipeline workers had already taken to enjoy the gusto themselves. The
fact that the next seven days was all theirs was getting a grip. No where to
go, no one to report to. A hangover would not be an unwelcome addition I
gather. Then Faller introduced me to one obnoxious behaving and obnoxious
looking dude who had made his way through the crowd, pissing off everyone in
his path – like a bad Kansas storm moving across the prairie. His real name was
MacKay. Everyone called him by his nickname, “Mad Mac”. I guess he weighed in
at some 300 pounds. But not overweight, just a mean built. His face tarnished
with roughness. At first introductions pretty aloof. Until Mad Mac found out
that I was trying to get back to Anchorage. He insisted that I drive with him.
He extended that invite to anyone and everyone, but everybody else just laughed
- ignoring the invitation. Under their breaths muttered words to the effect
that to accept this invite one would have to be crazy, insane. Hey, I didn’t
know any better, so why not. I accepted. Then the muttered words from those
surrounding, sounded of laughter, eluding to comments to the effect of “so long
its been good to have known you.” I guess the saying goes true that one will
learn from one’s mistakes, as no one in the crowd offered to help me, the
newcomer, at resisting the foolish offer. Before long Mad Mac and Mr. Novice
were Anchorage bound. Mad Mac had a few drinks under his breath, but he seemed
cognizant to the fact that it was a long drive through mostly unforgiving
wilderness, with very few places offering overnight shelter. I guess drinking
was an accepted pastime in Alaska – one for the road. For that matter, two if
by sea as it didn’t seem to deter against those guys who steer those
ocean-going tankers! One re-assuring fact that lessened destinies concern is
the fact that Mad Mac had just finished a hitch on the midnight shift, so he had
the whole day to rest. That’s what he told me. I knew I was in for a joyous
ride when he pulled into the last stop out of town. Not for gas, even though I
had doubts whether his classic 1965 Cadillac, convertible at that, could make
it all the way to Anchorage without filling up the fuel tank. Anchorage is
really only about a hundred air miles away, but the rugged mountains in between
make the road trip in a round about fashion, about a 350 mile trip - one way.
Mad Mac called his two-tone baby Geronimo. He exited the store with a case of
Bud. Great! Guzzled two cans just waiting for one of his 8 track tapes to
rewind. When it started playing, it was pedal to the metal with George Jones in
the background, Mad Mac pounding the dashboard, as if the idol’s drummer.
Striking up conversation, I asked him what was with the duct-tapped holes in
the convertible’s roof. He told me there was a tunnel up ahead. The last time
he drove through it, just last week, something about his high beams screwed up
- causing the horn to blow. The shock waves were enough to dislodge icicles
that had already formed in the tunnel. Several bounced off the hood without
much damage he said, a few more came crashing through the roof. He said not to
worry. Soon we were on entry to that same tunnel, which leads out of Valdez
into the treacherous Thompson Pass. And as mentioned before, an area known for
its avalanches and a reported 30 to 35 feet of snow pack during a normal
winter. Where the road itself becomes a tunnel like passage. Upon entering the
rock tunnel, Mad Mac turned off the headlights all together. He again said not
to worry, that George would get us through to the other side. Mad Mac wasn’t
much of a singer, maybe that is what caused those icicles to come crashing
down! Anyway, good thing the road ahead was void of traffic. Except for snow
removal equipment. Another beer, can thrown in the back seat. Mad Mac said he
would rather get a ticket for drinking and driving then to litter. I had lost
count of just how many beers this guy had downed since leaving Valdez behind
us. It didn’t seem to discourage his driving abilities. The icy roads didn’t
seem to phase him at all either. Didn’t Bob Dylan write a ballad about this
guy? Mac may have been mad, he had that demeanor, but he was also a wealth of
information on the operation, or what he said was the screwed-up operation of
the Vapor Recovery system. Mac was a multi-purpose operator at the Terminal –
which is how he knew everyone at the pub. I couldn’t help not getting on the
subject. He was one of the originals in a group of technicians that spent weeks
at the University of Arizona learning about the system’s control capabilities.
Mac said that not one, not even a single individual in the cast of engineers
sent over from Anchorage, understood just what the hell those things were
supposed to do. Breaking the boredom by insisting that the best part of the
trip was when the whole group of technicians got busted at the border crossing
- for possession of marijuana. Possession and use of cannabis was legal in
Alaska at the time, so these guys didn’t think anything of it. The company had
to send down a team of lawyers to act as bail bondsmen. Not that the company
condoned the behavior, which warranted an overnight incarceration, but those under
arrest were needed back at the Terminal for the startup signoff, the big day.
Without these guys presence at startup in the already approved headcount, it
would have meant a delay, another delay. Not what the oil companies needed at
that stage in the game of the project. Every so often, I guess when Mad Mac had
his lips to the can and his eyes towards the sky, there came a reprieve in his
yapping. I wanted to get a word in, but I was more concerned about the fuel
gage. It hadn’t budged, even after about three hours into the trip. I
questioned Mac about the indicator. He directed a clenched fist against the
stubborn gage, still no change. With that he said it was probably time to make
a pit stop, I guess he meant for gas. I hope not more Bud. Damn, there wasn’t a
town or anything that even looked like a town in sight, never mind a gas pump.
For the last several hours it was nothing but woods, deep dark unfriendly
woods. Next thing I know, Mad Mac is pulling off the main road onto a dirt
exit. One of those “Chevy Chase” type of turns, no slowing up! It was a
driveway I guess, leading up to a cabin. The approaching head lights in the
midnight darkness waking a pack of dogs, as acknowledged by the alarming howls.
In no time, the porch light reveals an interest to our intrusion. Through the
front door comes the homeowner, shotgun ready. Mac had already exited old
“Geronimo” and was relieving himself at a nearby bush. It seemed the
right-to-bear-arms homeowner was ready to pull the trigger, until he notices
Mac. Soon Mad Mac and a guy named Gus are exchanging hugs and greetings. I
guess out here there is no such thing as unexpected guests! Next thing I know
we are invited into the house. Gus was an Athabaskan Indian. Upon entering the
house, one could tell that this was a family that relied upon a subsistence
lifestyle, as the entry way held the necessities of survival, snow shoes,
traps, fishing nets, a brightly colored kite! Gus’ wife Sally was also up, by
now stoking up the fire in the potbelly stove and brewing up the Folgers, along
with a side condiment of dried salmon and pilot biscuit crackers. I looked for
a better word then hospitality - especially at 2:00 am in the morning! Before
long we were back on the road, with a full tank of gas courtesy of some trade arrangement
between Mad Mac and Gus’ wife. Had something to do with seal oil. Come to find
out, Mac’s wife is also an Alaskan native, from the coastal regions inhabited
by the Eskimos. Seal oil was a highly prized product of trade amongst the
Alaskan Natives. Gus tried to bribe some Bud for himself, no deal! Besides
spruce and willow tree forests, the road we traveled traversed the route of the
pipeline. Every so often the elevated structure’s reflective insulation could
be seen off in the wilderness, aided by the light of the full moon. It looked
cold. It looked like a wilderness. The pipeline was purposely elevated to allow
the foraging caribou herds and other animals unrestricted movement west to
east, the migration route. That requirement added substantially to the
construction costs. Finally, we arrived at one of the bedroom communities
catering to Anchorage. I had been renting a small little cabin in Chugiak. Nice
little place with that true Alaskan “roughing it” flavor. But nowhere near what
Gus and his family woke up to everyday. Hey, for me, just down the road was an
espresso shop! I gave Mad Mac many thanks. Thanked the Great Lord that I had
arrived alive, and promised myself never again All things considered, the only
thing to be concerned about now was the fact that I was back home. There to
meet me, my wife and dog. Last thing I remember was catching a glimpse of the
Northern Lights through the ceiling mounted skylight, finally relaxed to sleep.
Next morning I woke rather early, still on company wakeup time. A nice day was
about. Glittering sunshine bouncing off the frosted up windows told the story
of what was happening outside, well into fall - maybe a tease of winter.
Anchorage lags behind in the season change as the coastal influence blocks the incoming
“Arctic Blast” – that burst of cold air from up north which sets winter into
motion. It happens overnight in the interior.
And unlike Valdez, where the surrounding mountain peaks have a tendency
to block out most of the sunshine, Anchorage still saw lots of light this time
of year – enough to keep winter at bay for awhile longer. The longest day,
called the winter solstice, still a few months away. But it wasn’t easy not to
recognize what looked like a vehicle blocking the bend of the driveway. Sure
enough it was Mad Mac’s “Geronimo”. I ran out to see if something was wrong.
Sound asleep he was. A few taps on the window and it was Mad “wide awake” Mac.
Like an automatic response, he grabbed a beer, guzzled down the semi-frozen
slush, shook my hand through the now open window and said “we’ll do the same in
two weeks”.
It
had been some years since I had the opportunity to visit Valdez, the end of the
800-mile long pipeline. I had worked at the pipeline’s loading terminal for
many years and at the same time raised a family. This place is called the
“Switzerland” of the north. It was a nice little town, but definitely a company
town. I had not really kept up correspondence with friends made on the job,
even though I was still employed by the same company, but for now way up north
in Prudhoe Bay. Hey, one has a tendency of loosing touch with past
acquaintances. It is sad, but a fact of life. Like Bob Dylan sang, “Friends
will arrive, friends will disappear”. So I was hoping to catch up with some
past working buddies. To talk about old times. We had a great team down in
Valdez. That was true until the management went paranoid over union activity
and broke up the maintenance group. Regardless, it was still a decent job. So
this time it was a plane ride from Anchorage to Valdez. It was a bumpy ride,
not unusual considering the mountainous terrain that surrounds a plane’s flight
path upon final approach. And also not unusual and par for the course in
Alaska, towards the back of this 1950’s era turbo-prop plane, a casket. Sitting
upon a wheeled gurney, somewhat secured at the rear bulkhead by bungi chords. A
normal flight. Until a wallop from air turbulence off the nearby Valdez glacier
tested the piloting skills and teased the passengers. A second wallop, this
time sending the casket holding gurney forward, coming to rest right where the
passengers were sitting. A little strange, but there was nothing anybody could
do but exchange facial expressions of acceptance. Even the lone flight
attendant was helpless, remaining buckled up as instructed by the guys
up-front. Then came another fuselage engulfing invasion of turbulence. This
time the jolt nudged the closed casket to open. Right there in front of us,
only an arms length away. New facial expressions highlighted disbelief. We all
thought, in short time it will be wheels down on the tarmac. But sitting there
waiting for that final touchdown, well it was just to inviting not to peek into
the open casket. For myself, it was not a good idea to be so nosey. The
recognized face, a little older and I believe colder. A former working buddy of
mine. A prayer was forwarded. It was Bruce, returning back to Valdez. He had
lost the battle – the cancer battle!
I am
not a tourist. I am an oil pipeline worker on the Trans-Alaska-Pipeline. Yes
indeed, 800-miles of unadulterated natural beauty. From the North Slope all the
way to Valdez, in Prince William’s Sound. They call Valdez the Switzerland of
the north. On a scale of 1 to 10, an easy 10 when it comes to a display of natural
beauty. From the mountains to the oceans, postcard picture perfect. And if you
ever had the opportunity to drive through Thompson’s Pass in the winter and
there is a full moon about, it’s a breathless experience. Bring on the Aurora
Borealis – sometimes called the northern lights. I have seen lights dancing
about in colors that were hard to describe. Now such natural beauty stretches
the entire 800-miles. And we’re talking only an infinitesimal slice that the
pipeline right-of-way occupies, when considering the entire landmass of this 49th
state. But having been able to spend several years in Prudhoe Bay, well I will
let you in on a little secret. First, the winter can be brutal. But snowy owls
seem not to mind the whiteout conditions. And the white arctic foxes find
enough food to survive several months of nothing, that’s about it. But as soon
as the sun’s light starts coming back after a three-month hiatus, well the
“slope” starts to come alive. It seems birds start to show up overnight. The
snows melt from underneath. As soon as puddles show, the migration begins. For
days and days at a time, flocks arrive. From swans to geese, by the thousands.
And songbirds bombard the airwaves with serenades. I bet there are species of
birds up here that have yet to be discovered. In no time, this place transforms
into a giant swamp. Then the lone caribou shows, the scout. And in a few days,
thousands appear from out of nowhere, like on a pilgrimage. Then the newborn
arrive, again by the thousands, legs shaking, but well protected by bulls with
racks that make them look like knights in royal armor. This place comes alive
in every direction. Alive in every dimension, then some. I was driving back
from a pump station south of Prudhoe Bay. It was close to midnight. Something
caught my attention. Off in the distance, a brown bear enjoyed the midnight
sunshine, taking a nap. Close by, caribou also enjoyed the evening without
fear. It was as if a time existed with no hostilities between the species that
sometime rely on cruelty upon others in efforts to survive. But on this day,
all was content. Two small cubs played with the caribou. The young caribou used
their growing antlers to throw the little balls of fur into the air. They would
land on the ground and come back for another lift. And the protective bulls
knew they meant no harm, so they continued to rest. The sow, not alarmed but
amused at the way her siblings played with the older caribou. Now since I had
access, from keys to locked away territory, I could find myself visiting
surroundings that were off limits to every other American! There existed places
where giant arctic char could be observed dancing along a river’s surface. And
grayling, what a sight! Money cannot even buy this kind of adventure. I am not
rich, but I have been to places not even the richest person in the world will
ever get to visit. Thanks to the pipeline!
~ The End of the Line ~