“North Dakota has a really bad workers’ comp law,” said Tatum O’Brien Lindbo, a personal injury lawyer in the state. “A lot of these people go out to an unsafe oil rig and they get hurt, maimed, or killed and there isn’t a whole lot I can do for them. It’s just a terrible system for a worker up here.”
If a worker manages to avoid any immediate injuries, long-term damage can also come in the form of silica poisoning, or silicosis. The disease is difficult to detect and causes irreversible lung damage, which can lead to lung cancer or tuberculosis. Silica poisoning can happen when fine bits of silica from fracking sand enter a worker’s lungs. Each well requires some 2,000 tons of sand, which is used to prop open fractured rock, and the National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health found higher-than-recommended levels of silica in 92 of 116 air samples they took from fracking sites in five states, including North Dakota.
Marchello and most of her crew had experienced or witnessed some sort of serious accident during their time in North Dakota’s oil fields. One worker needed back surgery after he was in a car accident while driving to location. Two men almost died when a crane tipped over. One guy blew a hole through his hand after he opened a pressurized valve in freezing temperatures and a chunk of ice shot through his palm. He was out of work for four months.
When Marchello was at Halliburton, a hose came loose and sprayed hot hydraulic fluid all over her, dripping down her hard hat and drenching her coveralls. If she hadn’t been wearing protective clothing, it would’ve burned through to her skin. As she stumbled over to get her coworker’s attention, she tripped on a lunch box, crashing down on top of it, and felt an intense pain in her leg. A welt on her thigh was already swelling bigger than a football. She had bruised her right thigh down to the bone. She kept her sunglasses on so the guys wouldn’t see her crying. At first, she didn’t want to report the accident because it seemed minor. The general thinking among her coworkers was if you don’t need to go to the emergency room, don’t report it. She tried to tough it out and not to put weight on her leg for the remainder of her shift: another 12 hours.
When she returned to the bus after her shift, however, she was in even more pain. She finally decided to report the incident and was told to contact a nurse through an “independent” medical consulting firm that evaluates oil field workers after injuries. Independent medical consulting firms are typically on a list of providers approved by the oil company, and medical personnel often make decisions on injuries after only brief exams. In treatment disputes, doctors employed by independent medical consulting firms have ruled against injured workers most of the time, according to a report by ProPublica. Marchello was sent to Williston’s hospital, where a nurse practitioner conducted a drug test and gave her a Breathalyzer test to make sure she didn’t have alcohol in her system. Marchello said after the nurse poked her leg a few times and took an x-ray, the consulting firm claimed the injury wasn’t severe and sent her back to work, suggesting she do “light duty” for six weeks, which involved picking up trash and working at the Halliburton warehouse. “If they can bandage you up, they’ll send you back to work,” said Marchello. “Time off is what they don’t want to give you.”
Oil workers historically have had difficulty organizing, and most states where fracking and oil drilling occur are “right to work” states, which have laws that strip unions of much of their bargaining power. The national union in the field is United Steelworkers, but it represents only those who work in oil refineries, petrochemical plants, pipeline operations, or terminals. Because most oil field workers are employed by smaller service companies and travel so often, it’s difficult for them to organize strikes or improve their bargaining power. Most of the workers I interviewed weren’t interested in union membership anyway. They blamed the downfall of American’s manufacturing industry on unions. Nationwide, labor union membership had fallen by half over the last 30 years. In 2014, only about 11 percent of all wage and salary workers were in a union, down from 20 percent in 1983.
Many workers I met said they saw a limit to the number of years they could stay in the oil field. They witnessed what happened to those who stayed too long—divorce, estrangement from their children, health problems, debilitating injuries, or early death. People often said oil field years were like dog years—for every year you worked in oil, you aged about seven years. Marchello estimated that with her oil field years, she was 92. “Mine quadrupled because I was so old when I started,” she said. But pulling herself away from the high paycheck and transitioning to a slower pace of life was easier said than done.
All of the guys on Marchello’s crew spent most of the year away from their families, causing a strain on marriages and family life that was a frequent topic of conversation. When people would ask Marchello where she lived, she’d reply: “In a sleeper of a truck, on a muddy location, somewhere in North Dakota.” Workers missed birthdays and holidays and struggled to stay connected to home. Crew members often bonded over the difficulties of their long-distance lives. They gave each other privacy to call home when they were in pockets of cell phone reception and discussed suspicions of their partners’ infidelities.
“I’ve seen people leave because they needed to work on their marriage,” said one of Marchello’s coworkers. “The time away is hard. If you don’t have a strong foundation at home, this will tear you apart.”
11. TOM STAKES
I met Tom Stakes a few weeks after I arrived in Williston. A local worker told me about a homeless camp at Trenton Lake, and on a sweltering, dusty day in July, I drove the 10 miles outside of Williston to see what I could find. A few years ago, the campground was a summer vacation spot for families visiting the nearby historical site of Fort Buford. But during the summer of 2013, it was essentially a tent city, scattered with homeless people who had traveled from thousands of miles away to try to make it in an oil boomtown. Priced out of the local rental market, and with no homeless shelter in Williston, they turned to camping.
When I arrived at the campground, I parked and stepped out of the car. There were wooden picnic tables, a rusty swing set, and a dozen or so tents pitched on an overgrown grassy field—in many ways, it looked like any other campground I’ve stayed at across the United States. Patches of green grass grew next to a murky lake that lapped up against a narrow beach. After living around dust and gravel for weeks in Williston, it was a welcome change. I was beginning to forget what it was like to be around greenery. I approached two teenage boys standing near a gray canvas tent with a blue rain cover. They introduced themselves as brothers, Trevor and Kevin Andresen. Trevor was tan, with a goatee and moppy curls. He was 21, the older of the two. His brother Kevin was 18 but was taller and heavier. They were both barefoot. They explained they were from Utah and had been living at the campground for nearly a month. They lived out of an old run-down van and the small tent with their parents, pregnant sister and her two small children—a toddler and an 11-month-old—and their dog, Lita, who was tied up to a tree nearby.
“How many?” I asked, wondering how they could all fit in one tent. Trevor explained it to me: Three adults usually slept in the tent, with the children in the middle to keep their small bodies warm, and Trevor and Kevin slept under a tarp connected to the tent—except for the other night, when torrential rain forced the whole family to huddle together in the van and wait out the storm. “There’s some moody weather here,” said Trevor. “It’s like the state has constant PMS.” I peeked into the van and saw piles of clothes on the floor, crumpled bags of Cheetos, cigarettes strewn about the passenger seat, and a sleeping baby in the back, swaddled in a blanket and dirt smeared on her cheeks. The family paid $10 a night for the campsite, but they could only stay 14 days at a time according to camp rules, so every two weeks they’d pack up and spend a night or two at a campground in Fort Buford, 12 miles down the highway, then return to Trenton for another two weeks.
“Where is everyone?” I asked, wondering where the rest of the family was.
/> “Over in town,” said Trevor, gesturing toward the gravel road I’d driven in on and referring to Williston. He explained that their sister and mother were applying for cashier and waitressing jobs that day, and their father was currently at work. Their father had found a job as a welder, but so far the two of them hadn’t had much luck finding employment. The only job they managed to land was a few days pulling weeds for a guy who paid them $15 an hour under the table. As I was chatting with them, I heard from around the corner: “Who’s that cute lady you’re talking to?”
A scrawny, bespectacled man with long white hair appeared and introduced himself as Tom Stakes. “How come nobody told me there was a pretty lady here?” he said in a Louisiana drawl and laughed, not waiting for an answer. Stakes stepped in front of Trevor and Kevin and asked how he could help me. When I told him I was reporting the stories of people out here, he replied, “You wanna tell my story? I’m gonna get a piece of paper and write down your story!” He let out a loud, bouncy laugh and put his hand on my shoulder. “Jus’ kiddin’, girl! What do ya wanna know?”
Stakes explained that he was having trouble finding work for more than $10 an hour. “Now I’m kinda stuck,” he said. “It cost me $300 to drive up here, and it takes me about a week or more jus’ to earn that to get back. But in the meantime, I gotta eat, I gotta drive, I’m burnin’ gas, and everythin’ is jus’ so far away.”
After Stakes slept in the parking lot across from Bakken Staffing for two weeks, he heard about Trenton Lake Campground from a friend and decided to check it out. He set up his tent about 50 feet away from the family, went over and introduced himself, and they’d been hanging out ever since. “In a tent, you can stretch out. It’s a lot better,” Stakes explained. “It’s almost like callin’ a place home. You don’t want to call your truck your home. And plus they have hot showers and everythin’ else. There are grills outside where you can cook on a grill and little picnic tables. So it’s better than jus’ sittin’ in your truck.” The problem was, the campground was 14 miles from his job site, so he now spent $20 a day on gas. He made about $50 a day at his construction job, which left $10 for his campsite and $20 to eat and drink. “I don’t like the traffic, I don’t like the big trucks. It’s too busy for me. I don’t like the busy life, but if you gotta go out and do somethin’, you do it.”
* * *
A week later, I returned to their campsite with a six-pack. I spotted Stakes sitting next to Trevor and Kevin at a picnic table and six other people: two men, two women, and two kids—a little boy and the baby I saw sleeping in the van earlier. A cloud of smoke rose into the sky from a cement grill, and open cans of Bud Light and Natural Ice sat on the table. Stakes jumped up and yelled my name. “Hey, girl, how ya doin’?” he said as he approached me. He patted my back and introduced me to the rest of the crew: There was Trevor and Kevin’s dad, Mike, a middle-aged man who looked like he was in a biker gang. He had a long braid down his back, tattoos snaking up both arms, a backward baseball cap, and a Hooters T-shirt. Heidi, his wife, was a short, stout woman with curly hair pulled back into a messy bun. She stood at the picnic table chopping potatoes. A young woman, Billy, was sitting on a blanket spread out by the picnic table, playing with her baby. She was Trevor and Kevin’s sister. Billy’s protruding pregnant belly was covered by a tight white tank top with smudged dirt stains, and she wore pink pajama pants. A little boy, about three years old, ran over to her. A large man with short gray hair, named Web, sat in a camping chair, quietly mumbling about government conspiracies. Stakes explained that Web wasn’t related to the family. Stakes had met him at a bar and invited him to come stay at the campground—Stakes was now sharing a tent with him.
Heidi and Mike insisted I stay for a meal. I thanked them but declined, saying I’d recently eaten. But they kept insisting, and finally I agreed to a small plate. It was a thick stew of canned beans, potatoes, carrots, and ground beef—the ingredients purchased at the mini-mart down the road and warmed up on the campsite grill. “They make the best meals,” Stakes said in between bites. “I usually eat canned spaghetti.”
Soon, after more cans of beer had been emptied, all of them started talking at once to me, and the volume grew louder as they tried to speak over each other. The only two people sitting quietly were Trevor and Kevin. Kevin shoveled food into his mouth and stared down at the table. Trevor’s eyes were bloodshot. He looked stoned.
Mike told the story of how they arrived in Williston as I scribbled furiously in my notebook. In late 2008, Mike lost his construction job and filed for bankruptcy, hoping they could keep their house in Utah. It was a simple home, but on a few acres with six horses—Lady, Diamond, Webber, Buddy, Buttercup, Sassy, and a baby horse they called “Horse” because they couldn’t agree on a name. The bank said it would refinance the loan on the house, but after Mike missed one mortgage payment, the bank sent him a foreclosure notice. They lost their house during the winter of 2009 and moved into a trailer in the backwoods. “By February, we were living in the fucking mountains. I shit you not,” Mike said. They survived out there for 18 months. Mike struggled to find decent-paying work in Utah, and this summer, they decided to try their luck in North Dakota. He used his last paycheck to fund the trip, barely making it to Williston after their van broke down multiple times during the journey. “We came up here on a wing and a fetching prayer,” he said.
Stakes nodded and took another swig of beer. “These guys are what America is right here,” he said, gesturing to the family. “It’s a tough life. You do everythin’ you can to make a dime. Nobody wants to hire a 58-year-old man,” he said, referring to himself. “I got no Social Security. I got no disability. I’m jus’ livin’ on whatever I can make. Sometimes I don’t eat, sometimes I do. But I do know one thing—of all the people who have helped me in my life, it’s been people like these people,” he said about the Andresen family. “It wasn’t the people who had a lot of stuff. These people will give you the shirt off their back.”
Stakes pointed to Trevor and Kevin. “You guys are still young and got your whole life ahead of ya. Don’t mess it up.”
“By the time my brothers get a job, we’ll be okay,” said Billy. Her baby started to cry, and she rocked the child in her arms, soothing her.
It began raining. Lightly at first, but then it poured. Everyone huddled around the picnic table under an open-air shelter. The rain pounded against the tin roof.
Mike began humming and yelled, “Ladies and gentleman, live from Los Angeles, California … the Doors!” He air-played the guitar and hummed louder, then broke into song. “I took a look around for which way the wind blows!” he sang. Stakes chimed in. “Met a little girl in a Hollywood bungalow! We were rockin’ the lady in the City of Lights!” they sang together.
“The City of Night!” yelled Stakes. “City of Night!”
They sang a few more verses together, with Stakes imitating the guitar parts.
Afterward Stakes asked, “What’s that old saying, that song?” He began singing softly. “‘Those were the days my friend, we thought they’d never end.’”
He added quietly, “But they did.”
12. DONNY NELSON
The good times ended for Donny Nelson around 2007. That year, he heard rumors about renewed drilling activity to the northeast of his farm. There had been oil extraction in the area before, so he thought little of it. But then drilling moved south of him. Then west. The town closest to him, Watford City, quickly became a hub for the oil industry—its population rising from 1,200 to 8,700 in just three years. Soon drilling was next door to him. First one oil well blocked his view of the farm from his favorite lookout point, then two, then more than he could keep track of. Nelson discovered that by 2012, Hess had applied for about 150 new drilling permits in Nelson’s township and another 150 in the township next to his—some 300 wells within a few square miles. “I’ve seen three oil boom/busts in my lifetime already. But I’ve never seen nothin’ like this,” he said.
Nelson had 25 new wells on his farmland, but they were a small fraction of the 8,500 wells that were drilled or fracked in North Dakota between 2007 and 2014. Drilling some 1,200 wells every year is an astonishing rate for the oil industry. Never before had the United States seen oil production increase this much and this quickly in such a small area. And the oil companies were just getting started. By 2013, after six years of frenzied drilling, only 244 million barrels of oil had been recovered, or 3 percent of what was potentially available. “It could be a disastrous situation,” Nelson said. “We still have sites here from the ’50s and ’60s. And now we’re getting 10 times, maybe 100 times the wells.”
Nelson never wanted oil companies in his backyard. Though he owned 8,000 acres of land, he didn’t own everything underneath. In Pennsylvania and many other states, most farmers have the power to tell the oil companies to get lost, but North Dakota is one of the few states where landowners can’t say no.
The New Wild West Page 6
