QUINN: “It’s high noon, and high time to get moving.”

There was no response. None was needed. They all knew their roles.

Each group departed, heading in different directions. The groundhogs, led by Beauregard, traveled east, destined to join fellow groundhogs burrowed deep in the tunnels of Beaver County. Scout Skunk headed, just as he had promised, toward Raccoon Creek, while Abigail turned, crossed the street, and headed to her closest and most trusted neighbor.

Now, let us follow our investigative porcupine and clever weasel as they meet a distant relative of Brenston, the ancient beaver who once traveled with the skunks from Westphalia in search of a new land, arriving quite by accident in the Americas. Brenston, it turns out, was Wiley’s great-grandfather… to the fifteenth power of greats.

Guided by the old map, Quinn and Wiley reached one of the VIP rivers marked on the ancient parchment—the one calling for double dams, located in the heart of Beaver County. Quinn arrived at the riverbank first and, after adjusting the fedora’s brim, spent several quiet minutes surveying the scene before tapping the paw recorder, now ready but silent.

Wiley followed close behind, tail flicking as he took in the beavers’ handiwork. The lodge was solid with no wasted branches or careless gaps. The water divided and rejoined, shaped by the careful design of expert water engineers. Wiley nodded to Quinn, noting this was good work and these were the right builders.

Quinn watched as Wiley smoothed his whiskers before trotting down the bank toward the beavers below.

Wiley slowed his pace. Below them, the riverbank hummed with activity. Beavers were hauling branches, trimming bark, and reinforcing joints with precision. But Wiley wasn’t watching the work; he was watching the workers.

One beaver stood slightly apart. Although not the largest in the lodge, he was the one others glanced toward before acting. When a branch slipped, it was that beaver who signaled where to set it. When the current pushed too hard, it was that beaver who decided what needed reworking. Wiley’s whiskers twitched as he thought to himself, “There you are!” Only then did Wiley straighten, step forward, and begin to speak.

It was then that Quinn’s paw tightened around the recorder and began tapping the following conversation …

WILEY: “Good day to you, name’s Wiley Weasel. I’m hoping you can point me to whoever keeps this fine stretch of river behaving itself.”

BRACKEN: “That’d be me, name’s Bracken. And the river behaves because we make it.”

WILEY: “So I see. Smart placement. Strong bind. You’ve got the flow doing exactly what you want it to do.”

As leader of this lodge, Bracken stood squarely in front of Wiley with chest puffed out, obviously proud of the excellent work recognized by Wiley.

BRACKEN: “So what brings you down this way?”

Wiley lowered his voice, not secretive, just serious.

WILEY: “Upstream, where the river tightens and picks up speed, something long and hollow has been laid beneath the riverbed. It feeds on steady flow and quiet ground, and it does not belong there.”

BRACKEN: “Yup, we’ve felt it.”

WILEY: “Of course you have. You’re beavers. You feel changes in the river before anyone else does.”

The exchange between Wiley and Bracken began to draw the attention of Bracken’s crew. A few beavers drifted closer, pausing in their work to listen.

WILEY: “That thing under the river only works if everything stays steady.”

BRACKEN: “Wadya mean?”

WILEY: “Beneath the river, the pipeline runs in a straight, rigid line. It’s drilled deep below the riverbed as if the river itself were fixed in place. But rivers are never fixed. They curve, wander, and shift over time. When the riverbed moves or pressure changes inside the pipe, methane can escape, and when methane escapes, fire is never far behind.”

BRACKEN: “We’ve heard about the fires down there. Always figured that place brought trouble on itself. Didn’t know it was being fed from under our water. So what can we do?”

Quinn angled the recorder toward Bracken. THIS was the moment.

WILEY: “Here’s how you can help. The stretch upstream narrows just enough. If you build a dam there, it wouldn’t just slow the river, it would change the pressure, shift the bed, and make that buried thing unstable.”

Bracken turned to his crew. Quinn caught the low thump of tails on mud as the beavers shifted closer.

BRACKEN:  “You’re talking about damming up the works.”

WILEY: “I am. Because rivers were never meant to serve pipes. If you dam that stretch and break the even flow, the pressure changes, the ground shifts—and that pipeline can’t do its job. No methane gets through to Hell’s Bells.”

A low murmur passed through the crew. No one disagreed. The beavers nodded to one another, already thinking through placements and angles. Their tails thumped louder, in unanimous agreement

BRACKEN: “Pick your spots. We’ll start tonight.”

Quinn held the recorder steady as Bracken spoke, sealing the moment. Meeting Wiley’s knowing glance, they both knew the beavers were convinced.

The beavers turned back to the river, focusing on water and flow, to dangers they well understood. They did not yet know about the land men who would come, or what they planned to do to protect their Black Snake. But Quinn and Wiley did.

Stay Tuned For My Next Blog Post

ABIGAIL: “Well, as I said, according to Dylan’s explanation, this prophecy comes from ancient Native American lore. It tells of a black snake that would slither beneath the ground, crossing rivers and hills, poisoning the water, silencing the birds, and bringing fire to the land. If no one stopped it, the world would fall out of balance… and begin to die.

Dylan and others, including me, believe it’s a metaphor. A warning about pipelines: methane and oil lines burrowing under rivers, wetlands, and forests. Feeding the monster we now call a cracker plant. If we don’t stop the snake, it will poison everything.”

SCOUT: “My father warned me about the black snake. Said if it ever reached the big rivers, we’d be in real trouble. I didn’t think we were this close.”

BEAUREGARD: “Hell’s Bells, if y’all’ll pardon the expression— that cracker plant down in Beaver County ain’t just some local nuisance. It’s one of the biggest in the whole wide world. A beast built to turn gas into plastic faster than a frog can blink.”

ABIGAIL: “This particular snake is ninety-eight miles long, slithering through Ohio, West Virginia, and Pennsylvania—through once-pristine waterways, including the Ohio River and the Ambridge Reservoir. It’s meant to carry ethane straight into the belly of the cracker.

PUNXSUTAWNEY PHIL: “Forgive me for jumping in, but I know what’s been going on underground in these parts and the black snake you are talking about has a name. It’s called the Predator Pipeline…”

QUINN: “Thanks, Phil, for that important information. Indeed, what a perfect name. Can you tell us more?”

PUNXSUTAWNEY PHIL: “Can I ever! The Predator was built fast and in secret, with faulty corrosion protection. In fact, Investigations by the DEP, the Attorney General, and even the EPA have been ongoing since 2020. There have been and may continue to be landslides, leaks, and even explosions. But the pipeline just keeps on transporting its compressed gas.”

QUINN: “Abigail, do you know how many people may be affected by this Predator?”

ABIGAIL: “Sure do. Over 8,000 people live in what’s called the ‘vapor zone.’ That includes schools, daycares, and even first responders — all within a blast radius if an explosion ever happens. If we don’t stop it, the River is next. And after that… who knows how far the damage could spread.”

QUINN: “Are there other pipelines and cracker plants out there?”

PIERRE SHADEAUX: “Mais oui, mon ami. I can tell you one thing for sure—there’s a whole slew of ’em down in Louisiana. Pipelines crisscrossin’ the bayous, cracker plants poppin’ up like mushrooms after rain. And they causin’ a heap o’ trouble for my folks back home. Folks call it Cancer Alley.”

BUCKEYE CHUCK: “It ain’t just Louisiana. We’ve got trouble in Ohio, too. Smaller crackers, sure—but they’re spreading. Pipelines are slicing up farmland like nothing. Folks don’t even know what’s under their feet anymore.”

PUNXSUTAWNEY PHIL: “I used to watch the skies, the soil, and my shadow to predict the seasons. Now, I watch for spills, smoke, and sinkholes. It’s not weather any more—it’s warning signs.”

SCOUT: “Then it’s settled. This isn’t just about Beaver County. It’s bigger. If the Predator Pipeline is just one piece, we must map the whole network of black snakes. And fast.”

QUINN: “I’ve heard enough! This pipeline—the Predator—is not just a threat; it’s the artery that feeds the whole operation. If we sever it, we don’t just stop the flow of methane… we send a message.”

ABIGAIL: “Eureka, Quinn—you’ve done it. You brought us all together. Through your interview, and everyone’s input, you’ve helped us see the path forward. It’s a two-step plan:

Step One: First we must gather the beavers. They can cut off the pipeline at its most vulnerable points and deliver the first shock to the system.
Step Two: Take the fight to the source—the cracker plant itself. That beast in Beaver County must fall. Not just for the River, but for every community watching and wondering if resistance is still possible.

If we succeed, we won’t just stop a pipeline. We’ll start a movement.”

Stay Tuned For My Next Blog Post

Hesitating, Abigail approached the door. The moment it swung open, her eyes widened in astonishment. Standing on the threshold were four exuberant groundhogs and a familiar-looking skunk. Glancing nervously down the hallway, Abigail quickly ushered the unexpected visitors inside, hoping no neighbors had seen this curious assembly.

Beauregard and Abigail recognized each other at once. Despite seven years since their last goodbye and time leaving its mark on them both, the sparks of recognition and affection were immediate, and they embraced in a warm hug. As for the skunk, there was no mistaking those brilliant stripes; he was indeed Sebastian’s son.

With his arms crossed and a grin across his face, Buckeye Chuck gave a knowing nod. “Knew this’d be a feel-good moment.” Punxsutawney Phil shifted from paw to paw. “Touching and all, but maybe we should focus on why we’re here. Time’s not exactly on our side.” Pierre Shadeaux, with his usual Cajun flair, dabbed at his eye with a silk pawkerchief and whispered, “Ah, l’amour… she is timeless.” Then Scout, with his tail flicking in delight, looked up at Quinn and said, “Told you she’d remember him.”

QUINN: “Right you are, Scout! But Punxsutawney Phil is also correct—we have no time to waste, so let’s get down to business.”

ABIGAIL: “Thanks, Quinn, for making this meeting a reality. I presume my alter ego—Dylan—knew exactly what she was doing when she gave you the map to my apartment. Dylan didn’t just expect adventures along the way; she intended them. In fact, she knew precisely what those adventures would be—and somehow made sure they unfolded just as they did.”

I’m saying that Dylan meant for Quinn to find each of you important animal allies—to help me with what must happen next. We must protect the rivers, their precious but dwindling water, the air, and our earth. Dylan’s counting on us.”

QUINN: “Precisely, Abigail. Dylan may have set the course, but we must follow the road wherever it may lead. And from what I’ve seen, you all have been chosen for a reason. The River’s fate—and maybe more—depends on how well we listen, how bravely we act, and how deeply we care. So, let’s begin.”

ABIGAIL: “Now, while you three groundhogs are seasoned meteorologists and expert underground engineers, Scout here… well, Scout is quite the diplomat. No surprise there—his father, Sebastian Skunk, trained him well. I’ve begun to shape a plan, and once it’s solidified, the four of you will be essential to making it happen.”

QUINN: “Okay, Abigail, and that brings us to what comes next—helping you finalize that plan. So listen up, everyone. Our environment is collapsing faster than even the worst forecasts predicted. That means we don’t have the luxury of wandering down multiple paths. There are many interrelated problems, and we only have limited time and resources. So, to figure out where we focus our efforts, we need to help Abigail collect her thoughts. The best way to do that? An interview—investigative reporter style. You ready, Abigail?”

ABIGAIL: “Yes, I’m ready. I’ve put the pieces together, Quinn—but I haven’t yet decided which path makes the most sense. There are several, and each one carries risk. I need clarity now, and that’s where you come in. Ask your questions. Help me think this through. Because the right plan is in front of us… we just have to uncover it together.”

QUINN: “You’ve fought this before—back when Sebastian earned his stripes by leading the First Skunk Troop and driving the land-men off your land. So here’s my next question, Abigail … If those tactics worked once, why not now? What has changed?

ABIGAIL: “What’s changed is the scale. Back then, we were dealing with land leases, a few bulldozers, and men with clipboards. Now we’re staring down pipelines that can stretch for miles carrying methane to feed petrochemical plants that make plastic.”

QUINN: “Allow me to elaborate. I understand that what began as land destruction to extract natural gas for energy—has lost some of its appeal, and the industry now has a new way to grow its business. They can make a different product by separating out the methane in the natural gas.”

ABIGAIL: “You got it, and, as I said, that product is plastic. There’s an old Native American story—one Dylan once told me—about a black snake that would slither across the land, bringing fire and destruction in its wake. And when it reached the heart of the earth, that would be the beginning of the end.

Stay tuned for my next blog post! 

QUINN: “Here’s to adventures untold and stories yet to unfold.”

Quinn paused, the silence inviting reflection, before clinking the crystal glass lightly against Abigail’s. Leaning back, swirling the wine as if savoring the taste, Quinn contemplated the gravity of those words. Then, after taking a sip, set the glass down, leaned forward, and in the steady voice of a seasoned reporter, began the first of many stories …

QUINN: “Once Dylan directed me eastward, I bid her and Wish fond farewells and, with map in paw, began my journey. While traveling the riverbank, I wondered about its many secrets and what possibilities would unfold.

The grasslands along the worn path I traveled gradually opened into a vast meadow. Golden waves of grass swayed in a gentle breeze, and the meadow beckoned me. After traveling a short while, I spotted dense bushes in the distance and kept going until I reached them. They were bursting with ripe, sweet blueberries, and their scent and sight made me realize how hungry I was.

ABIGAIL: “Oh my, you are whetting my appetite. Both for something to eat and my thirst for knowledge about your adventures. Would you like fruit or cheese to accompany your wine and stories before we continue?”

QUINN: “Actually, I’m a vegetarian, so I’ll pass on the cheese, but any fruit or vegetable would be most welcome.”

Feeling light headed from several glasses of wine, Abigail decided that refreshments were in order. She excused herself to the kitchen, where she prepared a tray of fruits, vegetables, and her much-needed crackers and cheese. Meanwhile, Quinn lingered in the living room, sipping thoughtfully.

After they had savored the simple spread, Quinn picked up the thread of the story, skillfully drawing Abigail back into what would develop into a captivating narrative.

QUINN: “Despite being stuffed with berries and wanting to nap, I knew it was time to get moving, realizing the urgency of meeting up with you, Abigail. So, after eating my last blueberry, I glanced at Dylan’s map to ensure I was heading in the right direction and resumed my journey. I had only gone a few paces when I suddenly misstepped and tripped into a large hole in the ground covered by wisps of grass and twigs. I fell, feet-first, down a dusty hole, landing in the home of some animal, obviously as large or maybe even larger than I, given the size of the hole and the size of its den.”

ABIGAIL: “You mentioned that the hole was dusty. When you reached the den, was it also dry? Did you get hurt during the fall? And what about when you landed?”

QUINN: “Thanks for asking. Yes to the first question and no to the other. Both the entrance, about 25 feet from the hole to the den, and the den itself were bone dry, but that’s to be expected in the summertime, before the rains. Fortunately, I fell vertically, so I landed back paws first before gaining balance when all four paws were on the ground. If I had landed any other way, my quills would probably have impaled me!”

ABIGAIL: “OMG, I had no idea porcupines could be harmed by their own quills. But then again, humans have many ways to harm themselves, sometimes purposely but more often accidentally. One might say you landed on your feet, I mean paws. Uh, so sorry I keep interrupting; please continue!”

QUINN: “It’s perfectly fine to ask questions, and yes, I did manage to land on my feet or, more correctly, as you noted, my paws—something I’ve mastered over countless escapades in my adventurous and inquisitive life. Still, my balance was precarious, and I almost lost it while staggering to steady myself when I heard the sound of steps. I turned, expecting a mundane woodland creature, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight before me: the largest groundhog I had ever encountered, his fur a rich tapestry of browns and grays. He carried himself with an air of unexpected elegance, bowing slightly as he introduced himself. His smooth and honeyed voice had the unmistakable charm of a Southern gentleman, his words rolling off his tongue with a delightful cadence.

ABIGAIL: “An elegant groundhog with a Southern accent! I can’t wait to hear what happened next.”

QUINN: “Actually, let me set the record straight—aside from jotting down quick notes with one of my trusty quills, I’ve got a recorder on hand, too!”

ABIGAIL: “Wow, a porcupine with a recorder! Pretty modern. Where do you keep it?”

QUINN: “Attached to my left front paw—yes, just like that sleek Smart Watch strapped to your wrist—I’ve got my own recording device. Advanced tech, you see. I didn’t miss a single word of our exchange. Care to take a listen?”

ABIGAIL: “It’s a must; please go on!”

Quinn pressed the dial on the recorder. The conversation began …

BEAUREGARD LEE: “Well, well, now this is a fine surprise! What do we have here? Looks like I got mahself’ a visitor. Howdy there! The name’s General Beauregard Lee, at your service. And who might you be, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

QUINN: “Investigative Reporter Quinn here. Please forgive my intrusion, but I accidentally fell into your den while traveling to meet Abigail, a lady who lives about twenty miles from here.”  

BEAUREGARD LEE: “Now, this is truly somethin’. I must say the name Abigail surely rings a bell. Would her last name happen to be Newton, by any chance? If it is, I  dare say I plan to make her acquaintance with my esteemed weather-predictin companions. You see, we all plan  to gather for a rather significant meetin’, if you will.”

QUINN:  “Let me get this straight—are you saying that you are also a weather prognosticator like our esteemed Punxsutawney  Phil and that there are others as well? How many groundhog meteorologists are you talking about? When, where, and why is this meeting taking place? And, by the way, I can tell you’re from down south from your dialect, right? But where exactly down  south might that be?”

BEAUREGARD LEE: “Well, bless my soul. It looks like I’m bein’  interviewed! Let me go on and answer your questions real quick  ‘fore you go probin’ deeper—which I reckon you will, seein’ as how you’ve got a knack for diggin’ into things. Now, while you’re busy pokin’ ‘round, let me tell ya somethin’—us groundhogs ain’t just about forecastin’ the weather. Truth be told, we’re much better at engineering — land, that is. The burrows we call  home, where we live, raise our young and hunker down for the  winter, well, they’re downright amazin’, all full of fancy tunnels  runnin’ underground – yup, all dug and designed by us  groundhogs.”

QUINN: “You’re absolutely right—I’m here to ask more questions and dig deeper, just as we investigative reporters are known to   do. What you’ve shared so far is intriguing, but I need the facts now. So, for starters, please tell me exactly where  you’re  from, how many groundhogs are attending this meeting, and when and where it will occur.”

BEAUREGARD LEE: “Well now, my apologies for goin’ on at such length—I do have a tendency to elaborate. To be more direct, I hail from Jackson, Georgia, just a little ways from Atlanta, the Peach State itself. As for our gatherin’, there will be four of us groundhogs meetin’, includin’ the esteemed Phil. We  plan on meetin’ tomorrow mornin’ right here in mah’ den.”

QUINN: “Thanks so much. I had no idea there were other weather-predicting groundhogs. May I ask a few more  questions?”

BEAUREGARD LEE: “Why, of course Quinn! I do love to talk. And bein’ a General, well, I’m mighty used to doin’ the directin’  and askin’.’ I reckon I got a few for you, too. Go ahead, you  ask your questions first, and I’ll ask mine after answering yours.”

QUINN: “Thanks Uh, General. Please tell me where the other groundhogs come from and the nature of this all-important meeting. Most curiously, why do you find it necessary to, as you say, acquaint yourselves with Abigail? And, by the way, your title begs clarification—General of what, precisely? While I want answers, more importantly, Dylan and Abigail also need answers.

 Stay tuned to learn more …

Quinn’s toast, “To old friends—and new beginnings,” gently pulled Abigail back to the present, the lingering resonance of the glass still echoing in her ears and thoughts. Her first sip of wine was followed swiftly by a gulp, after which Abigail couldn’t hold back any longer. Her questions poured out in a rapid cascade.

ABIGAIL: “Quinn, you’re right. It has been seven years since I said goodbye to Sebastian, Sabrina, and Willie. But how do you know about them—and their descendants? Do you also know what became of the infamous groundhog, General Beauregard Lee? And what about the beavers and Embla?”

QUINN: “All in due time. Let’s tackle these questions one sip at a time. First, let me tell you about your counterpart—or should I say your ‘other half.’ She’s one of the most important characters of all.”

Abigail tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. Hmmm, to whom was Quinn referring? DJ, my better half, until death do us part, passed away seventeen years ago. But Quinn didn’t say “better half.” Instead, “counterpart” or “other half” were selected. Of course, Quinn must mean Dylan, Abigail’s alter ego in that case. Uh, that would be me!

ABIGAIL: “Oh, you mean Dylan! She’s definitely my counterpart, not my ‘better half.’ What can you tell me about where she, my writer self, is now?”

QUINN: “I parted ways with Dylan some time ago, shortly after Wish—our hot air balloon—made a rough landing on a hillside overlooking an enormous industrial complex stretched along one bank on either side of a wide, muddy river. Before I left, Dylan gathered the passengers and told them it was time to return home. The method? Clicking their heels together and reciting the classic phrase, ‘There’s no place like home.’”

ABIGAIL: “And just like that—they all went home?”

QUINN: “Just like that. All except me and Dylan. She stayed behind to care for Wish, who needed repairs before flying again. My task was different. I was entrusted with a map—a map that led me here, to your cozy new apartment in this charming village. The journey was a good twenty miles, which gave me plenty of time to explore. Along the way, I crossed paths with skunks, groundhogs, weasels, and even a few curious beavers. It was an adventure in itself.”

ABIGAIL: “This is incredible news! I’m on the edge of my seat to hear every detail—how you met, what unfolded, and most importantly, what you discovered from the descendants of my cherished old friends. Don’t keep me waiting a second longer—I’m bursting with excitement!”

QUINN: “Easy now, take a breath… and maybe another sip. This might take a while.”

Abigail smiled, raising her glass, intending to take another sip. Instead, once again, she took not one but two hearty gulps, emptying her glass. A soft laugh escaped her lips as she stood to pour a generous refill. Settling back into her chair, Abigail leaned against the cushions, closing her eyes briefly. The weight of her humdrum day lifted as the anticipation of Quinn’s tales rippled through her.

QUINN: “Finding your apartment wouldn’t have been difficult if the route had been straightforward. But Dylan gave me very specific instructions before dismissing the passengers. I was to seek out the descendants of your old friends, investigate the situation along the riverbank, and prepare a report.”

ABIGAIL: “Report? To or for whom?”

QUINN: “Surely, it’s obvious— both you and Dylan. That’s precisely why I’m here. You are inextricably linked, two sides of the same coin. Whatever I tell you, you’ll share with Dylan. Together, along with the forest animals I interviewed we’ll determine our actions.”

ABIGAIL: “So, now, the real question is—what do we do next? When DJ was in the final stage of Alzheimer’s, I found comfort and a sense of purpose in the antics of my imaginary animal friends. For almost ten years, I created stories about how we teamed up to fight off frackers trying to clear the land behind my home. Back then, like so many other environmental activists, I was passionate about pushing for a transition from fossil fuels to renewable energy. We all knew oil and natural gas, called ‘bridge fuels’ for heating our homes and powering our cars, would eventually be replaced by cleaner options like wind, solar, and geothermal energy. But as the industry faced that shift, they turned their attention to a new frontier to keep fracking alive—and that’s when the age of plastic really took off.”

QUINN: “Exactly. Of course, you already know that plastic’s feedstock, natural gas, comes from fracking and that the massive industrial complex straddling both sides of the bridge over the large muddy river in Beaver County where Wish landed is one of the largest petrochemical plants in the world. It’s called Hell’s Bells and Dylan wants us to figure out a way to stop the daily havoc it’s causing.”

ABIGAIL: “Oh yes, I’ll never forget when that particular cracker plant exploded—it was a nightmare. Poor Willie Weasel nearly lost his life. Sebastian was devastated, thinking his best friend was gone for good. But somehow, against all odds, Willie made his way back to my old home. He was in terrible shape—horribly burned and in so much pain. I did everything I could to nurse him back to health. His wounds eventually healed, but the scars… they stayed, a constant reminder of everything he’d been through.”

QUINN: “There must be more, can you tell me the rest of the story?”

ABIGAIL: “Of course. That winter was especially hard. Willie, Sabrina, and I spent countless nights waiting, holding our breath for Sebastian to return. It was his first real battle—the start of so many to come. I still get chills thinking about it. The First Skunk Troop, a hundred strong, stood their ground against the industry landmen who were intent on destroying the forest behind my home. And Sebastian—he was incredible. Using methods learned from The Art of War taught during Enlightenment School, Sebastian led the charge with such brilliance. His strategies turned the tide, and finally, he earned those two bright stripes, ending the curse of the stripeless skunks forever. It was no small feat, but none of it would’ve been possible without the leadership of the infamous groundhog, General Beauregard Lee. What a time that was!”

QUINN: “Indeed, it must have been! During my travels, I’ve had the unique privilege of interviewing the ancestors of your cherished secret friends—well, all except for Willie. But that’s a story for another time. For now, let me begin with General Beauregard Lee’s offspring, bearing the very same distinguished name. He had quite the tale to share—one so extraordinary, you may find it hard to believe.

Stay tuned to learn more …

ME: “…New neighbor …” “…Leasing for what?”  “… You’re going too fast.” “…What exactly is Unconventional Fracking?” “…Why the concern,” “…OMG.”

There were worried whispers amongst the passengers, who anxiously awaited my explanation. I motioned to my 2007 self to put the phone on speaker so the passengers could find out about the next piece of bad news.

Ben: “Ya know that beautiful meadow adjacent to the playground right by our development?”

ME: “Sure. What about it?”

Ben: “It’s up for grabs, and so is the Country Club, which is not even a quarter of a mile down the street.”

ME: “Up for grabs? How can that be? Who owns the land? How would it be leased? Can’t something be done?”

Ben: “As for the meadow, which is owned by the Township, our Commissioners decide what can and cannot be built based on Zoning ordinances. When there is a request to use land for an unconditional use, the Township’s engineers, attorneys, and Planning Commission are consulted.”

ME: “What about the citizens? Don’t we have a say?”

Ben: “Sort of. One or more public hearings are required. Although poorly advertised, public hearings allow the community to comment, ask questions, or even protest the plan, but eventually, the Commissioners make the final decision.”

ME: “And what about the Country Club?”

Ben: “Ah, yes. The Club. It was granted unconditional use years ago before it was built. So, in that case, it’s up to the  Club’s Board. They are the decision-makers on behalf of their members.

ME: “So the greater community has no say in what the Country Club decides to do with its land?”

BEN: “Right! Be prepared, ’cause this gold rush is not simple, and I guarantee it will get increasingly complicated.”

ME: “Like how?”

BEN: “For instance, you probably don’t realize that most landowners only own the surface rights to their land and not what’s underneath.”

ME: “I don’t understand.”

BEN: “When you purchase a home and the surrounding land, you typically only acquire the rights to the land’s surface. However, the gas/oil industry is interested in what lies beneath the ground—specifically, the mineral rights. These mineral rights are usually retained by the original landowner. So, unless you are the original landowner, it’s unlikely that you own the mineral rights. Furthermore, the situation can be even more challenging because the industry can compel property owners to allow access to these minerals without needing a signed lease.

ME: “How can that be?”

BEN: “I told you it’s complicated. Let’s say Mr. Smith, who owns five acres of land, agrees to lease his property to a gas/oil company. The company wants to extend its drilling horizontally beyond Mr. Smith’s land. If they can’t get the other landowners to lease their surface rights, it doesn’t matter. The company will just drill horizontally under Mr. Smith’s neighbor’s homes since those neighbors don’t own the mineral rights – even if they resist participating.”

ME: “I can only imagine the problems this can create between neighbors. They have already quarreled about where recycling and trash pickups should be located. This really is an OMG situation. What should I do?”

BEN: “I’ll be on the lookout for the public hearing meeting date and let you know when it is. Gather as many neighbors as possible so we can begin to strategize.”

ME: “I’ve never been to a public hearing. What do you mean strategize?”

BEN: “I used to go to many public hearings while practicing law. You need to understand that each person only gets three to five minutes to speak. I’ve seen a lot of folks repeating the same concerns over and over. It’s tiring and often fruitless. Then, some try to cram everything into their short time allotment. They talk so fast it’s hard to keep up. Plus, there are always a few angry individuals, and I’ve witnessed meetings where people became so hostile that the police had to remove them. This is why it’s critical to have a strategy.”

ME: “OK. Wow! Can you give me some ideas on what to do?”

BEN: “First, learn as much as you can about public hearings. A great resource is www.environmentalintegrity.org. Now,  listen, here’s the best example I have ever seen of a community that got its strategy right. After forming their core group, they held several meetings to discuss concerns and chose a good writer to draft a detailed response. After reviews and edits, they turned the written response into a video presentation, with each slide designed to be read within the three-minute limit. Each citizen read a single slide one by one until the whole presentation was completed. This way, their entire case was presented succinctly and organized.”

ME: “Ah ha, I get it. Public hearings limit how long each speaker can talk but not the number of speakers. That’s a lot to organize. Especially getting a core group of participants. Everyone is too busy in their lives to worry about such matters. Here we simply leave it up to the elected officials. Obviously, this is more serious than an easement for a wider driveway or a home addition.”

The passengers, most of whom had never attended any of their Township’s monthly meetings, much less a public hearing, were aghast. I decided not to stick around to hear more since I already knew what was coming, and no-one needed further agitation.

“ME: “OK, Passengers, we’ve heard enough to know that this bad situation will worsen. Time to move on since Quinn and Wish are still waiting across the street. We won’t be able to solve the inevitable until we get to what the inevitable is so let’s get out of here NOW.”

Stay tuned to learn more …

BEN: “I am talking about an it, not a who. This neighbor will be leasing land rather than buying a home in which to live. Marcellus Shale is not a neighbor you want!”

ME: “Now that’s pretty cryptic, Ben. What do you mean?”

Remember, I’m still in the corner of my living room, along with other Wish passengers, listening to a conversation between the me in 2007 and my neighbor Ben. So, I already know about Marcellus Shale being a formation of 400-million-year-old rock containing approximately 410 trillion cubic feet of shale gas, which, according to the U.S. Energy Information Administration, could supply U.S. consumers’ energy needs for hundreds of years. And, oh, it runs below my home and that of homes, businesses, schools, religious institutions, daycare centers, streams and rivers, etc., throughout Pennsylvania, New York, Maryland, West Virginia, Ohio, and portions of Kentucky and Tennessee.

On one side of the Marcellus Shale proverbial gold coin is a HUGE, VALUABLE, and RICH resource. But on the flip side is a DIRTY, CORRUPT, and DANGEROUS industry! As time unfolds, some of us learn that this new gold rush, like all gold rushes, is based on greed rather than need. Some of us, myself included, feel this gold rush is a harbinger of massive pollution, political division, deceit, denial, destruction, and death. However, others believe differently that the new gold rush will lead the United States into energy independence and world dominance.

BEN: “What I mean is just this … there are several oil/gas companies approaching neighbors who own at least 40 acres of land. These ‘land-men,’ that’s what they’re called, are offering big bucks to landowners for leasing.”

ME: “Leasing for what?”

BEN: “I’m getting to that. Just listen. They want to lease land for unconventional fracking. And they have come here from Texas and Louisiana. These companies drill where it’s flat. They may not understand our lay of the land, which is undermined by coal, subject to landslides, and which may even run along fault lines.”

ME: “Back up. You are going too fast for me! Exactly what is unconventional fracking?”

BEN: “First of all, fracking, in general, is the process used to extract gas and oil from the ground for several purposes. Mainly to heat our homes or drive our cars. But it can also be used in other ways. Like, don’t you love cooking with your new gas burners. Listen, we’ve been getting our fuel in a conventional manner for over 100 years, but it’s a slow process, and our country has been and still is dependent on imported oil and gas. A new technique was recently discovered that will release these elements from the ground much faster, and that’s what the companies are hell bent on doing.”

ME: “I’m sorry, but I gotta interrupt again ’cause I still don’t get it. Why the concern?”

BEN: “As I started to say, conventional drilling is vertical, but unconventional drilling is horizontal. This is a very complicated process, and one I cannot fully explain. What you need to know is that it causes mini explosions deep in the ground along horizontal planes. The gas, otherwise trapped in rock, is then released along with the junk that comes back up with it. Remember that the process uses massive amounts of clean water mixed with sand and nasty chemicals that the companies won’t disclose.”

ME: “Why not?”

BEN: “They call it their ‘secret sauce.’ Although doctors are finally allowed to know what the chemicals are, they can’t disclose the information to patients who may have been poisoned by exposure. This ‘gag rule’ protects these vast, multi-billion dollar corporations from revealing what they call proprietary information. In the meantime, workers, as well as people living near fracking rigs, are getting sick.  And if that’s not bad enough, I have more bad news to share.

ME: OMG! 

Stay tuned to learn more …

So, here we are, surrounded by a serene landscape, probably next to one of the many streams feeding into the Ambridge Reservoir. But beneath this tranquil surface, mysteries lurk, waiting to be unraveled. With determination, Quinn and I are ready to begin our quest and morph into the investigative persona we are meant to be.

Followed by our passengers, we climb out of the gondola and, once on the ground, take deep breaths of air so fresh you can almost taste its sweetness. The sun is bright and the afternoon warm, yet the waters below greet us with a cool breeze. In full bloom, trees and colorful wildflowers add visual delight to this sensory experience. I know it’s summer, but summer of what year? The pastoral perfection of the scene made it evident we were along the Predatory Pipeline’s proposed route. It was obvious that no pipes had been laid here … yet. Thus, I thought the year might be around 2018, and I shared my thoughts with Quinn.

ME: “Quinn, I think we’re in 2018, maybe somewhere along the Service Creek Watershed, which feeds into the Ambridge Reservoir. What do you think?”

QUINN: “Spot on, Boss! You’re correct cuz 2018 was the year those nasty pipelines first got laid, or, should I say, when those nasty pipelines began to rape the land!”

ME: “Thanks, Quinn, for your rather crude comparison, but of course, you, too, are correct. Added to that are the 30,000 people depending on the Ambridge Reservoir for drinking water, who will eventually be poisoned … unless we can find a way to prevent the pipeline from being built in the first place.”

PASSENGER #1: “WOW, look at that river! It’s amazing. It’s so clear and clean. I can even see rocks at the bottom. Can we go down and dip our toes in?”

ME: “Sure, why not? Enjoy it while you can!”

We watch as passengers run down the hillside towards the waters of the gurgling river. Wish is left, parked on a grassy knoll awaiting our return. Hurriedly, our passengers take off their socks and shoes. Some enter the river, while others prefer to remain at its edge. Some playfully splash, others wash their faces, while those brave walk upon the many rocks at the bottom, arms outstretched for balance.

As for me, I pick up small flat stones embedded in the ground and toss each into the water, frisbee-style, watching as they skip once, twice, or several times. Each stone splashes in the river, with ever-widening circular ripples swelling outward as the stones jump. I became mesmerized by the process and overcome by a connection to the river. When one of the passengers hollers for me to join in the fun, I am jolted out of my reverie, after which I see him drink from the river, scooping its water up to his mouth with cupped hands.

PASSENGER #2: “Hey, come on in and join us. The water’s perfect, and boy, what a thirst quencher – best-tasting water I’ve ever had.”

Quinn gave me a side glance. That’s when I noticed the quills on Quinn’s back. They were stiff and standing straight up. Simultaneously, we understood the naivety of this passenger and probably all the passengers. Although tranquil, we both sensed the stream leading to the Ambridge Reservoir was also foreboding, its pristine waters tinged with shadows of impending danger. Turning to Quinn, my voice steady with resolve, I said …

ME:” Alright, Quinn. If our purpose is to stop history from being made, we need to find out what to do and who can help! So, let’s get going.”

Stay tuned to learn more …