My rod tip bent, straightened, bent again as the 1 1⁄2-ounce sinker grabbed bottom, lost it, grabbed it, the big nightcrawler rolling with the current on the main Missouri River, looking for a channel cat or a walleye. The river was running high and muddy, and almost every species of fish in it was feeding on the banquet of the flood.
My daughter held the big budget-model spinning rig we call the River Cat, and she slowly cranked up on some heavy thrashing creature, careful not to set the circle hook, just tighten and keep the pressure on. A flash of gunmetal silver in dark water and a river drum, two pounds or so, came to the surface.
The new estimates of the oil gushing out of the blown Deepwater Horizon wellhead are now somewhere between 1.5 million and 2.5 million gallons per day (an Exxon Valdez size spill every ten days). It wouldn’t take Scooby Doo (sorry, my kids have watched so much Scooby the soundtrack runs in my head most of the time) and the Mystery Machine to figure out that a company with a blown wellhead might keep the flow rate a mystery when the fines for spilling oil are based on the size of the spill. We needed those meddling kids…sorry, those independent engineers and scientists, to determine just how much of the black gold we’re going to be dealing with in our oceans, marshes and beaches. BP’s estimates, remember, were 210,000 gallons a day, all the way through late May.
It was the first week of the disaster when I got to the message on my voice mail. His name was Fred, and he was calling from Pointe a la Hache, the hardscrabble fishing community where the road ends on the east side of the river about 60 miles south of New Orleans. He had awakened that day to read in the newspaper that his marsh had been closed to fishing because a huge tide of oil was coming its way. His voice was heavy with grief.
“Mr. Marshall, I just read the paper, and I needed to talk to someone, " he said, “so I called you because your number was at the end of the story.
“I feel like they just killed my best friend, and there’s nothing I can do about it. If I lose this marsh, I lose my fishing, maybe my duck hunting, too. That means I could lose everything I care about.
Now that the mainstream media is wild with images of red oiled marshes and dying sea turtles and foreclosed fishermen, there is one thing that we who are not outside, working to protect the coast, can stop and accomplish.
We can wade into the sea of lies and misinformation that is crashing over us, and we can kill a few dragons.
Dragon #1: We are all to blame for this spill, because we all use so much oil! This is a hard dragon to kill, because, like the meanest of them, it is muscled and fanged with the truth. But at its heart is a lie, meant to deceive us.
When the "Drill, Baby, Drill" crowd re-emerges to downplay the BP oil disaster (and you know they will), sportsmen have a handy quote to use in reply, provided by none other than BP Chief Operating Officer Doug Suttles.
Shortly after the "top kill" failed to plug the river of oil his company had unleashed from a hole in the Gulf 5,000 feet below the surface, Suttles was asked if the next ideas would work. His reply:
“People want to know which technique is going to work, and I don’t know. It hasn’t been done at these depths and that’s why we’ve had multiple options working parallel.”
On June 4th, a judge in Washington, D.C. will hear the first arguments in a lawsuit brought against the U.S. Department of the Interior by the Theodore Roosevelt Conservation Partnership.
This lawsuit isn’t about failed blow-out preventers on oil wells but it is about the same unholy marriage of the energy industry and the federal agencies that are supposed to be regulating it, and the resulting sacrifice of wildlife and other public resources. Instead of the boundless blue Gulf, this disaster has unfolded, for years now, on the wind-swept Pinedale Anticline and other public lands in Wyoming, Colorado, and New Mexico, as federal agencies have permitted the energy industry to drill thousands of wells for natural gas, industrializing landscapes that were once prime winter range for antelope and mule deer, and other wildlife from sage grouse to a rare desert elk herd.