Kiva Kelly and the Wildcatters
By: John Wolf
"So, Kelly this is the first time you've visited a wildcatter's rig?" said the husky voiced guy named Scooter, driver of the oversized pickup we were riding in.
"Yes. I'm excited to see the Vibroseis trucks and see how you guys shake the ground to find oil."
"Well, the principle is pretty easy," Scooter shifted into a lower gear as we bounced up onto the plateau of land, "We lift a 45 thousand pound truck with a hydraulic cylinder that has a large plate that digs into the ground and the electronics send in a 0 to 60 Hertz sweep that pushes an acoustic wave into the ground like a small earth quake. The geophones pick up the reflected waves and the computer guys make a map of what's down there."
"I interviewed Sandra yesterday about the geophones," I said.
"She's a sweetie ain't she," Scooter said with a sly grin thrown my way quickly. The drive ahead was cluttered with big rocks and potholes and his eyes soon returned to way ahead.
I held onto the rail bolted over the side door to keep from bouncing off the seat. "Say, how do you get all these good looking women to join this band of gypsies looking for oil?"
"They like the outdoors, and they like rough men. Believe me, those gals are scrappers. You'd better be willing to do battle to get next to them." Scooter paused long enough to make eye contact before the next big bump.
When we finally reached the staging area, I got my first real look at the four huge Vibroseis trucks. Four six-foot-high tractor tires on a custom built chassis about thirty feet long. The front had a huge cab for a two man crew and the back was more of an equipment rack for hydraulic pumps and the cylinder that was the heart of the beast. I could see the big plate under the middle section with its zigzag steel bottom designed to dig into the earth. Another wildcatter had told me yesterday, "If the plate decouples, it'll shake your teeth out."
A chestnut tanned older man came up to the truck as I wound down my window. "So you're Kelly Freeman...?"
"Yes sir," I responded. "You must be Mr. Billings?" He didn't answer.
"Couple of things... You see the buggies are lined up for a run, so now is not the time to start talking to anyone. Give us about an hour and we'll have this set of vibs done. We'll set down, do a vib, and then pick up and move about 500 yards and do another. We have four sets to do and then you can talk to the crews." He gave me a look with his head tilted down like he didn't want to repeat himself.
"Yes sir, I got it. I'll stay in the truck and observe. May I take pictures?"
"That was my second point. Yes, as long as you stay in the truck, you can take pictures. You stand out here and your guts will roll around like Jell-O." He turned and briskly walked back to the large van that served as the control truck and where the reflected signals would be recorded after each vib.
"I got things to do," Scooter said, and he slid out of the truck and dusted off his hat against his jeans as he went off in the other direction. I looked out the back to see the line of pickups that had laid down somewhere close to a thousand geophones the day before. The stage was set for the big shake. I was beginning to think I was going to be punked. I couldn't see anyone around.
I surveyed the horizon, admiring the beautiful mesas in the distance, the vast openness of the space between New Mexico and Colorado and pondering the amazing cultures that roamed these plains eons ago. The history of ancient civilizations that lived here went back at least thousands of years, so I thought. It all looked so empty now except for the glint of light from an eighteen-wheeler rolling down Interstate 25 way over on the edge of my vista, hovering near the rise of the Rocky Mountains.
The first indication of the vib was a nauseating feeling in my stomach, and then I heard the eerie rumble of sound rising from a deep growl, and then abruptly ceasing. It took my breath away. Dust rose up from the dashboard of my truck.
I looked out of the windshield at the line of Vibroseis vehicles with red dust curling up from their pads. The trucks had risen up like bucking broncos, placing their full weight on the hydraulic pads. The trucks lowered back down and began to move forward in unison looking like a big lazy Gile Monster dragging on the ground.
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Click here to see an actual Vibroseis Truck
Once in position, they did it again. This time I had my camera ready. Just as I could feel the shutter and rattling in my own vehicle, the second Vibroseis truck in the row disappeared into a cloud of dust. I started snapping pictures. People were jumping down from the other trucks, while others were coming from the recording truck. Scooter came up and yelled through the window, "Stay put. I'll be back in a minute."
I had to see what was going on. I got out and approached the huge hole in the ground with the crowd of wildcatters.
The truck was sitting upright after having dropped about fifteen feet straight down. It didn't appear to have any pieces broken off. The lead wrangler, Bob Billings was on his walkie-talkie. I could hear his side of the conversation.
"Billy, are you okay? Great, okay, can you open the top hatch? We are going to get a rig over here and lower a basket."
When we moved closer, we could see that the hole was part of a vault. The Vibroseis truck had broken through the ceiling and had fallen onto what looked like missile nosecones sticking up. The chamber was larger than the hole, so we were actually standing on part of the roof. We retreated twenty feet so as not to go down with the rest of the ceiling if it became weak.
The crews worked for about two hours to remove the chamber ceiling back to the cylindrical wall and safely extract the men from the fallen truck. A long ladder was lowered and tied with ropes. Billings ordered a set of lights and stands to be set up to illuminate the chamber. I was very pleased when Billings looked at me and said, "Alright kid, this is your chance to make some history with that story of yours. Come on."
I awkwardly stepped away from the ladder and turned to see a field of smooth, off-white, blunt objects pointed upward, all snuggly packed together. The Vibroseis truck crushed several of the fragile stony looking objects. We joined a couple of geologists hammering off samples and analyzing them. A Dr. Jones turned to Billings and said, "These are dinosaur eggs, big ones."
The next few hours were the most exciting of my whole life. I had my digital voice recording going, capturing the conversations among the project's entourage consisting of a local Indian chief, our geologists, and several other scientists. They were all clamoring for an explanation.
My article came out about two weeks later, opening an academic panic. The chamber was a kiva-like structure that originally had a hole in the center of the roof to lower the eggs into place. The painted markings on the walls appeared similar to the earliest marks left by man, but these showed a much higher level of preciseness. The logs used to hold up the ceiling were petrified over time and broke away under the force of the Vibroseis truck. The dating process was still ongoing, but first indications showed this site to be from the Cenozoic Period, some 65 million years ago.
Once the truck was removed, the crushed eggs revealed fossilized reptiles, species never seen before, curled up near hatching termination. Why these people were saving the eggs and for what purpose, will be studied for years to come, but an analysis of the dinosaur remains suggests that these reptiles may have been herbivores. The facts showed humans were working the land that long ago, and may have domesticated dinosaurs, changes the text books forever.
By breaking the story to the world, I will forever be known as Kiva Kelly as documented in hundreds of scientific papers. But I would have to change my pen name to distance myself from the story and write again as a journalist, unfettered by questions about the find. Not bad for my first shot at journalism!
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John is a writer in progress. Word by word the trail of communications gets clearer. Maybe someday the message will be picked up by a distant ear and the effort to be heard will have been reached. Until that day, the keyboard clatters endlessly into the night. |
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