North Dakota: From Mos Eisley Spaceport to Catching Waves on the Great Grass Sea

North Dakota, the working man's promised land. If you can make it here you can make it anywhere. Roughly three and a half weeks ago I packed up my things and set off into the rising sun in hope of finding employment in the legendary Bakken Oil Patch.
But before we delve into this story, we'll take a step back. A number of my friends, family and generally concerned people warned me that ND was the Wild Wild West. Not the Will Smith shenanigans West, the "it's severely hazardous to your health and mental stability" kind of wild west. I had done my research though, I believed myself to be prepared for the immorality and debauchery of it all. I can tell you this now, you have no idea until you experience it.
Back to my story, driving east, 800 miles through Idaho, mostly Montana and part of North Dakota. A scenic drive on highway two that parallels the Canadian border. Mountains, plains, and wide open spaces. "If this is what North Dakota is like it won't be so bad." I think to myself. 100 miles outside my destination I come across severe flooding, a foot of moving water covers the road.
My mind drifts to my early years playing Oregon Trail and I assess my options, "The river is 500 yards across. The current is mild. Ford the river or take another route and lose a day." Never one to back down from a challenge I decided it was best to throw caution to the wind! I'm going to the wild west I had better start acting like it. I start across, towards the middle the tires begin to lose traction, the current starts pushing me toward what I believe is the edge of the road. The engine revs, the tire are grasping at anything resembling road and suddenly I lurch forward towards the other side, towards salvation. The day is not lost, the gamble pays off and I'm on my way.
Around 80 miles later I hit the MT/ND border. The change is startling. The Montana side boasted a pleasant little town a few miles back, but upon entering North Dakota the dusty plains are alight with the excess natural gas torches that burn all across the horizon. Semis pulling tankers, trailers of equipment and trailers I don't of I don't even know what are barreling down the road at 70 miles per hour.
"What have I gotten myself in to?"
I head towards Williston, my final destination and call my father's good friend Dan, he gives me directions to his place of residence he says I can park my truck in the parking lot there. I arrive, thank him for his hospitality and take in the surroundings. Parking lot is a generous term to where I've found myself. A mud pit is a better term. But I'm thankful for the safe lodging.
Wake up bright and early, to start looking for work. Where to start? That part is easy, "drivers wanted" signs line the dirt road. I stop in at the first place, pick up and application and fill it out. Repeat process around 7 times at various establishments. I've come to hate applications. Eight or nine hours of pounding the pavement and I'm calling it a day. Dan's roommate says he might have a job lined up driving a concrete truck, gives me the guys number, I call, he answers, we chit chat, we're from the same town! Job landed. Drug test tomorrow. Wake up, drug test, fill out paperwork, wait until monday to start. Meanwhile, other companies are calling about my applications, the wind blows, dust fills my teeth, ears, nose, any part of me not covered gets gritty. "It can't be like this all the time" I think to myself.
Friday morning, wake up, nothing to do but wait for Monday to roll around. I don't understand how there can be so much mud and dust all at the same time. It makes no sense. Begin to panic. Mind races. "How am I going to keep my sanity here." They say that the sound of the wind always blowing drove homesteading women to suicide. I can see why. To quote the great Obi-Wan Kenobi, "Mos Eisley Spaceport. You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. We must be cautious." Substitute Williston for Mos Eisley Spaceport and no one would argue. It's hot. Dry. Smelly. And dangerous.
I hate to admit it, but I cracked. I was a stranger in a dangerous town. I started driving back towards civilization. Back to the west. 100 miles down the road I turn down a dirt road, battling my conscience about my decision. I literally park my truck at a crossroads and wait for clarity.
"You've given up before you've even started."
"You'll be miserable in North Dakota."
"This is not what you do."
"No amount of money is worth hating yourself."
"Are you really going to back down just because you're uncomfortable."
"You can find work elsewhere."
"You're a quitter."
"You're protecting your sanity."
With my thoughts ping ponging back and forth I climb into the back of my truck. Sleeping at the crossroads, hoping things will be clearer in the morning.
The sun comes up, it's perfectly quiet.
I am not a quitter. I point my truck east and begin the shameful trek back to Williston. I will submerge myself in the chaos and hopefully come out clean on the other side.
It's Saturday, boss man calls and says I can move into the company provided apartments tomorrow. Not a day too soon, I haven't showered in 5 days and it's been in the 90's every day, not to mention the amount of dirt and grime the wind has gifted me.
Moving in to my apartment is like stepping out of a bad dream. It has a bed, my own bathroom, and air conditioning! I'll be able to manage if this is where I get to come back to. Work starts tomorrow morning at eight.
Anxious and bright eyed I show up for my first day at the Strata Corporation concrete plant. I'm introduced to the man who'll be teaching me everything I need to know about concrete, driving a Ready Mix truck, and more. Vern. A plump, squat man with a cheery face. Mid fifties most likely. We hop into the truck, him driving and me riding shotgun so I can get a feel for the job before I get behind the wheel. Not fifteen minutes into the drive I get to see Vern's true colors. A jabberjaw, never stops talking, has an opinion on everything and the only way is his way. Not to mention he flies of the handle and goes on swearing streaks that would make a sailor blush. It is a real Lewis Black kind of quality he posses. I find his swearing comical, my laughter enrages him more and the swearing increases. "YOU THINK THIS IS A F**KING GAME?!? PEOPLE F**KING DIE AND S**T THEMSELVES DOING THIS JOB!" And so on. Not two minutes later he's completely calm and talking about his daughter. I have to spend an entire week with this man as he instructs me. At times I laugh. Other times my only wish is to swerve into oncoming traffic just to get him to shut his mouth. Somehow, I survive the week. He tells others that I'm one of the best trainees he's ever had. He never complimented me once in our 73 hours together that week, but apparently he's told others. I'm signed off to be on my own, praise the Lord, Sweet Baby Jesus, HALLELUJAH!

Sunrise over the oil drill

So many colors!

I have never seen this many sunrises in a row

This job is not hard. I have to be at work before four am some mornings, but it's not so bad. Fill up truck with concrete, keep the drum spinning, drive to destination, deliver concrete, drive back to the plant. Repeat. It's engaging and mindless at the same time. The first few days go by without incident, I'm a good rookie. I arrive in a timely fashion and I only got lost once. Thursday. Boss man asks if I want to go on a special assignment, a wind energy farm on the outskirts of Bismarck. Anything to get out of Williston. Live in a trailer park? Sure. Work more hours? Most definitely. ANYTHING to get out of Mos Eisley. Well, the job starts Monday, you drive down with a fellow employee Sunday night.
Great. Grand. Wonderful. Get me the hell out of here.
It's about 200 miles from Williston to Bismarck. But it's only about 90 miles outside of Williston that the oil patch ends. The change is almost instantaneous. No more oil rigs. No more semis. No more man camps stretching across the horizon. Nothing but grass. It's a Utopia compared to Williston.
Sunday night, the company puts me and James (fellow employee who wanted out of Williston) up in a hotel that has La-z-boy reclining chairs. Classy place. We move into our trailers tomorrow after work.
An uneventful first day of work, we put in our twelve hours and head over to our new home away from home, the Wilton Trailer Park. Due to some communication errors the trailers have no electricity, no water, no air conditioning hooked up. Yet. So that first night was a bit miserable. Panic begins to set in again, but I steel myself and think that it will all be better in the morning. By the end of the next day, all of the problems are fixed. James and I go celebrate at the local bar. PBR in a bottle and some of the best potato wedges I've ever had. Things are looking up.
My favorite part about this area is the grass. Waist high and waving it seems to go on forever. The dust isn't nearly as bad because of it and when the wind blows it is mesmerizing. It looks like waves on a great grass sea. It's quite majestic and frankly something I've never experienced. I just want to sprint through it as fast as I can with reckless abandon.

So green 

So vast

I forgot to mention that the truck I was given here didn't have air conditioning, for those who know me they know I do not handle the heat well. By Wednesday I'm complaining to my boss for a switch to a truck with AC. One of the other drivers says he doesn't mind and is happy to switch with me. What a guy, Wayne. A true gentleman. Little did I know that this would be an extremely lucky move. Two days after the switch, Wayne is driving down the road and a front tire blows out. The truck careens across both lanes, hits an embankment, soars through the air and rolls in the ditch. Paramedics on scene have no idea how Wayne survived and that he walked away with only minor injuries. Seat belts really work apparently. They say it was a mechanical error, nothing the driver could have done. That could have easily been me if I wasn't such a whiner about AC.

The rest of the week went smoothly. I don't have wifi in my trailer, so here I sit at Starbucks writing down the last month of my life for The Hobo Kid. I know this has been a long post, but I'm glad I finally got around to it.