Revolution Watch------The Movement of OIl

Now and then I get revved up. I try to play my fiddle, drink beer, go fishing and play with my antiquated engines to help me get off my high horse. This week there was an incident that got my attention because it just might involve me. You see, I live very close to a rail line and that rail line is now filled with Bomb Tankers or as they are commonly referred to as Bomb Trains. The map below shows rail routes of oil trains.

Some time ago I did make notice of this rail line on this blog and I noted how the three trestles on the line and right here in town they look like something ofutof Ma and Pa's Kettle's days. They are old as hell and very much cracked. Yes, they work and I have stood next to them as the heavy oil trains go over the trestle and saw nothing of note except the thunderous vibration of the tonnage.

As is well known, this week another one of these Bomb Trains blew all to hell out in W. Virginia--not the first one. It seems if they derail and there is a spark, they make one hell of a huge bomb. I am not happy. So I sent the following letter to the local news paper to see if they might publish it.

What about the Bomb Trains in Portage County?

It seems appropriate for numerous reason, citizens begin to become aggressively concerned about the frack oil “Bomb Trains” that are moving daily through Portage County. On Monday a train just like the ones going through Amherst and Point, ( possibly it did) blew up in West Virginia threatening an entire community with monstrous flames, and billowing clouds of toxic pollution, the same pollution scientifically proven to be contributing to Climate Change.

Fortunately there was no loss of life, unlike the blow up in Quebec that killed 47 in a community just like Amherst. What gets my goat is that these trains are going over three concrete trestles in the center of town. From casual appearance, these trestles seem old and in very poor shape. There are cracks everywhere with seeping water. As these heavy, multi-engined monsters lumber through town, the entire place shakes---and that includes those lame trestles. Has there ever been a complaint about the Bomb Trains?

There has been a multitude of derailments of these large tanker trains. The frequent cause, extreme heat caused by global warming. http://www.climatecentral.org/news/climate-change-warp-railroad-tracks-sun-kinks-17470

To top it off, the oil being hauled is frack oil from the Bakken. It is widely known this light crude is highly volatile and explodes easily. If the cars tip and rupture, as they did in West Virginia, the toxic oil, heads for the river, if burning, making it look like the Cuyahoga River in Iowa.

What it comes down to is we Americans, we members of Portage County need to get real serious about our use of oil, particularly as we are now scraping the bottom of the barrel and going after the stuff in extreme places be it tar sands in Canada, ultra deep in the Gulf (remember Horizon) or in the short-lived frack wells.

To make it even more interesting we now are about to have a major pipeline going through the heart of Wisconsin--carrying frack oil and tar sands bitumen spiked with volatile natural gas condensates.
http://www.wisconsingazette.com/wisconsin/xxlbreakwisconsin-pipeline-dwarfs-keystone-and-affects-every-waterway-in-the-state.html?fb_action_ids=10206002156244117&fb_action_types=og.comments

If you have grand-kids you should be worried.


The sustainable revolution is really struggling as we power are way along trying to maintain business as usual. Seems there are consequences---unintended consequences.

Peak Oil and How it Never Went Away

There used to be a lot of discussion on Peak Oil. Even big shots were becoming concerned---and I guess for good cause in that conventional crude, that is the oil that is rated at 45, did peak in '05 or with a stretch in '08. At that time, just before the economic recession, oil shot to $147 per barrel. Then the economy took a bit of a dive.

Well, many said it was not oil but rather a corrupt, fraud ridden banking system and all the "instruments" they were pedaling as derivatives. Still, it was interesting that conventional crude oil peaked at the same time. If I recall, the world was producing some 86 million barrels a day and was rumored to be pumping full out. It is also well known that oil, or liquid fuels, drives our economy and without it, there would be some disruptions in the way we do business, maybe with volatility or maybe a "crash". It was also suspected that the world economy could not live with $100 oil.

So time went along. Oil did a big dip to about $30 and then finally settle out 5 years later at the magic $100 or so. We are talking WTI here not Brent which tended to run at $120 or so. This $100 range prevailed for quiet some time but recently fell below $50 and seems to be lingering.

What has proved to be interesting is that the economy never recovered. It is true, we were told it was going better but in reality the world has been a mess as can be seen most clearly in Europe where recovery has not happened. In truth, as the graph shows, in the USA the only industry that was doing well was the fossil fuel sector. The rest of the economy during this $100 oil days has really not recovered. This has been pointed out by many economist but generally the narrative has been controlled by the government optimist and big corporations. The attitude has been talk it up enough and eventually every body will spend and the consumer economy will be growing like cancer on a bad organ.

So why talk about peak oil again? Couple of things. It turns out the economy can not live with $100 oil and it never recovered. In fact, things have been deteriorating even tough rich (? relative) people like me, have really not noticed it--the church parking lot is plumb packed with big, new cars every Sunday. But the periphery, the less fortunate, have been suffering---Detroit, Camden NJ, on and on.

Then oil drops to sub $50 while some cheer for the cheap  $1.75 gasoline  and such, But in the process the oil industry starts shutting down well drilling, some expensive production and lots of exploration and development. Opp! The claim is there is too much oil but in reality the demand has gone down because of the previously-mentioned continued recession.

There is, of course, more of "liquid fuels"  being produced and it it is now up to 90 million barrels. ALL of the new production is in North America (US and Canada). all of it. The rest of the world is in decline (grapth). Here is the big deal, we are now shutting in our oil and some drillers are starting to go out of business. This means that US production will shortly begin to decline as will the tar sands of Canada. Once they go down, world wide production will also begin to decline.

Couple of big questions: If the total liquids (oil, condensate, ethanol, frack oil) production drops off to say 88 million barrels a day, will it be possible to ever get it back to the high of 90 million a day. While drillers are shutting down, the rest of the world's output is declining and there will be a bigger gap to over come. When one considers that the frack wells decline by at least 40% each year, things look  a little odd. Will there then be a shortage once production hits demand? Will oil then shoot to $150 a barrel? And if it does will that cause a deeper recession? And then another fierce drop in price? Tell me peak oil is not an issue! Will drillers give up for lack of profit? What about the geopolitical issues? What about the banking system that has never been fixed. What about the geology were the easy-to-get oil is all gone? We do live in interesting times.

Interestingly, the only dip in emission we have had in years, occurred in '08 right after the crash of the banking system and the economy---and $147 oil!.

Taking in the Winter with a two Belgian Hitch

　Ann called them a two ton pickup, maybe two tons of pickup, but Don says the truth is, they are a touch short of that. Obviously, they are at least the equivalent of two horse power, and that would be mighty horse power. Rudy and Scott are Belgian draft horses who live their pampered lives hanging at Don and Kelly’s farm north of town. I say pampered because they do not have to run off to work every day toiling in the fields, turning soil or boating stones. Don treats them like farmyard pets, probably talks to them and provides nutritious hay to the string of equine comrades who loaf about the farm.

They do work when work is available, and like all working animals seem to enjoy doing what they do best which is pulling things. We took the countryside tour on a crisp overcast day a few weeks ago by riding on a sled stacked with summer’s hay. While I never was able to actually have an extended talk with the brutes, it was obvious they were enjoying the outing as much as we as they zipped along over hill and dale with bells jingling and harnesses straining. At a brief pause, they nudged us as if wanting to be petted but seeing their heads were bigger than the average dog, it was difficult knowing where to rub. When a dog gets a belly rub it is not unusual to see it's hind leg start to rythymatically thrash about, for a horse of this bulk, that seemed inappropriate---with a leg weighing in at 300 pounds and a gigantic hoof shod with steel.

Through the years, we have had an interest in draft animals, I suppose for many reasons, but initially for the artistic possibilities they present. Horses have served man much longer than, say, the internal combustion engine. While horses have toiled, they also have provided a certain aesthetic to settings in which our ancestors lived and worked. They are a part of our history, almost a part of our very existence, part of our culture, maybe a forgotten part but still an astounding part.

Horses have worked without reward in many cases, sometimes treated poorly, sometimes wasted in war. Many times they were elegant and beautiful in the hands of knights, or Napoleonic potentates, or simply traveling through the back woods of Wisconsin, maybe on the way to find a young man's delight in a distant village. Don’s team was magnificent, strong, almost friendly, and willing to trot through the winter wonderland hauling the local royalty, that would be us, of course.

On the day he hitched the team, the land was covered in Wisconsin’s muted light, the clouds were low, the sun hidden away, but this was how it was, and has frequently been through the years, no different then and now. We headed out to the north. We passed by the woodlots and hayfields no different than 150 years ago. Don was part of the team and knew every stitch of the hitch, every function, every oddity of the animals, and the gear. That was his job on this day, as it was back one hundred years ago----not that Don was there---I don‘t think. These teamsters had no heated cabin, no radio, no GPS to guide their movements, just the reins and the open air and the warm clothes of a family farm.

In the past, trips like this might have been to the neighbors or to the forest to cut timber. There would not have been the smell of diesel nor the noise of the engine, nor the speed of a modern machine. There would have been more time to take in the day and breathe the air of winter. There would have been more labor, more wear on human hands, and less done on any given day. At the same time the farmer would not have had to make a payment on a $50,000 tractor. The sled, including the one we were on, was made by a blacksmith and constructed with hand-hued wood from the local forest.

As we moved through the outermost field, the two Belgians walked in stride pulling the sled with ease. Ann and I thought of a sculpture by friend George Carlson called, “Of One Heart” that featured two draft animals pulling hard together, back legs dropped to concentrate their combined strength. Team work. Two beautiful horses pulling together as a team. Rather an interesting metaphor for all of life.

As we roamed about the fields, one had to wonder at the changes, and wonder at values moving from one generation to another. Having this experience was in itself a great experience but to watch the beasts of burden, to watch the work of men and animals was intriguing, almost foreign. It seems to me there is more to this. Hard to put a handle on it but while it is easy to see the labor of it all, the sometimes grim existence of a different time, there is still an organic feeling of something that is more right than we might imagine. Is it of a slower time, less complications, less fuss over money and possessions. It is indeed, closer to the land, the mother earth. Is it just a romanticized distorted memory? Not sure. I will say I am pleased to know that Don and the working horses are still out there and the image and tradition is being kept alive. Never know when it might come in handy---even if it is just for a wonderful sled ride on a December afternoon.

Grouse Hunting and the Cathedral Pines

I don’t need much of an excuse for an outing that includes a winter snowshoe in majestic pines and the possibility of hunting the illusive Ruffed Grouse.


In other words, I didn't need to be shackled and dragged by Dennis and Jeff  to peruse the Cathedral Pines in Oconto county. This stand of trees is thought to be one of the few remaining remnants of old White Pines in the state, except for those on Native American reservations.

To throw another bone to this old dog, they also suggest we make an end-of-the-year effort to hunt Ruffed Grouse in some of the surrounding state forests. We had tried this before but had been beaten back by  two feet of snow and ended up cowering sheepishly in some dismal bar lamenting our miserable failure. Still, with the news of only six inches of snow, we beat it north as if we knew what we were doing.

We headed to the State Park in what turned out to be very much in the middle of nowhere, that was bad, but the snow was not six inches in this “nowhere“, maybe on the road,  but not in the forest. The normally open roadway to the great trees was unplowed, a little iffy but for the Subaru fair game---at least for the first two hundred yards. After what might be called a “little sinkage”, we parked in the middle of the road and walked the half mile in pristine new snow.  Not a single fresh sign of human beings stood in our way. There in the deep forest, stood one hundred and twenty foot, straight White Pines of the vintage one only sees in books. Snow clung to the branches high and low.  The cold forest atmosphere was motionless and quiet.  The forest floor appeared almost sterile, it would seem. Aloft the green canopy towered , with only an occasional Chickadee, and interestingly, the ever-present chatting crow.

Not long ago, maybe one hundred years, during this time of year the forest would have been full of men and machinery cutting and hauling away the last of the majestic timber. We were seeing what it looked like prior to their arrival or as they saw it on their  first intrusion.

In the back of our minds, and some say there is not much back there, we had visions of a delectable grouse dinner of quickly cooked breast in olive oil and butter. Then there was the drama of the hunt.  Dennis particularly seemed to almost rub his hands together as a twinkle flashed through his glazed eyes. Jeff and I, being somewhat doubtful of this snow-encumbered endeavor, lumbered along with fascination, but also apprehension, as the snow was not six inches.

The faithful car slipped its moorings in good form and we headed north to our favored grounds only to find the road well totally impassible. It was our fate, fifteen miles north the snow had deepened by eght inches.  As Dennis and Jeff dropped into the thicket, the fresh powder covered their aging knees.  So the fun began.

Within thirty yards, a single bird bolted from a tall Spruce and sped off and away.  Nary a single gun was lifted, still it was a sighting and that drove the two fearless hunters to a solid three-quarter mile walk through almost impenetrable alder thickets and spruce bogs, exhausting them like two wet dogs. On the trail, I trudged westward like Dr. Zhivago on the Russian steppes.

Losing some of the air in our old canvas sails, we decided to go back to another spot marked on our map thinking the snow was thinner back fifteen miles south.

Unfortunately, Jeff’s smarty phone didn't do snow depth, (no app) although the spot was gorgeous but still had been blanketed by eighteen inches of snow.  Again, we were struck by the beauty, the remoteness,  and the frozen peacefulness.

 Dennis recalled some story of survival in the far north as a away of inspiring us to more foolishness. This may have been motivated by the fact that neither Jeff nor I were willing to go back into the deepest forest. We told him we didn’t care if we lived or died. If we were going die it would be on the trail.

Jeff and I remained on the old logging road struggling to negotiate the ruts but still interested in Dennis driving the many birds to us. As Dennis disappeared into the bog fifty yards in, we started hearing him incoherently yell,  possibly hinting at the fact there were Grouse tracks. Finally, Dennis yelps some indiscernible babble which we later learned was done to find out where we were because he didn’t know where he was.  Obviously disoriented and confused, if not dazed.

By then he was getting more excited because a single grouse had been jumped. Even though both he and Jeff saw it, neither was remotely able pull a trigger. I was sure by now Dennis was seeing his life flash before him as he reflected on the earlier story of survival.  Dennis was in a dither as he claimed he has found a snow cave. I was one hundred yards off and it appeared from the ruckus, he was either in a bear cave going hand to hand with a bear or there had been a Bigfoot sighting.

Up on the road, Jeff and I didn't want to confront either, so we were either going to  just have to write Dennis off or go see it.  Finally Jeff realized Dennis, who describes himself as “post modern”, now actually has a smart phone and all he has to do is take a photo and show it to us. I’m thinking if he can’t make it out, he could email it. Then we would have it and just leave him to his own issues.

To our amazement, he took a picture and then slogged out unharmed---and I might say quite full of himself.  While in his post-modernist frenzy, he has a photo of a Grouse cave, one that a bird makes to spend the night or dodge an enemy.  Next to the small distinct cave was the mark of the birds wings and even its beak. We couldn't tell if the marks had been made in landing or in flight, but still, what a find.

So while the intended target, and the thought of the meal, may have been paramount at one moment, and it was not life threatening, the success of the day was, huge untouched trees in a pristine forest, and the sight of two snow caves designed to protect the lives of the forest Partridge. A day well spent---and that is not counting the fellowship of three snow-covered quasi-adventurers.

ISIS and the Roadwarrior---Revolution Watch

As we began getting images from the war in the middle east, the one were these Islamic State soldiers rampaged across Syria and Iraq, it seemed to me I had seen this before. There was these ratty-assed vehicles (some not so ratty-assed) all festooned with various weapons and foreboding individuals acting  menacing and hell bent. In the back ground were oil facilities and most interestingly a oil refiner.

Clearly, the ISIS group had an involvement with oil, or fuel, and was out to capture and hold those positions as if they were of great importance, if not imperative to their operations of marauding. All of their actions appeared indiscriminate as they killed every person in their path for dominance in the oily sands.

All of seemed chaotic at one point, but intent and focused on another. They wanted control of the oil facilities and the money they could generate. They wanted to establish a religious, rather fascist caliphate or region of their own making.

I knew I had seen this before. Oh yes, they have been doing versions of this theater before right in the same location, but memory was for another country. I realized it was in Australia. It was after the Apocalypse and they were fighting for the last remnants of the oil industry.It was Road Warrior. It was all the same. The Islamic State had introduced the Road Warrior gambit.

In the end the few survivors of the Road Warrior clash loaded up the last gasoline and headed out in an old school bus to a new life where there would be no gasoline. Wonder if that where this is all headed?

Foreign Affairs---The Shale Revolution---Revolution Watch

Every now and then I run into articles, actually I run into lots of them, that demonstrate how the predominate paradigm works at controlling the public narrative. I am sure this has always taken place and certainly in the past when access to the press and the public was much more limited, say post interweb, it was present in the usual form of propaganda. The sources of this propaganda are many faceted be it the church or the state, or  the corporations and it has always been there to influence the public opinions and public actions.

What I am getting at is this has always been going on even though there has usually been an attempt by the mainstream media to make an effort to be "News" organization providing there version of truth. We do have a free press which is real nice, but we are still going to get all kinds of jackass stuff like Fox and a hundred other right wingnut stuff, and this also goes on in the left but usually not as absurd as the right.

Any reasonable person can usually spot the nonsense and with luck pick out the drift in one direction or another. Right now the right has seized the narrative by effectively blaming Obama for every single problem in the world from Ebola to ISIS to the theft of money by the big banks and of course lying about global climate change. Oh ya, the last two dumb wars were caused by him.

The problem with all this bullshit is there are some real and very nasty problems out there, ones that are life threatening to the next generation. Having control of the narrative by the wrong group could prove are undoing. It simply is not a great time for much bullshit.

http://www.foreignaffairs.com/articles/141202/edward-l-morse/welcome-to-the-revolution

So here is an example of a steaming pile right here in the magazine called Foreign Affairs. One would think this was an publication that deals with thought out problems in an intellectual way and in a way that might benefit the readers knowledge, in a way that might help that individual shape the future of the nation. After all, one would think the reader of such a publication was not be your average Joe.

So in an attempt to latch on to this portion of the narrative, they proclaim in Welcome to the New Revolution that shale fracking is the answer to life on earth. There is so much oil and gas to be fracked that we should be kissing the hind ends of all the oil companies because, baby, we have enough to drive growth for ever. The link to it is attached and it is a good read for all you cornucopian types, unfortunately it is not even close to the truth. The comment section clearly points out the fallacies and the pure idiocy of the writer.

The worst part to me is there is no mention of the need to cut back on hydrocarbon usage due to climate change. To be cheering on finding more oil and gas is insane right on the face of it. It is absolutely appalling beyond imagination, but here it sits right in a glossy, respected magazine. For the love of Christ, we have to move away from this overt effort to fuck up the world.

Secondly, all this banter about this hydrocarbon wealth is not even true thus creating a false sense of security and the illusion we should not be looking for alternatives. It is a sad day to see this but , in truth, it goes on every day right in our own congress. Where do we turn?

Fishing as a Metaphor

Fishing and the metaphor

There lying ghost-like in the shallow water was the remains of a King Salmon. It’s head was not unlike the human skulls seen displayed and staring in religious shrines around the world. Its mouth was agape and eyes fading away in a distant stare, still seeming to look, but hollow and non-moving. The other skeletal remains were twisted, worn, and fast going back to the watery soil much like the bed of leaves it rested in. A metaphor for all of life.

It was the way of the King Salmon, a genetic scheme to venture out in to the fresh water seas of Lake Michigan, grow fat on the wealth of smaller fish, then in one final run, head up its home river for a thrilling week of frolic with other members of the tribe---all with the intention of laying the groundwork for another generation King Salmon. Once the big week was over, it would be a slow death in the shallow water there in the home ground, their own place of birth. The aging giant fish seem to just fall apart with their once silvery skin turning dark with decay even as they still cruised the ripples and went through the motions of mating. It was futile at that point, but locked in genetic intentions.

I stood quietly and studied with wondering thoughts the departed fish, all the while realizing I was getting old, maybe not that old, but my hair is gray and my skin is thin and discolored. Still, it didn’t seem like a bad way to go even though humans don’t normally strive to swim  up stream for a big whoop-de-do and then go gills to the wind. After a brief contemplation, I straighten myself up, flexed a few muscles, adjusted my new cap and decided to embrace another fine day on the stream----admittedly, the swimming and flopping up stream thing did have appeal---metaphorically speaking.

Briefly I reflected on a story I had heard from a friend, probably the same friend, Dennis, whom I was fishing with on this very day. It seemed a couple of chaps had been plying for Steelhead on the Brule River in northern Wisconsin and one of them fell in the water and disappeared floating down the river in a very inappropriate position, face down. Other fishermen along the stream noticed the individual going by but were unable to attend to him and kept fishing not knowing what else to do, as the individual was much in the position of the King Salmon. It was later learned the departed angler had suffered an unfortunate heart attack. The paper recorded he had died doing what he loved---mainly being on a beautiful flowing stream.

It would seem fishing is like that, a metaphor for the rich texture of life that we have been afforded here on the whispering streams and rivers.

I remember an incident in Ontario back in the sixties while fishing for pike with my then new bride. Even though we were being consumed by black flies, I had been catching numerous Northern Pike with nothing more than a Dare Devil, almost on every cast. The fish were just everywhere. On each retrieval the shining lure was surrounded by naïve, heavily-toothed torpedoes who wanted nothing more than smack the rather obnoxious bait. I was sure Ann was impressed with my prowess and probably marveled at the unbelievable abundant fish life in this cold Canadian lake.

In an act of shared participation, at the moment of hooking a smallish pike, I handed her the casting rod and encouraged her to reel it in. In great glee she hauled away with the wonder of a child. The fish flopped on the surface, jumped and made a great show of it. Then, without warning a giant Pike rocketed up from the depths and latched on to its own brethren in its moment of struggle, and right then and there began to swallow it whole. Talk about a metaphor. We did release the fish, or fishes, the larger one now protruding the smaller much like Groucho Marx mouthing a cigar.

Yesterday, the day wore on and while the wind was light and the river clear, not a single fish approached our flies, not one. I did see a delicate but wounded Blue Winged Teal scurry around in the shallows of a backwater. It looked at me with frightened eyes knowing it could not fly. I walked away hoping in the coming winter it might find open water and live out the season to breed again.

We fished hard, we tried in our best form to find the Steelhead, or a fat Brown Trout but not once could we make contact. Other fishermen said they had caught a few and another related a story of catching a fifteen pound Brown, one all filled with eggs. He released it. And so the metaphors move on.  Maybe this is why I fish.