Alaska Pipeline Story #2

~ Pig Out ~

From the Chinook Journal of S. Pam MaGee

It was the holidays. Some us had to work. And work meant being some 800-miles away from home. Pumping crude oil doesn’t take a break! Now normally, come a day like Thanksgiving or Christmas and unless for an emergency critical situation, things are pretty quiet around the pump stations. Not true with the kitchen crew over at the camp. It was not unusual to have activities around the clock in preparation for yet another feast. They don’t employ cooks out here, just real “chefs”! This had been the norm for several years now. How come that saying, “that all good things must come to an end” holds so true? With some most recent management changes, we ended up getting a district manager that thought we were all a bunch of lazy high paid cry-babies. He soon acquired the nickname, “His Majesty’s Lard Ass”. Sure we made good money. And working a holiday meant triple time wages. That included an inflated wage for the day before and the day after. And sure we complained when in efforts to save money the head nutritional intuitionalist - a townie - switched to cheaper hotdogs. But who wants to knowingly eat rat hair? So one Thanksgiving morning, when in fact everybody was about to have a slow day, this new manager initiates a work order to send a pig through the pipeline. Of course, he did it from the comfort of his home way back in Anchorage. He was at home with his family! Pigs are used to clean the wax off of the pipeline’s inner walls. It has to do with efficiency. The more wax buildup, the more horsepower it takes to pump a given amount of oil over the mountain peaks to Valdez. Now this isn’t a big deal - launching a pig - just a messy ordeal. We got too thinking. What if we didn’t send a pig? According to our local engineer, there was no immediate need for such a gyration as his calculations indicated that the efficiency standards were being surpassed. So what if we could fake the launch switch to think a “pig out” was initiated. Hey, then we could go “pig out”. So over brewed coffee we brewed up the scheme. We talked to the electrician. Everybody was all for it. The pump station operator called the main pipeline controller in Valdez to inform that the station was ready to launch. The OK was given. We went through the motions of switching the appropriate 48-inch valves, then at the precise moment, the electrician shorted out the switch to send a launch signal to the computer that would send that signal all the way to Valdez. That is where the pipeline controllers would begin a timer that would in effect monitor the travel of the 4000-pound beast along the line. Pigs had a nickname, Alex - in honor of the pipeline’s superintendent. Alex was big. In fact he also had a nickname, “Two Chairs”. He was an alright guy, just don’t cross him. Now the plan would work only if it could be coordinated with the guys down the line. Pipeline workers stick together. See, there exists a pig launcher and a pig receiver at several of the pumping stations. The guy at the 4th station down the line would have to fake the “pig in” switch at the precise time. All went without a hitch. We didn’t even get our hands dirty. Hey, what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. What we had accomplished with the pig “faking” was indeed due to our understanding of the operation and equipment. Now pigs are nothing to mess around with, as there exists some pretty good momentum behind that head of oil – at 1000-pounds of pressure. One time, the pig wasn’t sent to the receiver at the precise moment. Instead of being diverted, it ended up in the suction piping of the main pumps. It physically bent 1-inch cold rolled steel bars designed to prevent a pig from entering the system. When caught, these things are no match for the flowing oil and self-destruction is imminent. The strainers upstream of the pumps catch all the shrapnel and debris. So don’t mess with pigs and don’t mess with the workers – especially on a holiday! Right when we were heading to the chow hall to grab a piece of pie, we get another call to run another pig. From the same idiot sitting comfortably back at home. Supposedly, he didn’t see the results he was hoping for. Why? Everything was OK. That is why we employ engineers at each location. Guys that know pipeline dynamics. Our supervisor said that this jerk was behaving this way because he could not stand the thought that we were all sitting around watching football and “pigging” out. We were. Hey, even the drilling rig crews take a break on the holidays – unless an emergency. As we were pulled away from our duties - TV and pie - it pissed us off. So it was decided amongst a chosen few that we would just fake another pig launch. And as before, we went thorough the gyrations that simulated an actual launch. It was back to pie and football! Well come about midnight, all hell broke loose. The “ghost” pig did not show up at the 4^th station down the pipeline. Damn, we forgot to call ahead about our plan of attack. Maybe too much food was to blame. Regardless, this was not good by any stretch of the imagination. The next day, which was supposed to be an extended holiday weekend for the townies, it was panic from Valdez to Prudhoe Bay. Oil spill reconnaissance was in effect. The command center in Anchorage was powered up, which meant all the high rollers of management – including the president – had adjourned away from the comfort of their homes. Something stuck in the pipeline can mean serious business, especially if it requires a bypass operation. Believe it or not, at one point, they honestly accused us of not putting a pig in the line. But like was said before, we stick together out here. When one of the line surveyors heard the rumor that we were suspects, he told the chief civil engineer that one of the check valves about 60-miles south indicated a stuck gate – like a blockage. It meant the “ghost” pig was stuck at that point in the pipeline. And like mentioned before, if a pig was stuck, it was in the self-destruct mode. We had nothing to sweat, as by now the belief all around was a “stuck” pig at that check-valve, which really wasn’t all that bad an ordeal. It has happened before when the clapper on the valve fails. Soon “His Majesty’s Lard Ass” shows up with “Fat Alex”. We need more chairs! Being in the clear, we couldn’t help not laughing. So after about two days of panic, it was written off as a destroyed pig. The only other problem we had to contend with? The inventory showed one too many pigs! How in hell were we going to get rid of a “hog” out here on the tundra? No problem, as one guy needed a flowerpot for his cabin outside of Fairbanks. It was a done deal. Hey, we own the roads up here. Nobody questions what really goes on up and down this pipeline – just to remote. And remember, we feed the regulators! By the beginning of the week, which was the end of our workweek, we were heading home, delayed a day because of the “missing” pig. It meant free booze on the company. And what a paycheck for our shenanigans! We never had to worry about launching another holiday pig, unless it was a scheduled event. And Lard Ass found it difficult to talk his way out of why he initiated the work order in the first place. When he admitted to the president that he felt the workers were not very productive, a phone went flying across the room at the command center. See that was the company president’s indication that he was pissed off. The president made it clear and convincing that he didn’t give a rat’s ass if the crews sat around for ever, as long as they were running when the shit hits the fan! As long as throughput met the daily target, they were doing the job they were paid for. Managers learn early on that their survival depends on us. They learn early on to respect us. And we don’t need a union!

CopyRight 2005/MSK Media

Dangling Conversation

Every leave taking flight to fall,
     No longer “a still life watercolor”.
Now tiny dancers, this Dangling Conversation.
     From early morning, till “now late afternoon”,
Each descent, a passion of air-bound persuasion.
     Alas, what may be left of the “curtained lace”?
But an eager sanction for retreat.
     “Couched in our indifference”, we concede
Until the next falling, this Dangling Conversation.

     “And the superficial sighs”, so outspoken,
In appreciation this recital.
     As “The borders of our lives” in freefall,
To be like them, for this brief movement in time.
     “And you read your Emily Dickinson”
And embrace the grace.
     “And I my Robert Frost”
And grace the embrace.

     ‘Tis this season, cherish what was gained,
Naysay, “That measure what we’ve lost” so vain.
     And for a spellbound moment written,
within this time “we are verses out of rhythm”.
     A seasonal dance romances a rewind,
“In syncopated time” now well defined.

These Heavenly dancers from Thy sky,
     Praytell leaves “speak of things that matter”.
Can paralysis be pledged, nor
     “Is this theater really dead”!

And now “the room is softly faded”,
But fear “a stranger now unto me”.
Well aligned “in the borders of our lives”.
In the borders of our dreams, superficial highs.

Once upon a “Dangling Conversation”

Credits: “ “(Thanks to Simon & Garfunkel) & Copyright 2017 MSK Media

Alaska Pipeline Story #1

~ Go Tell It On the Mountain ~

From the Chinook Journal/Pipeline Stories by S. Pam MaGee

I was working the projects group. This position was probably the best of the best of jobs. Let’s face it, the pipeline worker’s motto, “The Best of the Best”, was a sentiment that rattled up and down the entire 800-mile pipeline. We were good at what we did. Now this particular position, it meant a whole lot of freedom. It meant if the job was complete, a hightailing from places unknown to places known about became the priority. Fairbanks remained our rendezvous point and home away from home. Now Fairbanks never got over the hangover from pipeline construction days. So when work turned to play, it meant time for a few “yards” of beer. That was the advantage with this job over working a steady job out at one of the pumping stations. I had done that routine for just too many years. The only bad thing about the projects group, there was no set schedule. If manpower was needed for emergencies, we were on the way. It meant the possibility of postponing a trip home to Anchorage, even if one was cleaned up and boarding a plane south. This one particular day, that indeed happened. I had a crew of electrical and instrument guys who knew their stuff. We would go up and down the pipeline fixing things that were not part of the station equipment, like remote gate valves. These 48-inch valves are designed to control the head pressure of accumulated oil after it rushes down the pipeline through various mountain passes. If a valve fails when it is supposed to go closed, it can pop the pipeline out of the ground! Just like a big zit. It means oil spill time. Anyway, after we had just completed a job at Pump Station 10 in Isabel Pass, we were all cleaned up and waiting for the call to board a plane heading to Anchorage – for at least a weekend off. But the other call came in. So dedicated as we were, we abandoned our attempt to go home and went north instead. It was towards Anatuvik Pass we were headed. The remote gate valves in the area of the Brooks Range had been causing some nervousness, so in efforts to protect the pipeline, the company had stationed an around the clock caretaker operator. Remember, money is no object to the operation of this beast. It makes a whole lot of money. Now these valves are out in the middle of nowhere land. No hotels, no camps, nothing. And to make matters worse, off a road that doesn’t meet any definition of drivability, unless you are a seasoned semi-truck driver. A nut is a better description. These sites, being temporarily manned, consisted of an ATCO trailer with a generator and a mobile radio. As far as food, these guys were catered too by the security helicopter. Basically, they received the same food fare as the pump station crews – good stuff. Anyway, there had been a report that this one particular site we were directed to go was having a higher then normal use of diesel fuel to run the generator. Now the ATCO had a heater, lights and a small refrigerator. Not to forget the propane John. That is it. So we headed north to check to see if maybe the generator was malfunctioning. Hey, run out of fuel in the dead of wintertime, it may mean a dead worker! As we approached the valley that would take us into the pass, we could hear something that caught our attention. There is nothing out here except wildlife. And about the only living thing that makes noise, is that of the Raven. Anyway, it sounded like music. I slowed the truck down to a standstill. Sure enough, it was music, loud music at that. It sounded like an outdoor concert was playing out. But in Anatuvik Pass? No way. As we approached the exit off the road to the one-man camp, the music was getting louder and louder. In fact, it could be heard loud and clear, even with the truck’s windows closed. When we finally exited the main road, there on a makeshift porch of the ATCO one-man camp was a one-man concert. I think the decibel level was causing an early migration, as nearby caribou could be seen scrambling about. Well there stood this guy named Johnny, wailing away on a Fender Stratocaster. And to make his picking noticeable, giant speakers lined the entire side of the 40-foot trailer. This was major good, good, good, good vibrations! The tune was familiar, Jimi Hendrix’s Voodoo Child. Johnny was so into the after work rock out, he didn’t even notice our presence. We didn’t even have to get out of the truck to realize just why the fuel usage around here was questionable. In fact, every so often the lights would dim when the speakers hit overdrive. And these were not no rink dink Sears type generators. I think it was a Cummins! So what to do? I called my boss. Told him of the dilemma. At first he told us to shut it down. Then I told him who the guy was. That meant a completely different story. My boss was a good friend with this guy’s dad. They both served in Vietnam. So the next day, a flatbed truck with a larger fuel tank would be dispatched from Fairbanks. Hey, music was this operator’s only entertainment. And like I said before, who really cared about the money aspect. It was hard to find people who would be comfortable just sitting around all day watching a valve. So it was OK to give this guy a little extra special attention. We headed back to Fairbanks, had a few beers and caught the next plane south. Another job completed! It felt good to give this guy a break. But that was how business was handled on the pipeline. People cared!

CopyRight 2005/MSK Media

MORON

Commander on Deck...

HURRICANE – Apollo & Athena

“Don’t need a weather man to tell which way the wind blows”…but my weather model indicates a good chance that IRMA will soon break into 2-sepearte storms. If it hits a critical landfall point down the KEYS, it will break into opposing disks - half the energy as IR heading out into the Gulf and the other half of this energetic massive swirling cloud heading out into the Atlantic, call that MA! But my model has not been tested or verified, just keeping my fingers crossed, that when it hits on Sunday during the early morning hours that it will follow the path calculated by the “Boundary Theory of Disks” devised by Ted Kaczynski. See, Ted was a mathematical genius, he committed a crime when dressed up as the Uni-bomber for trick-or-treat and is now doing time wasted away – “He was just a revolutionary Bum”. But why not use his brain calculating talents to help make weather models more predictable? We only realize a hurricane when it is too damn late, but there must exist conditions out at sea, that boundary stuff, that precipitates the beginning of a storm - that seed. If we knew that IRMA was to be such a devastating storm, even a week sooner before it was to hit Florida or the neighboring poorer countries south of the Mar-a-Logo stink-hole, at least we could have had enough gasoline stockpiled for families to get out of harm’s way.

Hey Heather Heyer

Song to Heather
(In Harmony with Dylan’s Song to Woody)

Hey, hey Heather Heyer, I wrote you a song
‘Bout a wicked ol’ march that’s a storming my town
We’re seeing their world of hatred and scorn
Your courage be bold, our flag is still there.

Out there with thousands brave, sea to shining sea
Walkin' a rough road our Patriots have so worn
I'm seein' that world clearer, Hitler’s last stand
Such hatred these deadbeats the clue of that clan.

Hey, hey Woody Guthrie, Dylan wrote you a song
'Bout a Beach Haven world that's a fueling their storm
Seems sick and it's angry, it's tired and it's torn
It looks like it's a-dyin' and soon a so long.

Hey, hey Mother Bro, you’re part of this rhythm
‘Bout a brave young woman facing the challenger alone
With our young and our old magnifying a daughter’s frontline
To tear it all down one statue at a time.

Hey, Woody Guthrie, but I know that you know
All the things that I'm a-sayin' and a-many times more
I'm a-singin' you the song, but I can't sing enough
'Cause there's not many men that done the things that you've done.

So done by Heather with Bro and our Patriots true
To all the good people that protested with you
Here's to the hearts and the hands of those so brave
‘Cause today there’s many doing what Woody portrayed.

Hitler’s last breath, Old Man Trump’s reach in vain
With sonny boy racist, his cesspool of swine
The very last thing that I'd want Donald to do
Is to show some respect for the Heather’s Red, White & Blue.

So to Banner, Miller and Gorka’s SOB revenge
You are loosing your fight, every day into night
Portnoy’s complaint is your only recourse
As Heather’s steadfast has trumped the Tower’s demand!

And to Woody and Heather and the rest of history’s best
We honor your souls and fear not this test
True statues so proud with a Patriotic stature
Fearing nothing, as history will repeat itself good for your kind.

Hey, hey Heather Heyer, I wrote you this song.
No need to rest in peace now, as your legacy has been born
As their doctrine of hatred beckons the flight our fight
Your courage so bold, our flag still shines today with more might.

Copyright MSK & (Words in Italic by Bob Dylan • Copyright © Universal Music Publishing Group)