Cowboy Boots Don't Work.

Years ago I was working in the oil and gas biz.  Using seismic imaging that looked deep in the hills for signs of trap rock that meant a potential oil +óGé¼+ôplay+óGé¼-¥.  It required a crew of guys, surveyors, truck drivers, wire handlers, technicians, and mechanics.

It was a hard life, mostly on the road. But the money was good if you worked long hours, and we had plenty of hours for sale.  I was the assistant to the Crew Chief for a 75 man crew. An equal mix of Mexicans and layed-off steel workers from Pittsburgh.  Working the Appalachian plateau, we transected the spine of Appalachia  from Maryland to Tennessee looking for good drilling prospects for oil companies.  We had spent a lot of time together and it was a tight, productive crew.  We all earned fat bonuses each payday.

We would receive mapping from Texas that had lines drawn to show where the client wanted us to travel.  It was usually a straight line.  They were looking at a map and the trees and brush didn+óGé¼Gäót show up so well.  Neither did new strip mine excavations and +óGé¼+ôgopher hole+óGé¼-¥ coal pits.  We would need to negotiate the path with dump-truck sized vehicles.

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They had a Texas perspective.  So it was a constant effort to explain that Appalachia was not the Permian basin of Texas and we had trees and grades to negotiate.  The Texas clients thought we were just trying to stretch out our mileage, because we were paid, in part, for mileage.  Road construction was cost-plus.

Finally, one week we got a call.  A pair of particularly take-charge young oil-hounds were flying up to help scout our line and get us +óGé¼+ôstraightened out+óGé¼-¥.  +óGé¼+ôSure+óGé¼-¥, I said, +óGé¼+ôcome on up.+óGé¼-¥  As XO to the Chief, it was my job to do anything the Chief didn+óGé¼Gäót want to do, which in this case meant driving down to Johnson City to pick up the Texas boys.

They were quite a sight.  Dressed in prairie shirts, jeans, cowboy hats, and slick pointy-towed cowboy boots.  They looked more like The Texas Playboys than field geologists.  We loaded up and headed back up to our temporary office in Virginia. Along the way they regaled me with tales of great explorations and record production. 

The plan was to arrive back at the office and meet with our land survey crew - then go out to a nearby disputed section of seismic line that the Texans thought should be straightened out, saving a mile of survey.  Our land surveyors were responsible for staking the course for the crew and we had already scouted the line and it was an impossible section of steep slope and heavy woods.  It would have to be detoured with an expensive road construction. 

It was the rainy season with the potential for an inch of rain each day, and this day was particularly soggy.  Our survey crew chief, Pat, took one look at the Texas boys and said,+óGé¼-¥you guys will need some real boots+óGé¼-¥.  We all wore jungle boots.  These were lightweight canvas boots with large drain holes on the welt and aggressive rubber cleats.  +óGé¼+ôNah, we+óGé¼Gäóre good+óGé¼-¥, said one of the Texas boys with an air that conveyed dismissal.  +óGé¼+ôOk+óGé¼-¥, said Pat.  We were a tight crew and I knew the look on Pat+óGé¼Gäós face.  We had learned to just say yes and drive on.

Off to the line we went in our trucks.  When we arrived at the disputed section of proposed seismic line the Texans were out of the truck first, topo map in hand.  It had begun to rain again and we paused to pull on our rain suits.  The Texans were in a hurry to prove that their proposed line was do-able and they pushed through the wet underbrush and quickly disappeared. 

We had been down their path before and it was a steep downhill that ended in a steep pitch down a new mine cut-slope.  The brush was thick and it was difficult to see 5 feet in front of you.  I yelled after them to hold up.  There was a shouted response to catch up.  We started after them.

As we moved through the wet brush, sliding on the slick leaf litter we heard a series of loud, excited howls.  I imagined that they had reached the mine site and were falling to their deaths.  Running down the slope I tried to catch up.  I caught sight of them careening down the slope +óGé¼GÇ£ sliding on their smooth leather-soled cowboy boots on the wet forest floor. They looked like skiers without skis +óGé¼GÇ£ arms twirling at their sides trying to maintain balance.  I shouted, +óGé¼+ôhold up, there is a drop ahead+óGé¼-¥.

Cowboy # 1 came to a halting stop about 10 feet short of the drop.  Cowboy #2 was not so fortunate and he came crashing down the slope and pounded into the back of Cowboy #1.  They teetered for a moment, and then pitched forward.  Grabbing and tugging at one another they made a fumbled attempt to stop.  But the slope was steep and their cowboy boots were no match for the wet leaves and soft mud.  I watched in horror as they disappeared over the edge of the mine cut.

Stumbling to the edge, I looked over expecting to find two dead cowboys.  Fortunately the rains had caused the cut slope to collapse and it was less of a drop-off, than a mud-slide.  The Cowboys were still headed down slope +óGé¼GÇ£ rolling and tumbling through the mud.  Every second or two, one or the other would attempt to stand up, only to sink deep into the mudflow.  They were covered in mud and had become a uniform orange color.

Finally they rolled to a stop at the mine shelf and pulled themselves to their feet.  The surveyors, Pat and his rodman Kevin came up behind me.  The look on their face suggested that they were expecting a body recovery job.  At the bottom of the slope the Cowboys were doing their best to look respectable, wiping orange mud from their faces and arms.

+óGé¼+ôHey+óGé¼-¥, said Pat in his concise Pittsburgh way, +óGé¼+ôyour cowboy boots don+óGé¼Gäót work in Virginia+óGé¼-¥.  Turning and heading back up the slope Pat muttered, +óGé¼+ôdumbass+óGé¼-¥.  I looked back at the Texas Cowboys, they had not heard him.  +óGé¼+ôHang on, we need to drive around to the mine gate to get you+óGé¼-¥. 

Two miles later we reached the mine and drove up to the cut.  The Cowboys had groomed themselves to a soggy yellow color.  Their topo map was stuck mid-slope and they were pointing and conspiring on how to recover it.  Pat was ahead of me in his pick-up.  He pulled up next to the Cowboys.  The rain had begun again.  Pat rolled down his window and it appeared that they were hesitating while they decided how to get their map.  As I stepped out of my truck and walked up Pat broke his silence, +óGé¼+ôFuck your map dude.+óGé¼-¥  After a moment of silence a look of embarrassment washed across their faces.  They quietly began to walk around the hood of the truck +óGé¼GÇ£ heading for the passenger door.  +óGé¼+ôHey+óGé¼-¥, said Pat, +óGé¼+ôyou dumbasses are riding in back+óGé¼-¥. 

It was a short ride back to the office and the nearby motel.  The Cowboys headed to the shower while we waited in the office.  When they finally arrived, not a word was spoken about the accident or Pat+óGé¼Gäós blunt words.  Pat was looking at his survey line plats.  We gathered around the table and Pat punched his forefinger into the map.  +óGé¼+ôTHAT, is the fucking line+óGé¼-¥, Pat said, pointing at our alternative route down an old logging road that avoided the mine site.  The Cowboys were nodding their heads. 

I looked at their feet and noticed that their cowboy boots were gone.  Probably drying in their motel rooms, I thought.  In their place they were both wearing canvas tennis shoes.  Much more sensible.

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