by Peter Ralph
Ten kilometres further on, the convoy started to slow and, as he rounded a bend, he saw them turning off at a T-intersection. They were heading for a drill rig that was lit up like a Christmas tree. Clouds of red dust hung over the track and he could not see a thing or use his brakes for fear of being seen as he sped past the intersection. Working down through the gears he reduced speed and slowly worked his way along the track, keeping the brightly-lit derrick in his rear-vision mirror. Once he was out of sight, he turned his lights on and looked for somewhere to hide the Toyota. He soon found a clump of densely-packed bushes and trees and he concealed the vehicle with broken branches. It was 2am when he took a swig of water and put the bottles in his back-pack, which also contained a packet of jelly beans and a box of smarties that he had bought as a special treat for his kids. He also had a groundsheet, a mosquito net, and a can of insect repellent which he sprayed over his arms and face. It was quiet but he could hear the sound of running water; he was close to the Blaxland River or one of its tributaries and he wondered why these lunatics always drilled so close to water.
He threw the bag containing the camcorder equipment over his shoulder and was soon striding down the track in the direction of the drill rig. He stopped, took another small swig of water and continued walking close to the bushes and trees so that he could quickly hide if a truck suddenly appeared. As he drew closer, he could hear the rig groaning. He got off the track and worked his way through thigh-high grass and shrubs, looking for a clearing that would be shaded during the day yet provide an unimpeded line of vision for his camcorder.
Trucks continued to roll onto the well-pad and a dozen or so men worked feverishly, making adjustments to the rig. Dean circled the well-pad, eventually finding a clump of bushes below a monstrous old gum tree. He spent twenty minutes tearing out long grass until he had a roughly cleared area of about three by three metres. It was nearly 3.30am when he set the camcorder up on its tripod and resprayed himself with insect repellent. He lay down on the groundsheet and, using the back-pack as a pillow, he pulled the mosquito net over his body and face, hoping to grab a few hours’ sleep before dawn.
He woke to the warmth of the rising sun, a cloudless blue sky, the sound of the drill rig, the buzzing of cicadas and the hum of bush insects. It was going to be a clear, hot day and he was thankful for the canopy of gum leaves above him. He popped a few jelly beans into his mouth and took a long gulp of water, before crawling over to the camcorder and adjusting the lens. In contrast to the night, there was little activity and most of the men were obviously sleeping or having breakfast in the huts around the perimeter of the well-pad. Dean guessed that little would happen during the day, but that by nightfall the trucks would again be rolling in and the well would be fracked.
Despite the protection of the gum tree, he felt himself cooking and he was sweating profusely, his throat was parched, and tiny insects stung his hands, arms and face. He swatted heaps of large, aggressive bush flies but it didn’t dent their army and they continued to swarm around him. Putting the water in the shade had not helped; it was tepid and unrefreshing, although without it he would be dehydrated within hours.
The adrenalin that had driven him the previous night had been replaced by heat and boredom; early in the afternoon, he finally succumbed to fatigue and fell into a restless sleep. When he awoke, the sun was setting and he could hear shouting coming from the drill-pad. He rolled over to the camcorder, looked through the clearing and saw Frank Beck getting out of a Filliburton Hummer. This confirmed the well was about to be fracked and he was relieved that he would not have to spend another day in the blistering sun. However, he had no idea how he was going to get a sample of wastewater. He rolled back over to his back-pack and finished the first bottle of water. He fished around for the smarties, deciding he’d have half now and the other half when driving back home in the morning. He opened the top, annoyed and disappointed to see a mess of melted chocolate. Carefully he tore the box completely open and licked the chocolate from the cardboard. By the time he finished, he was sipping the second bottle of the water. At least he still had the jelly beans.
A few hours after nightfall, convoys of trucks began arriving. There were more men than the night before and Beck’s booming voice carried over the noise of the rig. A small group of men set up a pump next to the wastewater pit, but Dean had no idea what it was for. Midnight passed and, despite the activity, the well still had not been fracked. Dean fought the encroaching sleepiness, anxious to get his water sample and be gone before sunrise. Finally he could sit up no longer, so he turned the camcorder on and set the alarm on his watch. He crawled under the mosquito net and closed his eyes, knowing that a thirty-minute power nap would restore his energy.
He was lying on his side when the first rays of sunshine played across his face, the alarm having failed to wake him. As he forced his eyes open, he was aware of the presence of something moving in the clearing. It was a snake, within arm’s length. It was one of the biggest he had ever seen; around two metres long. It sensed his awakening and reared up in a distinctive S shape, mouth open and fangs bared, ready to strike. Dean froze, knowing that if he made even the slightest movement he was dead. He had seen hundreds of common eastern brown snakes and this one was grey with a black stripe across the head, but what identified it beyond doubt was its orange-spotted cream underbelly. He knew its characteristics - nervous, aggressive and apt to strike more than once when threatened. He also knew that it was one of the ten deadliest snakes in the world and, if antivenin wasn’t administered within thirty minutes, its venom was nearly always fatal. Sweating heavily and too scared to blink, he watched it swaying back and forth. Each time it moved forward he waited, frozen, for the blindingly fast and painful hit that he knew was surely coming. It seemed to be working itself into a rage and he felt urine seeping through his underpants. A kookaburra landed in the tree above him and started to laugh, briefly giving him a glimmer of hope. He knew they ate snakes - but not one as big or as deadly as the monster in front of him. The cicadas kept singing, the insects buzzed and the bush flies swarmed around him; the denizens of the bush were oblivious to the deadly drama being enacted in their midst. Maybe he was imagining it, but the snake appeared to be edging closer with each sway of its fluid body. Unable to keep his eyes open any longer, he slowly closed them and prayed. He wasn’t a religious man but knew some of the words of the Lord’s Prayer, Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thou shall be done on earth as it is in heaven, forgive us our trespassers as they forgive us. Not knowing any more, he repeated the same words over and over. It was less than two minutes since he’d closed his eyes but it felt like hours. He slowly opened his right eye and, through the slit, saw the snake’s tail disappearing into the long grass next to the camcorder. He started to sob and then he cried uncontrollably. He thought of Vicki and the kids and how tenuous life was. He started to cough and dry retch and then pulled away the mosquito net but was unable to move more than this; he spat phlegm on the ground next to him.
It was ten minutes before he could kneel and take off his sweat-drenched T-shirt, his jeans and underpants. He laid them on the groundsheet to dry, never taking his eyes off the grass around him. He pulled his boots on and, despite his nakedness, felt some small sense of security. There were insect and mosquito bites all over him, the legacy of spending two nights in the outback, and he resolved that there would not be a third night. Fear had destroyed his appetite but he realised that he had to eat and drink, so he drained the second bottle of water and ate half of the remaining jelly beans.
He knew he would eventually have to check what was happening on the well-pad, so he forced himself to crawl over to the camcorder. Eyes peeled and his pink bits dangling below him, he stole a quick glance around the tripod, fortunately seeing no movement. He crept back with the camcorder to the centre of the clearing and inserted a fresh battery into it.
He rewound to the time when he had fallen asleep and started watching. The tru
cks kept rolling in, Beck was shouting and angry and Dean guessed it was because the well had not been fracked. But what captured his attention was a small group of men placing a length of heavy black tubing into the wastewater pit. By fast-forwarding, he watched the three hours, recorded before the battery ran out, by which time his clothes had dried. He dressed and carefully replaced the camcorder on the tripod. It would be eight hours until nightfall, but he knew there was no chance of falling asleep again - flashbacks of the snake haunted him every few minutes. If the well wasn’t fracked tonight, he was leaving and wasn’t coming back. He had never been scared of snakes, but was dreading the thought of sneaking through the long grass to the wastewater.
By 9pm three more semitrailers arrived at the well-pad and Beck’s shouting echoed through the bush as his men ran around like furious ants. Dean turned on the camcorder and ten minutes later felt a small tremor ripple below his knees and the noise level go up threefold, as he watched wastewater explode from the well like an oil gusher, soaking everyone around it. There was a look of exultation on Beck’s face as the men adjusted pipes and valves, ensuring that the wastewater was directed into the pit.
Dean, famished and feeling weak, ate the remaining jelly beans, took a swig of water from what was left in the last bottle and put it in his back-pack, along with the mosquito net and groundsheet. He still had not worked out where he’d get the courage to creep down to the pit, but he still prepared by cutting two lengths of string and tying them around the necks of jars, so he could dip them. While he was doing this, he heard a new thumping sound and, when he peered through the grass, he saw men standing around the now-activated pump. He still had no idea what its purpose was. Just after midnight Beck went to one of the huts, returned with two slabs of beer and shared them around. They were only about fifteen metres from the wastewater pit. Soon some of them drifted off to their huts but a small, hard core kept drinking and Dean started to fret, wondering if they were going to booze on all night. Around 2.30 Beck pointed to the huts and the remaining few men reluctantly finished their beers and trooped off to bed.
Dean packed the tripod, put the two jars in the back-pack, hung the camcorder from his shoulder, waited another ten minutes while he built up his courage and then he was off. He ran through the long grass in a low crouch, trying to keep his feet as light as possible. There were no lights on in the huts but Dean was on edge, and wasted no time dunking the jars into the wastewater pit, withdrawing them by the strings, capping them and putting them in his back-pack. Beck’s Hummer was on the pad, about twenty metres away. Moving like a cat, Dean reached the passenger side rear wheel and let the tyre down, even though he wasn’t sure why. Striding back past the rig, he saw the black tubing on the other side of the pit running through the long grass towards the track and, while hesitant to follow it, at least it appeared to be lying in the same direction he was going. He took a deep breath and charged into the long grass, following the thick black tubing until he heard the sound of slushing water. It was pouring out of the end of the tubing and he gasped at Beck’s audacious disregard for licence conditions and environment laws. It was almost certainly toxic, saline-laden wastewater. He could hear the river and surely there were aquifers nearby; this irresponsible fool and the company he worked for were poisoning them. He took a third jar and filled it. Turning the camcorder on, he filmed the hose and slush heap, before he ran through the last fifty metres of long grass to the side track that the convoy had turned into two nights earlier. He was still having flashbacks but at last he could put the fear of stepping on an unseen snake behind him. Reaching the T-intersection, he looked up to see a sign: CEGL Private Property Trespassers will be prosecuted.
Dean was exhausted, and the trek back to the four-wheel-drive felt like it would never end. By the time he threw the branches off the Toyota, dawn was starting to break. He drove slowly without turning the lights on, worried that there might be an early morning riser in the Filliburton camp. As it turned out, Frank Beck was up doing his early morning exercises and was stunned when he saw the small approaching dust cloud - all the land for kilometres around was owned by CEGL and no-one ever came out this far. The old, white four-wheel-drive was adjacent to the well-pad, and Beck, meaning to find out what was going on, jumped into his Hummer and gunned it, only to feel the clunk, clunk, clunk of a flat tyre. He quickly surmised that the unusual activity and flat tyre had to be more than coincidence.
Once around the bend, Dean turned the headlights on and increased his speed but drove nowhere near as fast as he had when following the convoys. He was spent, but the sight of herds of kangaroos in the trees and bushes and the occasional one or two on the edge of the track forced him to fight through his need for sleep. Three hours later he drove up the long bumpy gravel trail to his house. Vicki raced to the front door to see her husband almost fall out of the vehicle and lurch towards her like he was drunk. His eyes were bloodshot, his face drawn; he stank and was filthy with red and grey dust caked on his heavy facial growth.
‘Wha … what happened to you?’ Concern was etched on her face, and she put an arm around his waist to support him.
‘Not now. I need a shower, something to eat and then a long sleep. God, I need sleep.’
He struggled to keep his eyes open as the lukewarm water and a large cake of soap washed away the three-day build-up of grime. The soft feel of the towel on his skin was something he had never before thought of as a luxury. He opened the bathroom door, breathed in the aroma and headed for the kitchen, where a huge plate of bacon and eggs and two pieces of thick, already-buttered pieces of toast and a mug of steaming coffee were waiting for him.
‘Slow down,’ Vicki said, ‘slow down. You’ll make yourself sick,’ but he ignored her, wolfing down pieces of bacon and toast like a ravenous dog. He had never tasted anything so good. A little life returned to his face as he sipped the coffee and savoured the aroma and taste.
‘Where have you been?’
‘After, Sweetie, after. I’m going to bed. Don’t wake me. Let me sleep, no matter how long I’m out to it.’
Frank Beck wasn’t a man to take risks or leave openings for others to exploit. By 9am he was on the phone to Filliburton’s environment manager, explaining that some of his men had accidentally and inadvertently discharged wastewater into the bushland and in the circumstances it might be prudent to notify the environment authorities and stress that the company was sorry and would ensure it didn’t happen again.
‘Did someone see you?’ the officer asked.
‘I’m not sure, but it’s better to play safe and fess up, rather than have someone report us, isn’t it?’
‘Consider it done.’
It was six o’clock the following morning when Dean finally awoke to the sounds of birds singing and Vicki preparing the kids’ breakfasts. He felt reinvigorated and bounded down the hallway to the kitchen. ‘Good morning, Honey,’ he said, putting his arms around her waist and kissing her on the cheek. ‘I’m starved. What’s to eat?’
‘You’re so rough.’ She laughed. ‘Why don’t you go and shave and I’ll make you an omelette, and then you can tell me where you were and what you’ve been doing since Friday night.’
He didn’t waste any time in the bathroom, giving himself a few small nicks, before he was back sitting at the kitchen table. While he devoured his ham and tomato omelette, he told Vicki everything that had occurred but toned down the encounter with the snake, telling her that it had appeared in his little clearing and that he had chased it away. When he finished, she sat looking at him, grim-faced, shaking her head and wondering why she had to be the one who was married to this one-man vigilante squad. What were the other husbands on the estates doing?
‘Honey, I have to do this. I need you to understand and support me. Come on, cheer up; I’ll try and get home from work early tonight.’
She softened a little, knowing that he was trying hard to balance his work, family and gas company commitments. ‘I’ll try, but don’t disap
pear like that again. I was worried sick.’
‘I promise I won’t.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Sorry, Honey, I have to fly.’
As Dean drove away from the house, he was already on the mobile to Jack Thomas, telling him what he had seen and asking if he could drop the wastewater samples off for analysis. ‘I want you to report Filliburton and Beck to the environment authorities.’
‘It’ll give me great pleasure. I’ll say I got an anonymous tip-off and ask them to check it out.’
‘You can say it was me. They don’t worry me, criminal pricks!’
‘Dean, I know where you were; it was on private property owned by CEGL and the wastewater you’re going to give me is their property and you stole it. Now do you understand why my source must remain anonymous?’
‘You’re saying they could have me charged?’
‘I’m not a lawyer, so I don’t know how many laws you broke, but I do know it was plenty.’
‘Hell, how am I going to use what I filmed?’
‘With great care and anonymously. We can talk about that when you drop the samples off.’
‘Sure.’ Dean wondered if he’d nearly lost his life for nothing.
Dennis Fulton said that he would be pleased to show Steve around what he described as the ‘ugly coal seam gas fields of South East Queensland’. Anxious to find out whether his fears were well-founded, Steve took an early morning flight to Brisbane the next day. Soon after landing he was on the freeway in his rented SUV, heading towards the small town of Marra, four hundred kilometres inland on the southern boundary of the Spurling Downs. It was an unusually overcast day and the cloud cover played havoc with the dash-mounted GPS, taking him off the freeway and onto a narrow, crumbling road with gravel shoulders. A few minutes later he was banked up in heavy traffic on another thoroughfare where workmen had closed off one lane while they effected what looked like temporary repairs.