The author, somewhere near his treasure trove. James West/Climate DeskThis summer, James West and I hopped in our mud-caked rental sedan and followed the oil tankers out of Williston, ND. On my notepad was a scribbled address, a spot deep in the North Dakota prairie, just off the shores of serpentine Lake Sakakawea, twenty miles from the nearest town. As we drove oil rigs cropped up in every direction, each indistinguishable from the last. But somewhere out there was the one we were after: the one with my name on it.
In the most recent issue of Mother Jones, we reported on the explosive growth happening in North Dakota as a result of fracking. The drilling technique has unlocked massive deposits of oil from the Bakken Shale, which translate directly to massive deposits of cash for everyone from truck drivers to rig operators to local strippers to the Big Oil kingpins of Houston and Oklahoma City. And in the interest of full journalistic disclosure, I think it's about time I came clean: A few of those dirty fracked dollars are in my family's greasy little pocket.
A couple weeks ago, my grandma, a wise and exacting matriarch with a bone-dry wit, cashed in her latest fat paycheck from ConocoPhillips. She claims to have "already forgotten" how she spent the money, a cool $27.82.
"Your mother said, 'You're supposed to split it with us'," Cynthia Marty, "Nana" to my siblings and me, says with a wry chuckle. "She can go to hell."
That's right: In the last several years, as fracking has grown into one of the most divisive environmental issues of our time, my family has profited from it to the tune of nearly $200. It goes back to a fateful day in 2008, shortly after George, Nana's husband, "Papa" to me, passed away. Sorting through papers in his gargantuan old rolltop desk, Nana, 82, came across a yellowed, official-looking document with the imprimatur of the State of North Dakota. It dated from the early 1930s, and conferred mineral rights—that is, a claim on anything sucked up from under the ground, but not the surface itself—to a plot of land identified only by an obscure numbered code.
"I didn't know what to file it under," Nana says. "In fact, I was tempted to throw it away."
A few phone calls to distant relatives and estate lawyers later, Nana found that the rights were originally purchased by her uncle Stewart Kelley, who lived in Omaha at the time but had grown up in the early twentieth century in Lakota, North Dakota, across the state from the plot he eventually staked. A succession of deaths and wills led the document to Papa, and now it was in Nana's hands.
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