The Quiet Gold Rush

[Geee]

National Review:

Alberta, Canada – While we are sitting on the tarmac waiting interminably for Newark’s permission to take off, the man in the seat to my right turns and asks me if I call Calgary “home.” I explain mildly apologetically that I don’t, that this will in fact be my first trip across the 49th parallel, and that — alas — I am stopping there only in order to connect with another flight. From the city’s sprawling international airport I will continue on up to Fort McMurray, the boomtown gateway to Canada’s tar sands.

“Ah,” he says, his interest piqued. “Actually, I’m in the oil business myself. I’ve been in New York for meetings.” Then he leans in. “Fort McMurray, eh? That’s a real gold-rush sort of place.”

My second flight of the day, this time on a noisy little turbo-prop puddle-jumper that sounds like a bomber from a World War II movie, gives me no reason to doubt his description. Unlike the large jet that took me from Newark, this aircraft is packed full of sturdy men wearing jeans, baseball caps, and steel-toed boots. There are no women — not a single pair of X chromosomes on board — and nobody speaks a word; they because they are discernibly weary of the journey, I because I am stunned into silence by what I can see outside. The 400 miles of Alberta we cross are just spectacular: Endless white fields sweep up toward the horizon for miles until they are broken by a line of snow-capped mountains. The sky is a dazzlingly clear blue, and the moon is visible. After 90 minutes or so of this, we land at a tiny airport and I drag my eyes from the window and look out into the snow. Regimentally, the men troop off. They have been here before.