Canadian Petroleum History Society remembers oil boom spies and secrecy
Industrial espionage colors a pioneer legacy of frontier exploration
On a -40 C day north of Lesser Slave Lake, MacFarlane parked his car at the end of a road, put on heavy outdoor clothes and hiked a couple of kilometers to a snowy perch with a clear sightline at a rig on a tight well site. “Through my binoculars, I saw a core sampling barrel. So I had to calculate the well depth. I had to wait for the crew to put the bit back on, then count the lengths of pipe they strung together to start drilling again.”
He stood watch for hours. “I froze up even in my down mitts. By the time I returned to my car, my fingers couldn’t turn the key to open the door or work the ignition.” He got into the vehicle by gripping the key between his wrists and twisting. After climbing into the driver’s seat, he repeated the struggle with the ignition. The engine barely turned over. “The first time, it just groaned. But my luck held. It started on the second try. When I put on the headlights, there were three big wolves in front of the car. I’d heard noises while I was out in the bush.”
He had just enough energy left to drive to another drilling rig that was working nearby for the oil company that employed him. “When I got into the trailer, the warm air immediately hit me. My whole system went haywire. I couldn’t operate my tongue. The words came out gobbledygook. I couldn’t control my arms. They were swinging wildly. Lucky for me, the rig boss had seen this before and knew what it was. They rolled me up in blankets and sat on me to thaw me out.”
A snowmobile gave MacFarlane his second encounter with Alberta winter reality, farther north in wild country east of Fox Creek. While ranging far out into the bush towards a remote well site, with the thermometer reading in the -30s, he hit a pile of deadfall hidden by deep snow. Like a motorboat hitting a big ship’s wake too fast, the heavy machine flipped over and pinned him down by both legs. “I got one free. It took me two hours to get the other foot free. I never got to see that rig.”
On other spy adventures, he fell off horses, waded hip-deep in muskeg and met spooky backwoods eccentrics like a 72-year-old airstrip watchman with a patch over one eye that he claimed had been gouged out by a bull. It was also part of the job to take wild rides: first in a Second World War-vintage aircraft that skidded down an icy northern runway, halting just short of a wire fence and railway track, then in a rescue plane that caught on fire in the air when an engine fuel line broke.
Scouts were well paid by standards of 1950s and ’60s oil pioneer times: about $450 a month, an expense account, a company car and a downtown Calgary parking spot. The compensations went beyond money and perks. MacFarlane, 75, lights up when he recalls the exploration era’s renowned blend of adventure, exuberant characters, camaraderie and practical jokes. “Our conventions were world-renowned.” He admits, “It was pretty harrowing.” But the risks were the spice of the role. “It was a very fine time of my life.”
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