The Weber Literary Journal A Wyoming Oil Field Therma Scoville WYOMING fascinated me. I met her on a green-gray day, sped over her green-gray land, joined hands with her green-gray people in a green-gray greeting, and decided that Wyoming was a green-gray creation. And then, as we sped along, I saw my first real oil-rig. We approached the rig gradually, playing peek-a-boo with it from behind the hills; and as we came nearer, I knew definitely that I was fascinated. There before me were the rigs, towering structures, much higher near, than the hills far away (I knew then why books say "bulwarks of industry"). I saw, not a finite board structure, rather I saw an infinite stream of humanity depending directly or indirectly on that cable which, minute by minute, sank lower and lower into the deep oil-hole. The smell of oil entered my lungs; the taste of oil clung to my food; the air of oil became my companion; and oil itself became my positive angle of vision. "The oil-field," I began to realize, "is the most interesting part of Wyoming." Then with the wind and the huge boilers pounding their noise into my soul, I took one other look at all my surroundings and knew instantly, under the golden spell of it all, that I was Wyoming's. Bewildered, for I had become the possessor of a new interest in life, I stood near the mess house door and watched the men go by. Before me, sometimes alone on foot, sometimes grouped in a car, passed the "driller", the "bailer", the mechanic, the cook, and the boss. I saw then the broker and the investor, the success and the failure, the working man and the "lounge", the "nobody", and the "everybody", the self-denouncer and the self-advertiser, the pessimist and the optimist, the "go-getter" and the "come-after"; above all, I began to see the infinite distance between the leader and the follower. Heterogeneous as the types were, the individuals seemed to me phenomenal creatures. One gentleman, I remember, exaggerated everything he had said or done for my special benefit; he not only emphasized his own importance but also under-rated every other individual in the camp. Two other men possessed an instrument for gaging oil deposits. Every place any of our group went, 20 The Weber Literary Journal Mr. "Doodle-bug" (Doodle-bug was the name of the instrument), adjusted one end of the parabolic oil-gage between his teeth and the other in his hand, and proceeded to step slowly across the oil sand, testing by the reaction of the gage the exact spot where there might be the greatest yield on the "oil-dome." When I disbelieved the "doodle-bugs" qualities, its owners recited for me marvelous tales of its accuracy and prophesied my regret if I persisted in not giving the instrument its full value. Perhaps I was more interested in Pat than in any of the others Pat, the Irish "driller", who became so enthusiastic over the oil flow that he received his wages in oil stock. In spite of the picturesque oddity of my surroundings and the phenomenal characters of the individuals about the oil-field, I would have remained merely interested, if my father had not taken me with him to observe the various types of work about the oil-rigs. Heretofore I had been amused, bewildered; now I became lured. As I stood aside, observing the process of rig-building, I saw every hammer stroke knock another spike through the sheets of galvanized iron and the skimpy wood framework, every move of the carpenter's saw indirectly help the rig higher over the oil-hole and finally every bit of wood and wire and iron help the tower over the rig-cabin to grow into a mature one-hundred foot gigantic steeple. Following Father I approached the Standard and the Liedecker, two rigs which were in active service, and watched the drill, a piece of iron weighing two tons, slide through the floor of the rig into the oil-hole. The man who controlled the drill waved anxiously to the engineer, and immediately the hundred and fifty volt boiler generated the steam to pull the drill up through the hole. As a wooden arm swung back and forth alternately lifting and lowering the huge mass of iron, the driller, by swinging his screw around, allowed the drill to sink lower and lower. Pounding its way through the rock, grinding and splashing, the drill bored its way at the rate of twenty inches an hour, thousands of feet under ground. The men yelled; the boiler boomed; the wind whistled, and the rig shook as that mighty arm worked down and up, down and up, swishing and boring. Suddenly one man called, "The bailer"; another man hurried to the wooden arm and pulled it from the axle on which it rested; the driller helped two other men hoist the drill away from the hole; and Pat reached a six-foot hook toward the "tongue" of the long heavy pipe, called the "bailer". While I watched, they dropped the bailer 21