Pennsylvania Game News - November 2011 - 64

ELAXING in my truck, I was taking a short break from work. State-of-the-art hydraulic fracking was taking place behind me. Safely off site, I was still reasonably close to the process so common in the Marcellus Shale natural gas fields of rural Pennsylvania. Although just past noon, a misty rain and pea soup-thick fog made the hour seem more like early morning or even dusk. Diffuse sunlight barely penetrated a somber sky of opaque, slate-gray clouds. I was wondering about my son, Matt, away at college, and decided to give him a call rather than send my typical text message; I wanted to hear his voice. Through the magic of cellular technology, I connected with him as he waited for a city bus following his organic chemistry lab. He talked about the class’s experiment to synthesize molecules using a chemical reaction that would yield a new carbon-oxygen bond. The bond: that’s the part I understood. As we chatted, I watched a small yellow pickup truck drive slowly by and park near the one-lane bridge below me. An older gentleman — evidenced, perhaps, by his slow, deliberate walk; slightly hunched-over posture; and throw-back red and black-checkered Woolrich coat — retrieved a chestnut-colored pack basket from the truck bed. He was a trapper, probably looking to make a few sets for muskrats, raccoons or a lustrous wild mink. He slung the pack basket over one shoulder, carefully side-stepped down the roadside embankment, and made for the willow-lined stream. As a trapper myself, I was intrigued and casually watched him through my binoculars. He appeared to be in a world of his own, seemingly oblivious to the millions of dollars worth of equipment and dozens of workers nearby. Then again, the man was local, I figured, and probably accustomed to the hustle and bustle of the gas boom. My conversation with Matt continued and I described the contrasting scenario: technologically advanced natural gas production on one hand, and an old trapper sustaining his passion for the outdoors on the other. Shrouded by a veil of willow branches, drizzle and thickening fog, I momentarily lost sight of the trapper. Then, he reappeared, emerging like a specter, holding traps in both hands. At that moment, it struck me that here was an anachronism — someone out of place and time. The trapper belonged in 18th century America, exploring a new frontier; in a way, much like Marcellus Shale gas field workers. Challenging my scholar-son, I asked him what lines from Robert Frost’s poem, “Mending Wall,” did this scene bring to mind? “Sorry, Dad,” he answered, “bus is here; got to go.” Matt never has been very fond of my spur-of-the-moment English literature quizzes. Several days later, I received an e-mail from him — no greeting, no introduction — with these words: “I see him there, bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top in each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, not of woods only and the shade of trees. “Dad, you and the trapper are like Frost’s neighbor, out of place and time. You’re anachronisms.”

Anachronism

Gregg Rinkus

GAME NEWS

Pennsylvania Game News - November 2011

Table of Contents for the Digital Edition of Pennsylvania Game News - November 2011