Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
The rivers and forests that cradle Fort McMurray offer plenty of invigorating outdoor activ-
ities to visitors looking for that sort of thing. By the looks of it, you could do some great
hiking or buzz the river on a Jet Ski, and I'm sure there's moose around that you could
shoot. But the pollution tourist goes to Fort McMurray only for the mines.
It was a homecoming of sorts. I was born in Alberta (in Calgary), and although I left
before I was two years old, it had always lingered in my imagination as that magical
place—
the place I'm from.
This was my first time back in the province, and I intended to
celebrate by seeing some torn-up planet.
I will admit to a certain excitement about it all, even though the responsible attitude, as
a sensitive, eco-friendly liberal, would have been one of grave concern, or even horror. But
I'm also the son and grandson of engineers: intelligent, bullshit-allergic men out of Alaska
and South Dakota, men who lived by their knowledge of roads and of pipelines, and of
rocks, and of how things get done. And though I inherited barely a trace of their common
sense, I honor them how I can. How else to explain my almost sentimental enthusiasm for
heavy infrastructure and industrial machines?
You could say, then, that I came to Fort McMurray with conflicted feelings about the
oil sands, unsure of just how much filial gusto and faux-local pride were appropriate at the
scene of a so-called climate crime. But this could be said about Canada in general. I was
merely a walking example of the country's love-hate relationship with its own resources.
The modest northern country where Greenpeace was founded had been declared an “emer-
ging energy superpower” by its own prime minister, and in a spasm of vehement ambival-
ence, Canada was both pioneering the era of dirty oil and leading the fight to stop it.
Suncor's and Syncrude's main operations are located a quick jaunt up Highway 63, which
runs parallel to the Athabasca, past hummocks of evergreen. About twenty-five miles out
of town, the air starts smelling like tar. Suncor's business is hidden from the road, but Syn-
crude shows a little leg. As you get close, the trees disappear, and you pass a long sandy
berm; one of Syncrude's flagship tailings ponds sits on the other side, a shallow lake of
glassy wastewater.
I rolled down the window to let in the breeze, tarry and warm. The cracking thuds of
cannon fire punctuated the air. It was the bird-deterrent system, the one that Syncrude had
been a little slow to deploy in the spring of the previous year.
Let us hope that ducks find these noises either helpful or terrifying. Personally, I found
it hard to tell where they were coming from. Had I been a duck, I would have wanted to
land, to get my bearings and figure out just what the hell was going on. This also would
