“JUGGIES”
by Randy Sowa
   
Afton, Wyoming

In the oil and gas exploration business, aka "seismic", the prospectors are known as "Juggies", being named after the geophones, or "Jugs" that they spike into the earth with the heel of a Vasque or North face hiking boot. "Portable" jobs can not be accessed by four wheel drive vehicles so the Helicopter Industry becomes the prospectors pack mule. With that connection, a difficult earth-bound job is given a high octane shot of fun. Let the hovering begin.    

Maggot John lived in a converted Ex-Post Office delivery truck complete with the steering wheel on the English side of things. He took his name from a notorious Missoula, Montana rugby team of which he was a lifetime member. He generally slept in the National Forest down along the Snake, a few miles outside of town.
The ex-marine helicopter mechanic slept with his dog Bogart in the back of his 1972 Chevy Blazer. Called it the mobile doghouse. Bogart was born in Iran and had traveled in the Blazer from New England to Central America and all the way North into Canada, with stints on the West Coast of California and the desert of Arizona. He was a road dog. The ex-marine driver was a road scholar.
Vic, that's it, Vic slept in an empty U-Haul box truck behind the Conoco where the helicopters roosted each night. He'd lay cable all day, party with buddies at night, cook on a backpacking stove, listen to music. It was a home compared to the often-unfavorable Wyoming weather just outside its aluminum skin. Each morning Vic would roll up the back door of that great orange container, breath in the pre-dawn still chill and try to make the only café in town before the first-light rush would hit. The rush at the café often depended on the success of the previous night's partying.
Being a Juggie in Star Valley Wyoming during the 1980's was nothing less than knowing, without a doubt, that you were working in the belly of the seismic beast-sharing an historic time in place with dozens of other crews and hundreds upon hundreds of hard-core, uphill lugging, dynamite sniffing, half crazed nature freaks with a passion for most things loud, dangerous and beyond convention. These guys rode helicopters to work each day. In the mountains, the LZ's are not plentiful. The winds forever changing and blowing up your ass when you could honestly use a little headwind, and the odds of cheating death are definitely in the favor of the dealer. The thrill of the Juggies dangerous choice of summer employment was notarized by the fact that they were getting paid to work outdoors in some of the most inhospitable terrain along the Western Overthrust where they neck-rolled 90 pound cable on 60 degree slopes, enduring the elements from dark-thirty to dark-thirty every day that was suitable for flying.
 
They played with explosives, prima-cord and challenged the afternoon thunderstorms. They boarded helicopters by leaping from boulders in river canyons to the skid-a maneuver called a "toe-in", slept on the rocks waiting on temperamental computer malfunctions in the Doghouse and, in the course of a few weeks, would either bond an adventurous respect for their pilot's ability to thrill and scare them-yet always be in control of the machine, his luck, and their lives. Or be with a driver who didn't jive with the chemistry of the day and spend the contract being more scared than thrilled. Still, better than minimum wage back home and excitement to last a lifetime.
America needed oil and the Big Boys had government money to go looking for it. Star Valley was one of the hot spots with competing crews 'shooting' line upon overlapping line, summer after summer, with guarded data dissected and scrutinized by geologists as though it were a National Security Confidential file. Expensive numbers. Seismic companies were of all flavors. Huge outfits like the French CGG, and SPX, all the way to smaller mom and pop companies like Rocky Mountain Geophysical-run by an energetic, sawed off dynamo co-owner called Shorty.
The whole industry was in motion at all times. Forever moving to the end of the line. Moving base camp, new LZ's each day, new motels, campgrounds. Living in the city park. Behind the bar. In the motel parking lot. A day off to wash clothes and party in the sunshine was a rare luxury. Dawn to dusk. Miss morning call and you are down the road. One strike and you're out. Guys would show up for morning assignments in all states of ill repair. Seems, if you were half-cocked, could walk and see relatively straight then there was never a problem. Notorious Juggie bars like Jeeps in Alpine Junction, Wyoming; Pioneer in Choteau, Montana; Railhead in Montpelier, Idaho; The Mint in Townsend, Montana; or The Rusty Nail in Red Lodge, Montana all had a tolerance for the rowdy and predictably wild nights that summer seismic seasons provided. Every night was a Saturday and the only trouble was knowing when to realize last call.
A twenty-two man jug crew was about average for a portable job. Tough individuals: Mostly in their early twenties, often wiry, industrious and, of necessity, self sufficient since the largest part of their days required dealing with an out-of control production quota, sensitive equipment that had to be repaired with elk shit and a Swiss Army Knife, elements of nature that are forever inventive-like snow, rain, and 80 degree sun-all in the same afternoon. Not to mention the wind! Or crossing the rivers. Or having a chopper pilot dispatch a cable bag from the carousel at the end of a hundred foot long-line and to watch the orange weighted bastard slide 400 feet downslope-knowing that the next half hour will be hell as you have to mule the bag back to where it started its journey.
At daybreak, if it wasn't raining or windy, the lucky minority got to fly to the 'line'. Few things as breathtaking as lifting off from the morning staging area, whether it was in downtown Afton, Wyoming or from the 'office' motel parking lot on the edge of town next to the Raven Drive Inn. All sense of the prior night's alcohol and sleep abuse now vaguely recalled-the helicopter rose like a yo-yo on a magical string to the top of the first ridge for a view as unbelievable as yesterdays unbelievable views. That feeling-of being in those canyons, cheating the ever changing winds, and hovering on a thread day in and day out enforced a bond on each seismic crew that surpassed anything that an employer could ever mandate. Guys lived for this thrill. A hangover casualty would often sober up for the event.
Like no other better way or place in time could you spend getting to work. And crews that were comfortable with their pilot often requested and were given some of the best rotor rides that Shell or Texaco money could buy. A hard driven crew never lacked testosterone, opinion or attitudes, but an able mountain long-line pilot could hush a load of passengers so that humility and respect of the fearful edge is all that could be heard in anyone's headset. Silence swallowed in gasps. The whine from the transmission, the whop from the main blades, the insidious roar of a turbine and the constant motion of the lateral vibration. Hearts alive and pounding blood from toe to temple. And then someone would break squelch over the intercom and say, "Bitchin', righteously bitchin'."
A perfect ride to start the day.
The long low angles of morning sun would strafe from ridge to ridge leaving the dark green shadows of deep canyons cold and damp until mid-day sun could force steam from the mossy deadfall. The view from those heights seemed to stretch all the way into Colorado. Then the machine would drop down into the forest to a hover hole where the dream portion of the day would end.
Front crew laying out new cable, phones and sticks; head linesman troubleshooting two miles of evolving cables; powder men stringing prima-cord and placing dynamite; shooters making the shot 'hot' and then violating the earthly quiet of the wide open out of doors with a 90 pound blast of shockwave that would thunder through the backcountry and ricochet from ridge to ridge trying to find its way out of the canyon and down some river valley to finally dissipate in a fifth generation farmers alfalfa field. There's the back crew picking up the equipment, loading it in bags while the runner carries them all to one location then calling the chopper in to fly it all forward on a 12 hook carousel. And there's the trash man cleaning up the un-natural debris of destruction and the observer orchestrating the production from the recorder or "doghouse". The helicopter was the mule and taxi.
The operation was as successful as the pilot and machine were capable. Twelve hour days looking over the side of the aircraft flying a hundred foot long-line in and out of trees, always with minimum fuel on board. Then it is back to the LZ to move surveyors, pick up observer, over the ridge for the fortieth time, pick up dynamite at the magazine, shut down for weather, move doghouse, get fuel, wake mechanic sleeping under fuel truck to fix Forest Service radio, watch external torque gage as the whirling beast over torques trying to lift a load upslope into a prevailing hurricane that unfortunately quits blowing as soon as the collective begins its steady rise into the armpit. White knuckle fever from gripping the cyclic. Gin and tonic most evenings.
A cadre of pilots who in the first few days on a crew, would be given a name that lasted their tenure : Yosemite Sam who could polish off a fifth of Green Label Jack on a given evening; Mother Goose brought his name from Viet Nam where he famously never left anyone behind; Captain Blueberry who, besides being a first rate long-liner, unfortunately lived up to his name; The Wop-in-the-chop; Captain Tom who thought he was still in the Army. Then there was Mullett and Homeless Fred, and Gunner, a Lama driver (who bought two sets of main rotor blades in a single week 'cause of tall trees). There was Dave the Narc; and Filthy Phil, a one eyed long-line Wizard who liked working portable drills and could generally have his pick of crews. He was probably one of the steadiest hooks in the Rocky Mountain West of 20 years past and claimed his English Spaniel had more hours in a cockpit than most pilots. He and his wife generally lived in a 1950's travel trailer parked out in the woods or behind some motel. What about Quiet Vic, a logging pilot who practiced Zen with his helicopter and cherished the opportunity of lifting heavy loads-to the point of having the doors removed and dieting all summer to increase his machines useful load.
Settling with power was the Grim Reaper of mountain flying and density altitude the shadowy accomplice that made it all possible. Within the ranks of all jug crews there were experienced veterans who had either gone down in an aircraft or else had friends from previous campaigns who had. It was not uncommon at all to have had first hand experience with fatalities. Star Valley, Wyoming was only one example of hot seismic zones throughout the late Seventies and early Eighties. Wrecked carcasses of Allouette's, Lamas, Bell 212's, Long Rangers, Surplus 204's and 205's, A-Stars, aka Aerosplats and Falling Stars, and occasional Hughes 500's would regularly be trailered out in sad states of twisted carnage for reconstructive surgery during the off season. Machines of nine lives.
Rock Springs, Wyoming became Rocket City and was forever changed by the onslaught of oil and gas in that its traditional valued lifestyle busted at the seams and the Wild West was alive again. There were interminable fistfights, shootings, lack of housing, lack of water, dirty politics, topless clubs, abundant drug trafficking and lots of money rolling in and through town. Or Gillette, Wyoming; or the tiny town of Kemmerer, Wyoming with its two motels and 30 knot constant winds; Big Piney; Pinedale; and Smoot with its sole campground at the base of an awesome mountain over-run for the entire summer by young men and a few women all working on seismic crews. There were mostly tents but, not uncommonly, there were a few individuals who would dump a camper off the back of a pickup and plug in a power cord, a water hose and build a fire ring in front of the door for when company came to party. Which was fairly constant and always after dark and being in Wyoming there would generally be fireworks involved.
 
There was one individual, in fact, who was mentioned in a Rolling Stone article of the day. He bought an entire bedroom and living room of furnishings in Rock City, hauled it out to the prairie near the rig on which he was employed and set it around on the open ground-a house with no roof and no walls-and lived there until it was time in the Fall for the snow to blow and college to begin. Drove off and left the wretched mess to the prairie dogs and antelope never thinking twice that the whole idea might be just a little odd.
 
A young man, hard-working as a basic bust-ass laborer, could easily clear 50 thousand 1980 dollars a season if he worked on a rig unless, of course, drugs complicated the equation. Juggies themselves were a basic cross section of young post-Disco America who didn't work on rigs and, therefore, generally made minimum wage. The Seattle Grunge era had begun, English Punk was on the charts and 'alternative' was the young non-status quo. The Sex Pistols, The Ramones, Misfits, The Clash, Iggy Pop and similar groups came out of the basements and into a quasi-mainstream listening audience. Stevie Ray Vaughn was re-defining East Texas Blues to a generation that didn't listen to John Mayal or Eric Clapton.
And these guys-hauling dynamite from the Moab, Utah desert mesas and canyons up the spine of the Rocky Mountains all the way to Pole Bridge, Montana were a microcosm of this change in societal attitudes. A mix of individuals as diverse as the layers of the Grand Canyon, joined in a non-organized brotherhood of impossible living and working conditions, coaxed by a few incentives in the form of 'shot bonus', per diem, and the radical fact that they were active and equal participants in some of the least regulated and most thrilling helicopter operations that have ever existed on the North American Continent. A time and place where a soaking wet bone tired ex-city dweller from Minneapolis could end the day's work with a hammerhead stall over the A&W Root Beer Stand. Or a pair of Bell Long Rangers could blow out of Townsend, Montana in tandem formation just above the deck of the main drag-as the local Highway Patrolman jots down their tail numbers. The guys flying always got the loudest last laugh.
Randall Sowa is the founder of Noridershirts.com, a helicopter mechanic, and a former migrant seismic survivor . This is what he has to say about his online store:
"Throughout the 1980', Sowa serviced ASI helicopters on various seismic campaigns up and down the Rocky Mountains, and in 1982 began selling original limited helicopter silkscreen shirts from the back of a 1500 gallon, F-600 Jet-A fuel tanker. This collection of shirt-art was an instant hit with the Juggies, especially on payday. And by a stroke of inconceivable fate with the release in 2005, and instant popularity of the movie, Napoleon Dynamite, this screen collection of vintage art has been pulled from the obscurity it probably deserves and onto the backs of helicopter aficionados and young movie junkies from Yukon Territory to Tierra del Fuego. The address is www.noridershirts.com. The Internet has replaced the F-600 tanker. Go figure."