When the Frogs Fell Silent | Collingwood Climate Action Team

By: Deborah M. Buehler

“What’s so special about the frogs around here anyhow?” he asked. “I hear they are poisonous. Why wouldn’t you want to be rid of them?” 

“They’re rare and bright yellow. The tourists love them.”

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Rick stepped out of the SUV. Thick tropical air covered him like a blanket. Within minutes, sweat darkened the crisp white of his shirt. 

He scanned the area. Mist rose from the forested hills. 

It’s so damned humid, he thought as he headed into the forest. I need gills to breathe.

The trail was narrow and enormous leaves grabbed at his arms and shoulders as he passed. With every step, his steel-toed boots stuck in the mud, and made wet sucking sounds as he struggled to free them. His lungs heaved with the exertion. 

He hated mud, but he knew that there was copper beneath it – billions of dollars of copper ore. This path would take him to the area where the open pit mine would be built.

His phone rang. Ian, his assistant, was on the other end. “There’s a local reporter on the line,” he said. “She’s a feisty one and the company needs you to do damage control.”

“Put her on,” Rick barked, but he smiled to himself as Ian put him on hold. He enjoyed talking to the locals. He liked their spunk, their tenacity in the face of tough living conditions—conditions his company could improve. Just this morning, he’d been talking to a local teacher about the new school the company would provide. They had also promised a medical clinic, to serve both the miners and the community. This was why it irked him when those bleeding-heart socialists back home insisted that mining companies were destroying local communities. What did they know? Had they visited these impoverished villages? Those idiots sitting at home writing op-eds didn’t have a clue. 

His phone came back to life. It was the reporter.

“Richard Umber, Sustainable Mining Incorporated,” he answered. After the expected pleasantries, she dug into him about how the mining road would open the town to drug dealers and the mine would poison the environment. Piece of cake. He launched into his spiel: the company was investing in security to keep the drug dealers out, they always hired locals to do an environmental assessment, they’d had success with environmental clean-up at other mine sites in Latin America.

By the time he hung up the phone, he had renewed energy to continue along the path. He emerged from the forest into a clearing where a young man stood holding a clipboard. He didn’t see any activities that indicated scientists onsite. 

“When is the environmental assessment starting?” he asked. He wanted it done as soon as possible. It would cost a good deal of money and would slow the work by months, but in the end, they’d approve the mine. They always did. 

The young man checked his clipboard. “The first team of biologists, the herpetologists, are coming in next week.”

Sweet Jesus, we’re starting with the frog people, Rick thought. Apparently, there were special frogs in the area that merited protection. “What’s so special about the frogs around here anyhow?” he asked. “I hear they are poisonous. Why wouldn’t you want to be rid of them?” 

“They’re rare and bright yellow. The tourists love them.” 

Rick looked at the steaming jungle again, hoping there weren’t any yellow frogs holed up near the mine site. “My company is injecting billions into this project,” he said. “That’s a fair bit more than the tourists contribute.” 

Rick’s phone chimed again.

“HR wants to know if they can move your five o’clock to four o’clock,” Ian said.

“Hell no! I won’t be back that early and I can’t miss that meeting.” He walked several steps away from the man in the clearing. “We’ve got to talk about training for locals to drive heavy equipment. I can’t afford mistakes with my multi-million-dollar machines. 

He had more to worry about than damned frogs. 

***

A knock at the door startled Rick from sleep. Sunlight streamed through the open window and a cool breeze caressed his face. Outside, a spring peeper frog was calling.  It reminded him of childhood. He looked around, disoriented. Then the memory of the drive home from the airport returned. He’d fallen asleep in the den with his clothes on.

The knock came again. Insistent. 

Rick grunted and pulled himself up. 

“Hello, Sandra,” he said when he opened the door. His new neighbour stood on the step, holding a red sign whose white letters screamed, NO DILBIT IN THE PIPELINE. He suppressed an eye roll and thought, The bleeding-hearts are protesting another pipeline.

“Hi, Rick,” she replied. The sun made her red hair gleam. “I saw your car in the driveway.” 

And my nosy new neighbour is spying on me. He nodded at her then glanced at the sign. “You need something, Sandra?”

“Yes,” she said. “I came to warn you about a threat.”

“A pipeline eh?” he said. “You know I’m in the resource extraction business. I’m not sure I’ll be the most sympathetic ear.”

“Let’s give it a try,” she said. “This pipeline runs right under the ponds in the park over there. You can hear the frogs singing.” 

Sweet Jesus, not more frogs. “Sandra,” he said, “I’m not a ‘save the frogs’ person.”

“Maybe not,” she said. “But those frogs indicate a healthy water supply. Those ponds drain into the river, then into the lake, and eventually out of our taps. Do you care about that?” Her face flushed so that her skin began to resemble the colour of her hair. 

“I still don’t see the problem,” he said. “Why not use the pipeline if it’s already there? It’s clearly been working well for years.”

“The problem is the type of oil they’ll be putting through the pipeline,” Sandra said. “Diluted bitumen is more acidic than conventional crude. It’s more likely to damage the pipe and leak all over the place.”

“Oil spills are bad for business,” Rick said. “Valuable products are lost and it’s a public relations nightmare. I bet the companies have oil spill response capacity that’s beyond what the law requires.”

“This country has been gutting environmental laws for years,” she snorted. “The law requires next to nothing.” 

That’s rich, Rick thought. I have to worry about frogs in the tropics and the oil guys laughing at the bank in my own backyard. He pinched the skin between his eyebrows. It was well past time for a coffee. “Give me the sign Sandra,” he said. “I’ll do some research and I’ll put it on my lawn if I’m convinced there is any danger.”

***

The plane flew low over the frozen tundra. He gazed out the window and sighed. He’d gone from the steaming tropics to a frozen wasteland in less than a week. This sort of travel used to be fun, but now he just felt tired. 

“The runway at the site is still under a meter of snow,” the pilot announced as they dipped to land. “I’ll put us down at the nearest open airstrip. Your guide will meet you there.” 

After landing, Rick clambered down from the plane and saw a young Inuk standing near a snowmobile and a sleigh. 

 “Sila,” the kid said, walking over to Rick.

“Rick,” he said, holding out his gloved hand in greeting. The company was scoping a new iron ore mine and must have hired the kid. “This our ride?”

“Yeah.” The kid tossed Rick’s bag into the sleigh behind the snowmobile.

Rick shivered as the snowmobile slid over the ice of Hudson Bay. The wind felt like needles pricking every exposed bit of skin. He was happy for the full-face mask on the helmet. 

“In a few weeks’ time, this will be open water,” Sila yelled over the noise of the motor. It sure wasn’t now. Snowdrifts were piled up on the ice as if the waves of the bay had frozen solid. 

It was 10:00 p.m. when they reached the tiny field station, yet the sky was still bright. The camp’s cabins were surrounded by two-meter snowdrifts. No wonder he’d seen nothing from the air. 

Sila told him the place was a goose hunting station and that they’d rest there for the night. It was late May and the snow geese were on the move overhead. Sila shot one out of the sky just outside their cabin so they could have fresh meat for dinner. 

“Can everyone up here shoot like that?” Rick asked, impressed with the kid’s skill.

“Most,” Sila said. “It’s cheaper to shoot your own meat.”

Rick nodded. He’d read about the atrocious food prices in the north. Especially fresh foods like meat and produce, which needed to be flown in.

“Also, bears,” Sila added.

Rick stiffened. “You get polar bears here this early in the season?” 

“Yeah, sometimes.”

Rick squinted at the white horizon. Were there bears out there? “Can you show me how to shoot?”

Sila grunted but handed Rick the rifle. 

He held it up to his shoulder as Sila had done. “Like this?”

Sila shook his head. He pressed Rick’s collar bone. The butt of the rifle was touching the outer edge of it. “You shoot now, the kick will break this bone.” He repositioned the gun, showed Rick how to aim, then walked to a snow drift about 20 meters away and placed an old soup can on top. 

Rick closed one eye and focused on the notch at the rifle’s tip. He kept it centered on the can, took a deep breath, then pulled the trigger. It felt like someone had punched him in the shoulder, almost ripping it from its socket. The bullet hit the snow below the can. 

“Keep the gun snug against your body,” Sila advised.

Rick tried again, closing his right eye, and then sighting down the barrel. 

“You’re closing the wrong eye,” Sila said. “Close the left and sight with the right.”

“I can’t,” Rick said. “I’ve never been able to wink with my left, only the right.”

Sila laughed. “How ‘bout I keep the gun.” 

The next morning, they passed Sila’s town. Retired sled dogs lounged outside the cluster of low-slung buildings. The mining company was promising a new school and medical centre. 

“This is my wife, Aluki,” Sila said when a ruddy-faced woman emerged from a small house. Three kids peered out at Rick from around their mother’s legs. “And these are our children.”

Rick joined the family for tea and bannock. During the meal, the children grew bolder and shared stories with Rick through hand gestures and much giggling. Rick didn’t talk about the mine.  

Later, he and Sila stared out over the valley where the mine would be located. 

“Got any frogs here?” Rick joked.

“Maybe,” Sila replied. “Scientists were studying wood frogs south of here. They can freeze almost solid and still live. But I doubt they come this far north.”

“No need for an environmental assessment then?”

“Government scientists said your company makes sure things are safe. They don’t work on things like that anymore.” Sila looked Rick in the eyes as he continued. “I want a better job, same as anyone else, and so do others, but not at the cost of the land. We’re not stupid.” He motioned to a herd of caribou crossing the snow in the distance and then to the sky where ducks and geese were flying in formation as they returned to their breeding grounds. “These animals will need to move off when the mine comes in, but we’ll keep hunting them nearby and fishing the waters. We’ll still need them for food.” 

Rick said nothing. He looked out over the valley. From this height he could see for kilometers. Turquoise pools of pristine melt water contrasted with the white of the snow. 

He thought of Sila’s wife and kids. 

***

Rick maneuvered his SUV through the crowds. What the hell is going on? His quiet street was crawling with reporters. When he reached his house, he was amazed to find protesters in his yard. Sandra was standing nearby handing out signs.

“Sandra, what the hell?” Rick bellowed.

“The proposal to put dilbit into the pipeline was approved. People are protesting.”

“On my property?”

She shrugged. “They’re forming a human pipeline.” 

He watched as she joined the line of people lying on the ground. Their bodies snaked through his backyard and out into the park beyond.  

Rick stormed into the house. He couldn’t kick the protesters out with all those reporters around. He sat down at his desk, fully intending to go over his notes on the Arctic mine expedition. Instead he dug out the pamphlet Sandra had given him. 

There had been an oil spill down south. People living in the area experienced acute exposure to benzene. Worse, heavy metals in the oil poisoned the water supply. 

It had to be hyperbole. He picked up the phone and dialed Steve. They had been buddies in business school. After the requisite small talk, Rick said, “Your company will be running dilbit through the pipeline in my neighborhood.” 

“You sound concerned,” Steve said. “You, of all people, should see the benefit of using the existing pipeline. It will save a pile of cash and pipelines are the safest way to transport oil. Much safer than rail or truck.”

“I know, but isn’t dilbit corrosive? The pipe runs right through my backyard.”

“Oh, we’d take care of any spills,” Steve said. “We’ve had great success at our other pipeline sites in the South. We’ve learned from our mistakes …” He droned on. 

The lines were too familiar.

“I trust you Steve,” Rick said, “but in the end it is my land, right? I own the land.”

“Actually, the laws have changed,” Steve said. “You own the land on the surface. The pipeline and the land below the surface belong to us – and the dilbit is approved.”  

Rick put down the phone.

He went outside and planted Sandra’s red and white sign on his lawn. 

***

Rick’s head was pounding. When the phone rang, he thought his skull would burst. 

“Rick, it’s Ian.” The voice on the phone sounded excited. “The company’s sending me on the next trip to the tropics.”  

Now that the forest was gone and the mine was running well, Rick was finally off the hook. Good thing too. He’d been feeling under the weather lately – longer than lately. Sandra thought it was the pipeline. She had her house on the market and had been drinking bottled water for months. 

But surely Sandra was wrong. He was probably just dehydrated. 

He opened the tap. The water smelled sweet. 

Outside the spring was silent. There were no frogs to sing.