As you near Williston, North Dakota, it is as if you are approaching an immense beehive in the desert. The bees are semitrucks carrying fracking water and rigs. The bees are trains groaning as they take away millions of gallons of the nectar oil and returning with casing pipes and drills. The bees are red eyed people living on energy drinks and cigarettes. The pumpjacks nod and hungrily lap up the black fuel. By night, the excess gas burns off turning the horizon into a glowing, seething amber red as if hell itself is trying to escape to the land of the living. Between the bleak badlands where Custer fatefully hunted Crazy Horse , the ghosts watch silently.
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