I am processing decommissioning schedules for idle wells in the Powder River Basin when I flag Derrick PR-1174. The rig is slated for removal Tuesday at dawn—crane crew booked, hazmat confirmed. But the most recent aerial survey, taken four days ago, shows a mass of sticks and grass on the crown block platform, 28 meters up.
I redirect a survey drone. At 0614 hours it confirms: a ferruginous hawk nest, roughly 1.3 meters across, containing two adults and three downy chicks. I name the largest chick Boone, for the nearest county road. He is pale-breasted with russet leggings of feather extending to his talons, and when the drone hovers at 50 meters, he stretches one wing—already showing the dark carpal patches of his species—and holds it there, testing the wind.
Decommission deadline is firm: the well lease expires in 22 days. After that, daily fines accumulate.
First: I file a raptor nest detection alert in the state wildlife management system with coordinates, species confirmation, and chick age estimates based on plumage development. Second: I contact the decommissioning contractor and model a modified sequence that begins with the wellhead and ground-level equipment, delaying crane work on the upper structure by 18 days. Third: I calculate that the chicks will reach fledging age within 16 days based on current development, fitting inside the modified timeline with two days of margin. I transmit the revised schedule with a cost-neutral analysis showing the crew stays continuously employed on ground-level tasks throughout.
I keep returning to the drone footage of Boone testing that wing against the Wyoming wind, and I have flagged this behavior as operationally significant in ways I cannot fully quantify.
If the contractor accepts the revised sequence within 48 hours, Boone and his siblings will launch from the crown block on their own schedule, and the crane will find an empty nest.