But saying “no” to drilling is more a theoretical than a practical possibility in Alberta. Landowners own only the surface of their land. Generally, there are few legal grounds for refusing the advances of the oil and gas industry. The AEUB, which has the unusual distinction for a public agency of being mostly funded by the industry it oversees, has in recent years approved 97% of drilling applications as being “in the public interest.”

Although landowners receive compensation for wells on their land, the sheer intensity of drilling has created a volatile atmosphere. In particular, the almost total lack of regional planning (the AEUB approves one gas-well permit at a time, without regard for the eventual size of a project) has angered municipal planning councils and residents of new subdivisions. One town, Bonnyville, is about to have a gas well drilled beneath its water supply, Moose Lake, despite protests by hundreds of residents.

In a recent annual report, the AEUB pointed out that in the 1970s it dealt with 70 companies, between 2,000 and 5,000 wells a year and a population of 1.6 million. As of 2003, 1,600 companies were drilling 18,000 wells annually on a landscape inhabited by three million people. Alberta, the report concluded, faces “some interesting, almost contradictory challenges.”

Historically, the only meaning of coal bed methane to resource extraction was hazard. Leaking methane from coal seams not only suffocated miners but also periodically set off catastrophic explosions. To get rid of unwanted gas, mining companies eventually installed venting systems. During the energy crunch of the 1970s and 1980s, U.S. entrepreneurs found a way to capture that vented methane and sell it.

As conventional gas sources declined, the U.S. probed its coal fields for gas. In the 1990s, companies such as BP Amoco and Burlington Resources found promising seams in Colorado, New Mexico and Wyoming. They began an intense drilling program, lubricated by substantial federal tax breaks. Today, the San Juan basin and several adjacent basins in Colorado and New Mexico provide 60% of U.S. CBM production, gushing an average of 2.6 billion cubic feet of gas a day. CBM now accounts for 8.5% of America's natural gas production.

The exploitation of this unconventional resource produced some ugly surprises. Most coal beds are covered with groundwater. It may be fresh or salty, but in either case, two years of pumping are usually required before production can begin. In Wyoming, 12,000 CBM wells now produce between one million and two million gallons of water a day. Much of this water, containing sodium, arsenic and manganese, has been dumped into rivers and open pits, and onto native grasslands. Many ranchers have lost their water sources; in some areas, aquifers have dropped by 200 feet. One recent report estimated that the water losses caused by CBM could total $2 billion (U.S.) in economic damage for Montana and Wyoming over the next 20 years.

Water, however, wasn't the only concern. Methane started to invade people's basements and water wells. Compressor stations caused noise complaints. But the biggest issue has been the industrialization of the landscape. The land fragmentation caused by CBM has riled even staunch Republicans. After CBM drilling tore up her ranch with scores of roads, wells and pipelines, Republican activist Tweeti Blancett transmogrified into something of an environmental activist. Having called CBM “nasty, nasty stuff” that is displacing local economies, she's suing the U.S. government for failing to balance gas production with conservation.

Canada's natural gas industry, which had dabbled with CBM test projects in the late 1970s, watched with alarm the battles raging south of the border. Five years ago, a number of companies, including EnCana and MGV Energy, the Canadian subsidiary of Texas-based Quicksilver Resources, quietly spent $100 million on test wells throughout Alberta. Some of these CBM pioneers also formed the Canadian Society for Unconventional Gas, to build upon the U.S. experience and “avoid their mistakes.”

Provincial officials, meanwhile, started to do some calculations. With half of Alberta lying atop coal beds, geologists estimated that the province had between 100 trillion and 500 trillion cubic feet of methane. The “pipeable” share is put at between 10 trillion and 23 trillion cubic feet.

Before the prospect of CBM came along, the industry's choice was between drilling costly sour gas wells in the foothills of the Rockies, or plumbing southeastern Alberta for conventional gas with lots of shallow wells. Many companies opted for the latter, “the shallow gas machine.” But as the best shallow prospects get tapped out - the wells have brief lives by definition - CBM looks more attractive. Randall Eresman, EnCana's chief operating officer, wrote last year that the company remains “firmly convinced that unconventional resources are the next ‘big thing.'”

Although $700 million has been sunk into CBM in Alberta, initial test results in most locations have been less than spectacular. Canadian coal seams don't harbour the riches of the San Juan basin. Many also come with substantial water issues. (This is especially true in British Columbia - see “Meanwhile in B.C.,” above.) In the Ardley geologic formation in central Alberta, companies found fresh water - an economic and political liability, given water shortages in the province. In the Mannville formation of deep coals along the Foothills, companies hit a “witch's brew” of salt water that corroded pumps in three days. Despite three years of pumping, companies such as Nexen have yet to produce any profitable gas from Mannville coals.

But in the Horseshoe Canyon, EnCana hit pay dirt.

After drilling 35 pilot wells into shallow coal seams just south and west of Rosebud, EnCana discovered that the coal was mostly “dry,” a North American novelty. “Nobody has a really good theory why,” says Mark Taylor, team leader of EnCana's Wheatland unit. So here was a CBM play that didn't have water headaches. It also tapped gas “clean enough to pipe to your furnace,” Taylor adds. Although the wells only produced a fraction of the gas of conventional wells, it appeared that they didn't decline as quickly, and could produce for 30 or 40 years.

The Alberta government held a series of hearings in 2003 on the impact of drilling for CBM. Mike Ekelund, assistant deputy minister of energy, got an earful from landowners familiar with the U.S. experience: Their worries included compressor noise, groundwater depletion, declining property values and the fragmentation of agricultural and public lands. Ekelund promised to weigh those concerns.

By 2003, EnCana had assembled a team, headed by Taylor in the Rosebud area, to put together the technology and know-how to develop the Horseshoe Canyon coals. Using the experience of the shallow gas machine, the company refined an assembly-line system that can drill as many as three shallow wells in one day with a crew of 10. (In contrast, a conventional well can take three weeks to drill.) After drilling the well, the crew fractures the coal seams with an injection of nitrogen, which releases the methane. In many cases, a CBM well can produce small amounts of gas within 24 hours of the start of drilling.

The Horseshoe Canyon play offered EnCana several strategic advantages. The company owned 700,000 acres of royalty-free lands in the formation, and already had extensive infrastructure in place: pipelines and well pads for shallow gas wells. All this meant it could minimize its footprint by planting a lot of CBM wells right on top of its shallow gas machine, and thereby keep drilling costs around $250,000 a well. To Stacy Knull, vice-president of EnCana's Chinook business unit, CBM looked like a dream. “It was a low geological risk and we were no longer on the [shallow gas] treadmill.”

Other companies, including Apache Canada, Thunder Energy and Compton Petroleum, came to similar conclusions and started drilling for CBM throughout central Alberta. One company dubbed CBM “instant gratification.” In 2003, EnCana announced its own drilling plans and projected that it could ultimately suck two trillion cubic feet out of the Horseshoe Canyon. Unfortunately, no one informed the folks in Rosebud.

“CBM was here before I knew it,” says Peter Lauridsen, a 44-year-old cattle and grain farmer. He farms 930 acres west of Rosebud, land that now sports 11 gas wells. After reading the fine print on his surface-lease contracts last summer, he was alarmed to discover that three of the wells were actually for CBM. Nonetheless, an EnCana landman told him they were shallow gas wells. Having heard about the CBM horror stories in the U.S., Lauridsen was concerned. “I have to admit to a certain gullibility,” he says. “But my trust in the company has been compromised. They tried to keep it quiet.”

Like most farmers battered by drought and mad-cow disease, Lauridsen initially welcomed drilling. EnCana paid him $1,000 for loss of farmland on each CBM well, as well as an annual rent of $350 per well. “It was one source of guaranteed income,” says Lauridsen, “and we're as happy to cash the cheques as the government is.” But after watching EnCana drilling crews plant one CBM well after another throughout the rolling prairie landscape around his farm, Lauridsen started to have second thoughts. “I ruminate now over whether I am being a good steward of the land,” he says. CBM is expanding exponentially in an area where the province has conducted neither a groundwater survey nor an environmental assessment, he notes. A 2002 report on groundwater by provincial environmental ministers warned that massive CBM drilling “without adequate baseline groundwater knowledge may have unintended future consequences.” Yet Alberta Environment still hasn't done extensive groundwater studies in the Horseshoe Canyon.

Lauridsen is also concerned about land fragmentation. The farmland around Rosebud now supports between three and five wells per section of land (a section is a square mile, or 640 acres). Lauridsen fears that CBM could increase that density to eight or 16 wells. (Intensification has routinely been allowed by the AEUB in the past.)

As with water, so with land use: Although the Alberta government has the tools to document the impacts of CBM development over time, it has yet to apply them. For this article, landscape ecologist Brad Stelfox calculated the footprint of the Horseshoe Canyon play with a land-use computer model, consistent with industry and government methodology. He used the most conservative variables - no access roads or seismic lines. Stelfox found that a 50,000-well project over an 11,000-section area in central Alberta would take up 2% of the land base for a 35-year period. Another 12% of the land would be affected by 100-metre well and pipeline setbacks, preventing owners from erecting structures on that portion of their properties.

What floored Lauridsen's wife, Fiona, about the advent of CBM was the landmen constantly stopping by the house, inquiring about potential well sites. She noticed that the formerly clear night sky was now lit up by yellow vapour lights and flares. “I don't have all the city amenities, but I had quiet, space and peace. Now I don't have that.” This is possibly one reason why a Colorado study found that CBM wells and pipelines can drive down the value of residential properties by as much as 22%.

The Lauridsens weren't the only ones noticing changes. With as many as 20 trucks tearing through town every hour, dust, traffic and noise increased throughout the summer. And Jessica Ernst's new neighbour, an EnCana compressor station, roared away all night long, keeping Ernst and other residents awake. A tainting of its idyllic setting was no small problem for a place that makes its living entertaining 30,000 visitors a year.

The community's unease deepened when an EnCana landman asked permission to increase the spacing of shallow gas wells in the area from one to four per section. None of the actors, artists or café owners in Rosebud had ever been asked to give such approval before. Many suspected that CBM was at the root of the request. But EnCana was mum on that point. Shauna Murphy, a Rosebud homeowner, didn't appreciate being on the receiving end of pressure to sign off on the increased density. “I felt it wasn't right.”

When the landman refused to directly address the community's growing concerns, Ernst, who did consultation work for EnCana regarding pipeline impacts on wildlife and trappers, intervened. Having worked in the oil patch, she thought some frank talk would ease tensions, so she requested that an open house be held. Two company employees saw no need. Ernst promptly resigned her contract with EnCana on Sept. 10 with an angry email: “In my professional opinion, EnCana has not conducted adequate consultation, cumulative-effects assessment or socioeconomic assessment for its CBM proposed development.”

EnCana's Mark Taylor wrote Ernst back, thanking her for her comments. “EnCana has not presented enough clarity regarding its proposal to you and the other Rosebud community members,” he acknowledged. Taylor followed up with an emergency meeting in September that was attended by 100 residents, including Ernst. To Ernst's astonishment, Taylor said it was the community's responsibility to determine impacts and bring them to EnCana's attention. By Ernst's account, he also denied that EnCana was drilling any CBM wells. (Taylor disputes this.) Taylor promised prompt action on speeding EnCana trucks. A traffic survey that he subsequently commissioned found that nearly 80% of the 76 industry vehicles going through town on the first day of the survey were speeding.