Returning to Waynesburg

On August 15, 2025, almost a year to the day since my first trip to southwestern Pennsylvania, I returned to Waynesburg to complete the Landscapes of Methane project. With the senior thesis completed, I had a deeper understanding of the region and its histories of extraction, and I wanted the new photos I took to reflect that. From the outset, the goal of the project had been to see how methane emissions manifest themselves at a human level—to look from the ground at sites which had only been seen from far above, by instruments on satellites and planes. My photos from 2024 had succeeded at documenting almost every aspect of coal and gas infrastructure in Greene County—except for the sites of emissions measurements themselves. These gas well pads and coal ventilation shafts remained frustratingly out of sight, behind tree cover and atop inaccessible ridges. For my return trip, I decided to bring a small drone that would allow me to photograph them from angles I couldn't get on the ground. The drone would offer a third view: not as distant as a satellite and not as constrained as my handheld camera. This would allow me to keep the project focused on the specific sites of methane emissions rather than becoming a general portrait of energy infrastructure in Greene County.

I decided to concentrate on only ten sites of methane emission measurements, and I selected a representative sample of sites from across the region. In the weeks leading up to my trip, I exhaustively researched each of them, using all of the resources I had learned of while working on my thesis. With the Pennsylvania Department of Environmental Protection's online GIS database, I could see the locations of all gas wells in the region as well as the permit boundaries of each of the underground mines. I could then look up production and incident reports for individual well pads and comb through underground mine maps to confirm the locations and names of different ventilation shafts. I also examined reports and petitions filed with the Mine Safety and Health Administration (MSHA). And for sites owned by publicly traded gas and coal companies, I read through investor reports filed with the Securities and Exchange Commission.

A large part of my preparation involved finding places from which I could launch my drone to photograph each individual site. I had never used a drone for photography before, and I spent hours practicing and studying to obtain my Remote Pilot Certificate from the FAA. I learned that I would have to find places to launch my drone that would allow it to remain within my line of sight while also abiding by altitude and airspace restrictions (not to mention countless other regulations). I found that turnout areas on the sides of roads and old public cemeteries were the most reliable locations from which I could do this, and I identified launch spots for each of the ten sites.

On my first day in Pennsylvania, I drove to the methane emissions site that was closest to Waynesburg: the Harvey Mine 5B Bleeder Shaft. The shaft was on top of a ridge, high above the surrounding roads, but an old and isolated cemetery nearby offered a vantage point from which to launch my drone. Once the drone was in the air, I could see out of its camera through the controller's screen. I navigated the drone to the road in front of the shaft and slowly panned the camera up, from the houses below to the shaft on the hill. It was the first time I had seen a mine ventilation shaft, and the experience was eye-opening. I recognized the shape of the shaft from the hundreds of satellite images I had seen, and I could even see a flap slowly rising and falling as air from the mine pushed through it.

Throughout the week, I was stunned by the perspectives that the drone allowed me to see. I became familiar with the structure of coal ventilation shafts and with the layouts of gas well pads. I was struck by the proximity of local houses to all of these sites, as well as by how sorely the grey rectangles stood out amidst the lush green hills that extended in every direction. While I still couldn't see the actual methane being emitted from them, I felt that the drone had lifted a veil of invisibility. Now, the concept of methane emissions seemed far less abstract.

Drone photography wasn't the only purpose of my return trip, and I had scheduled my visit to overlap with the week-long Pennsylvania Bituminous Coal Show. This year marked the 70th anniversary of this annual celebration of Greene County's coal industry. The local tradition began in the 1950s, when the mechanization of mining led to hundreds of local miners in southwestern Pennsylvania losing their jobs. Residents in the town of Carmichaels decided to create an annual Coal Show to bring attention to the region, celebrate miners, and spur the local industry. The celebration has changed over time, but the core elements have remained the same: speeches from local officials, mining equipment demonstrations, a "Coal Queen" beauty pageant, and a parade through town with fireworks at night. Since the beginning of this tradition, mining employment has continued to fall with the advancement of automation and the closing of many smaller mines. As turnout to the annual celebration has declined, the Coal Show has shifted from a forward-looking celebration of the coal industry to a more nostalgic tribute to its heritage.

While in Greene County, I was able to attend two of the Show's events: the Coal Queen Pageant and the King Coal Parade. The pageant was hosted in the auditorium of the Carmichaels Area Junior/Senior High School, which was packed with the family and friends of the girls competing, each of whom represented one of nearly a dozen schools across Greene County and the neighboring Washington and Fayette Counties. Between music and dance performances and an evening gown display, representatives from local coal companies came to the stage to pledge scholarship money and funding for the Coal Show. An emcee shared tidbits of Coal Show history between performances, and speeches were given by elected officials, community leaders, and the previous year's Coal Queen. In the final segment of the pageant, the girls were called on stage one by one to answer a question in front of the audience: "What do you believe is the biggest strength of our local community and why?" In their responses, the girls highlighted the community's resilience in overcoming economic challenges and the neighborly support found in their small towns. One girl spoke about how her parents had met at the King Coal Show 30 years ago. Another spoke about the generations upon generations of families who have remained here, giving her a sense of "strength and belonging." The girl who went on to win the pageant described the community's "roll-up-your-sleeves" attitude. "We don't shy away from hard work," she said. "When challenges come, we pool together as one family."

Later that week, the King Coal Parade in Carmichaels culminated in a big community gathering at the local fire hall. Kids played on amusement rides outside, hot dogs and burgers were served, and local vendors and coal memorabilia collectors displayed items at tables around the building. One of these tables was helmed by a couple that I had interviewed for my thesis: longtime Coal Show organizers and keepers of local coal history, Brice and Linda Rush. I went over to say hello, and they showed me the old mining equipment they had brought out to display. They remarked with nostalgia that the celebration used to be much bigger back in the day. The pride and the joy of the celebration hadn't changed, but now it was all a little bittersweet.

Attending the King Coal festivities reminded me of how glaringly absent people were from the photographs I was taking. This had not been by choice, but by circumstance: the sites of methane emissions I was photographing had no workers on-site and were in some of the most rural parts of the county. In trying to make visible the infrastructure behind methane emissions, I hadn't been able to show the people who work at these sites and live around them. It was clear that this project would be an incomplete portrait, and I resolved to use the written accompaniment to my photos to acknowledge the people of Greene County. I also longed to pursue another project: one that focused on the people of Greene County and not its infrastructure.

While working on my thesis, I had been captivated by a short documentary from 2003 by Emmy award-winning journalist Terri Taylor. Titled Subsided Ground…Fallen Futures, the documentary features interviews with residents of southwestern Pennsylvania who had been impacted by longwall mining subsidence: farmers who had lost their water sources, residents whose historic houses had been damaged beyond repair, and families who had been altogether displaced from their homes. More than twenty years later, the population of Greene County has decreased by more than 20% and longwall mining continues to ravage the area—even as employment in the coal industry continues to shrink. In the early 2010s, Taylor began work on a follow-up documentary, but her plans were cut short when she was diagnosed with cancer, passing away in 2015. Today, her 2003 documentary remains the most comprehensive piece of journalism on the impact of longwall mining—a testament to both the rigor of her work and her care for an issue that continues to be overlooked by the news media.

I aspired to make a follow-up to her documentary, examining what has changed in the past twenty years and exploring the economic and environmental dimensions of how longwall mining continues to impact Greene County. After completing my thesis, I decided I would move to Waynesburg for the year after graduation to spend time living in Greene County, filming oral histories, and conducting more archival research. In between drone photography expeditions and King Coal Show events on my August trip, I toured local apartments for rent. By the end of the week, I had signed a lease for an apartment near the center of town. The kitchen windows looked out onto the road where fracking trucks passed through town, and from the back porch, you could see the train tracks where coal cars rumbled by at all hours.

 

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