It's a long, cramped drive in the truck. Les tosses his wheelchair in the back. Sits in the cab. Sam takes the middle.

The other man and woman crawl into sleeping bags in the bed of the truck. Still don't know their names. Won't matter anyway. It's fall on the prairie. Nighttime. And I'm driving 65. They'll probably freeze to death. Fine.

US Highway 2 is the main drag between Minot and Williston. It's a main artery of the oil boom. Where a person can almost feel the pulse of the fracking underground.

Traffic is heavy. Big city heavy. What should be empty prairie is dotted with security lights. They illuminate the shadows of the windmills, the other energy boom out here. Their arms claw at the blank stars like they're trying not to drown.

It's a funny thing about those windmills. All these other states want "green energy" from wind. None of them want windmills on their horizons. Say it kills birds. Uglies up the view.

So they build windmills in North Dakota instead. On the prairie. Out of view. Ask a bird if that makes one damn bit of difference.

Same with the fracking. Nobody wants it in their backyard. But they'll wring their hands for the poor when no one can afford heat in the winter. NoDak to the rescue again. The place where hypocrites go to launder their guilt.

I guess that's why I'm taking a liking to Sam. Cuts through the bullshit. Boils things down to the dirt.

The more Les talks, the more I see he's the same way. I drive. Listen to he and Sam. Learn a lot about Man Camps. Les is more than willing to offer a lesson. Beats the radio.

Once the boom hit, Les tells us, workers showed up in masses. Didn't matter if they had jobs or not. Slept in their cars until they found work. Some still did after they got jobs.

Local governments weren't too happy to see a pile of unemployed problems show up. Started restricting certain areas they could squat. A lot of them hit the prairie instead.

Of course, landowners weren't too thrilled with squatters in their fields. But law enforcement couldn't do anything about it. They were overwhelmed.

The oil companies played catch up to relieve the problem. They shipped in dorms, hangers, trailers, campers and all manner of human sardine cans. That helped the housing situation for a little while.

Thing is, the company camps are only for workers actually doing work. They cycle workers in and out in months-long shifts. Anyone on an "off time" had to leave the camp. That usually meant trekking back home or trying to find non-existent vacancy at a hotel for an extended stay.

Along comes a guy like Les. Organizes the squatters into proper Man Camps. Cuts deals with landowners to rent out fields. Makes himself a sort of mayor. Charges "taxes" that fund services. Stuff like diesel generators for electricity. A well with running water. Hot showers. Bathrooms. Trash service. All shoehorned into a random corner of the prairie.

Little of that is particularly legal. But the government and the oil companies look the other way so long as things are kept orderly. Makes sense that Les plays with a strong hand. Or a strong cane, more like.

With the success of his Man Camp, Les branched out into other services. Filling in gaps here and there. Like picking up trash in Minot parks. And recruiting the out-staters to do it.

"What if things get out of control? Aren't you worried the government will ban any Man Camps not affiliated with a company?" Sam says.

"Last time that happened, I let the cops take out a couple drug mules living in the camp. I keep a few trouble makers on reserve just in case some government agency needs a newspaper headline," Les says. "Does the trick every time."

I spot a blob of light in the distance. It breaks into smaller orbs as we get closer. Like BBs out of a shotgun in slow motion.

"Is that it?" Sam says.

"No. We've got another 20 miles or so. That's just one of the company camps," Les says.

The light is joined by others. Then more. And more. Tiny cities on the prairie.

How to tell one from the other is beyond me. Roads aren't marked. Just two-track paths cutting through the ditches.

Twenty miles turns into 45 minutes. We're stuck behind a rattrap RV. Can't pass. Too much traffic coming the other way.

Finally, Les points to a neon blue light in the distance.

"That's it," he says. "All my yard lights are blue. Helps them stand out."

We pull onto a service road next to a power substation. Another turn to a matted grass road and we're there.

Hard to believe what I see.

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