Twenty years ago, Vera Scroggins found it: a Civil War-era farmhouse in northern Pennsylvania. The 8-acre property came with barns, a pond and trees bearing fruits and nuts.

Having searched years for just the right home in the country, Scroggins and her family finally escaped the congestion and sprawl of Long Island's Nassau County. In rural Susquehanna County, they started raising goats and ducks and leading lives that resonated with the rhythms of nature. Country living was good.

And then, a couple years ago, the big trucks started arriving.

Rigs roared in from places such as Texas and Oklahoma. They hauled earth-moving equipment, pipes, tanks, sand, water and all the things needed to bring natural gas to the surface from mile-deep shale. The drilling shook Scroggins' world. She found herself living in the heart of Pennsylvania's natural gas boom.

On Monday, Scroggins, 60, climbed into our van. A few of us had come from Lancaster County to get a look at the drilling and its impact. Scroggins, a grandmother turned activist, agreed to be our guide.

First stop, a Chief Oil & Gas Co. drilling site. We parked by a farmhouse near well apparatus and a plastic-lined pond. A guard wearing a red T-shirt and a hard hat popped out of a little trailer and asked what we wanted. He phoned Roger, the site supervisor, who arrived in a pickup, rolled down his window and answered a few questions in a thick Arkansas drawl.

He said the 2-acre pad has three wells and they're producing nicely. "The landowner's quite happy," added Roger, nodding toward a new John Deere tractor by the farmhouse.

We got a few more drips of information when we stopped by another well site at the end of a dusty lane. A supervisor arrived in a pickup with Texas plates. He mentioned having 14 days on and 14 days off, with the company flying him home for each break.

The guard, a 23-year-old father of two, said he worked in a local warehouse before Chief hired him. "It definitely helped me provide for (my sons) better," he said.

But just in case we were thinking all was hunky-dory, Scroggins next led us down a gravel residential lane. "We call this Ground Zero," Scroggins said, "because this is where major pollution occurred."

We pulled up to Julie Sautner's rancher, its front yard festooned with signs with messages including, "They said it was safe to drill in the Gulf, too."

Sautner told us of the day in September 2008 when cloudy methane-laced water started coming out of her tap. It happened a month after gas drilling started 976 feet from her home. Now a truck delivers 500 gallons of water to her home every day.

"My house is basically worthless," Sautner said. "Who's going to come here and buy it?"

Scroggins organized Citizens for Clean Water to try to fight back. By speaking out and informing the wider world of what's happening in her community, she feels she is making a difference.

"We're seeing changes in processes and regulations," Scroggins said. "EPA is working with us more. All these scientists have come on board."

But Scroggins knows that the joy she found living in the country will never be the same.

"If I had a clue I would end up in the middle of gaslands," she said glumly, "I would not be here."

Tomorrow: Gas pains in Bradford County

jhawkes@lnpnews.com