The Great Sand Fracas of Ames County (14 page)

Baxter heard a gentle knock on his door.

“Come on in,” he said.

Karl Adams entered the tiny office piled high with newspapers, books, promotional materials, draft ads—an unorganized mess, at least to someone who liked things neat and tidy, which was Karl's preference.

“Name is Adams,” Karl said. “Karl Adams. I'm a consulting engineer with the Alstage Sand Mining Company. You've likely heard of Alstage.” He thrust out his hand to shake Baxter's.

“You bet I've heard of the Alstage Sand Mining Company. That's about all I've heard about for the past several weeks. Have a chair. You ever read the Stony Field column—that environmental guy?”

“Sure, his column is all over the place. I read it when I can. Haven't seen it in a couple weeks, though, been on the road.”

“Here,” said Baxter, tossing him a copy of the
Argus
with the recent Stony Field column in it. “Read this when you get some time. It's the one that stirred up people from near and far—he invited people to write letters to this newspaper, and write letters they did. Want to hear some reactions from people to a sand mine in Link Lake?”

“Sure, why not.”

For the next half hour, Billy Baxter read letters he had received from all over the country either supporting the sand mining operation coming to Link Lake or lambasting it. Karl Adams listened intently but was not surprised. What he was hearing was typical. In one form or another he had heard all of this before, in all parts of this country and beyond. Mining, whatever form it took, had become an increasingly hot issue. Karl had hoped that sand mining, a relatively new type of mining, would not follow the same path as iron mining or coal mining. But that was obviously not going to be the case.

When Billy Baxter finished reading a sampling of letters, he looked up.

“So what do you think?” he asked.

“If it helps you to know, I've run into this same kind of buzz saw in every community where a new mine is proposed, especially in the last ten or fifteen years. People just don't want a mine in their backyard; it doesn't matter what kind,” said Karl.

“Well, this sand mine has sure stirred up folks around here—and they don't stir up all that easy; most just seem to go along with the flow. Folks seem especially steamed up with the mine going into the park at Link Lake. And believe it or not, when you mention that an old oak tree is likely to be removed, well, some of them go ballistic.”

“You're not talking about a certain tree with a little sign that says, ‘Trail Marker Oak. A sacred tree,' are you?” This was the first time he'd heard that the mining company planned to remove the Trail Marker Oak. Evans hadn't told him about this little detail when he briefed him about the mine project. He made a mental note that he must talk to him about this.

“That's the one. You as much as steal a leaf off that old tree and you are in a mess of trouble,” said Baxter, smiling.

“So what's the story?”

“You got time to hear it?”

“I do. If Alstage's sand mine is going to succeed, we've got to cover all the bases, including concerns about an old oak tree.”

Baxter sat up in his chair and began sharing what he had learned about the Trail Marker Oak and its importance to the Link Lake community, especially to the members of the Link Lake Historical Society. When he finished he said, “Well that's what I know—and if you want to learn more, you surely must talk with Emily Higgins, president of the historical society. Believe me, it's an experience talking with her.”

“I look forward to meeting her,” said Karl.

“Well, be careful. She'll have you on her side of the fence before you can say, ‘I didn't think old people had strong opinions.'”

“I'll take my chances,” said Karl. He was thinking,
I've met people like this before. At least you know where they stand
.

“Of course you'll want to meet with Marilyn Jones over at the Link Lake Supper Club—she's the one largely responsible for convincing, at least she convinced the businesspeople in Link Lake, that bringing a sand mine to town was the right thing to do.”

“She's on my list,” said Karl, getting up from his chair. “Thanks for all the good information; I'm sure we'll be in touch.”

“You want to take copies of some of these letters along—to see what's got people all revved up?”

“Nope, I've seen my share of hate letters. Comes with the job. Not easy being the front person for a sand mine—but I kinda like it. At least I'm never ignored,” said Karl as he opened the door and left.

23

O
n his way back to Link Lake from the
Ames County Argus
, Karl Adams scratched his head.
I thought this was going to be an easy one. Wrong again. So the local historical society is involved? Usually it's some environmental group that takes the lead in opposing a mine—should be easy dealing with a bunch of oldsters with history on their minds. Some of those environmentalists are just plain kooks—they're walking time bombs
.

He opened the car windows to let in some fresh air as he traveled down Highway 22, past a few fields of overgrown Christmas trees, a reminder of the days when fresh farm-grown and nicely sheared Scotch pines were on everyone's list for the holiday, past a farmer baling hay (he could smell the sweet smell of hay curing), past several fields of corn that was dark green and a foot or more tall, past a farmer whose cows were out on pasture— something he seldom saw on the West Coast anymore. As he rounded a gentle turn and drove down a long slope toward the Village of Link Lake, he saw the lake itself shimmering in the distance. He could see boats clustered in the inlet near where the village was located, probably fishermen, he thought. He could see fine homes, huge homes some of them, lined up on the opposite shore. In doing his homework, he discovered that one of Link Lake's principal income sources came from those with summer homes on the lake, people from Chicago and Milwaukee who spent weekends and vacations on the lake—and contributed much to the economy. He had learned that during the Great Recession that began in 2007, income in the village from tourism had plummeted. He guessed that the community was actively seeking new revenue sources and new opportunities for jobs, and thus made the deal to bring a sand mine to town.

As he drove along, he was considering what it would be like living in this community for the next several months while he helped Alstage establish their sand mine, solve the logistical as well as the technical kinks associated with opening a new mine, and above all move a majority of the people toward accepting a sand mining company as a good citizen in their community, one that brought jobs and taxes to an area that needed an economic shot in the arm.

He pulled up to the motel, unloaded his belongings, cranked up the in-window air conditioner, and sprawled out on the bed. He read the Stony Field column and thought,
Why can't a guy like this keep his nose out of little communities like Link Lake, Wisconsin? What he's managed to do is create a firestorm from what probably had been a few smoldering embers.

Karl woke up early the next morning, feeling refreshed and ready to face the challenges of a job that to many, including Emerson Evans (who would never admit it), was nearly impossible. When Karl first signed the contract with Alstage, and he and Evans talked about possible problems with some people in a community not accepting the mine, Evans said, “The only way to bring a new sand mine into a community is through sheer power. Line up the votes, spend money to discredit the opposition, and charge forward. Power backed by money always wins.”

But Evans knew Karl's reputation for bringing together people in a community through persuasion and friendly contact, and Evans was willing to give Karl a chance to do what he was good at doing—to not try to push people into a decision that the majority did not accept. The company's plan was to have Karl Adams live in Link Lake for a while before and during the early months of the mine's operations. But as Karl thought about the Trail Marker Oak, he was more than a little miffed at Evans, who had not told him about this old tree and the community's feelings toward it.

As Karl reflected on the Stony Field rant against sand mining, and the tremendous reaction he had evoked as evidenced by the hundreds of letters the
Ames County Argus
was receiving, he realized the Link Lake community had already been strong-armed and the camps for and against the mine had made their positions known. Karl was clearly starting in a deep hole.

He showered and dressed and drove the half mile or so from his motel to the Eat Well Café for breakfast. At 6:30 a.m. the place was about filled with customers, many of them fishermen, Karl assumed, and some of them old-timers who liked to get up in the morning for an early start on the day. The smell of bacon frying and coffee cooking filled the air. Karl saw a couple of older gentlemen sitting at a table toward the back of the little restaurant and decided to join them.

“You men mind if I join you? Place appears to be filled,” said Karl.

“Nah, pull up a chair. You new to town? Ain't seen you around,” said one of the men.

“Name's Adams,” Karl replied, “Karl Adams. And you are?” he asked, as he thrust out his hand to one of the men.

“I'm Oscar Anderson,” said the man closest to the window, as he shook Karl's hand. Karl noticed that he had big, calloused hands and his handshake was firm.

“Fred Russo,” said the other gentleman, who also shook hands with him.

“Well, nice to meet both of you. I assume you both live here in Link Lake?” asked Karl.

“Nah, we're retired farmers. Neither one of us could live here in town. Place is just too big, too many people, too much noise. We like it quiet. Away from all of the stuff that takes place in a town like this.”

Karl wondered what kind of “stuff ” Oscar was referring to.

“So what's going on in Link Lake these days, besides the fishing looking pretty good out there on the lake?”

“Well, generally I could say, ‘not much,' but I tell you things are heating up in little old Link Lake.”

“How so?” said Karl with a straight face, as he knew full well what he was about to hear.

“You ever hear of Stony Field?” asked Oscar Anderson.

“The environmental writer?”

“That's the one. Well that Field guy hit a hornet's nest when he took on the Link Lake Village Board and their decision to allow a sand mine in the park. He just made a bunch of people mad as hell.”

“So what do you guys think about a sand mine coming to the area?” asked Karl.

“Don't much like the idea. I just can't believe that stupid mayor, who has a ring in his nose and is led around by Marilyn Jones, steamrolled the village board into believing it was a good idea. Those guys on the village board—every damn one of them—they ain't had an original thought since they was elected. They're just stupid as hell.”

Karl looked up as Henrietta asked, “What can I get for you?”

“How about two eggs scrambled, whole wheat toast, and a cup of coffee.”

Henrietta scribbled some notes on her pad and disappeared.

“So Stony Field and the idea of a sand mine coming to town has got some folks riled up?” said Karl.

“That would be the understatement of the year,” said Oscar. “Ain't seen folks, especially them of us who are members of the Link Lake Historical Society, so worked up about something—not since the movers and shakers tried to tear down the old depot and bring a fast food place to town. Historical society won the day on that one. That they did. Movers and shakers had egg on their faces.” Oscar took another drink of coffee.

Karl Adams took all of this in, listening carefully to every word, but trying not to show any reaction. When he finished his breakfast, he picked up the bill, walked to the cash register, and paid.

“Wonder what brings that fella to town?” Fred asked.

“Who knows, maybe he's a poet coming to Link Lake to find something new to write about.”

“Oscar, he ain't no damn poet. Poets don't write about sand mines. They write about sunsets and pretty flowers and birds that sing in the night.”

24