The Great Sand Fracas of Ames County

by Jerry Apps

  Earl Wade said, “The lamps of Link Lake are once more lit as people are awakened by the explosion. The first lamp lit is that of Marshal Gust, who quickly dresses, runs to the livery that is a block from his house, saddles his horse, and heads down Main Street in search of the source of the explosion.”

  As Wade talked, Marshal Gust, astride his horse, trotted in front of the podium on his way to the Link Lake State Bank façade, which had a lingering stream of smoke coming from it. The marshal tied his horse to the hitching rail and quickly noticed that the bank door was open. He hurried inside and a few moments later was back on the street.

  “The bank’s been robbed! The bank’s been robbed!” the marshal yelled in a loud voice to the handful of sleepy-eyed people now gathering on Main Street.

  “I need a posse to help find these desperadoes. Any volunteers?”

  Several hands went up.

  “Go home, find your guns, saddle your horses, and meet me right here in a half hour.”

  Earl Wade continued, “The good people of Link Lake are visibly shaken, as they rush from their homes to find out what has happened, and what possible danger they might be in. The fifteen men comprising the posse, each armed with a rifle or a shotgun and a few with pistols, join Marshal Gust, who believes he has located the bank robbers in the woods a short distance from Link Lake.”

  The crowd’s attention turned to the men crouching on the ground, their firearms raised and pointing toward the woodlot to their right.

  BANG, BANG, BANG. Three pistol shots came from the woodlot, followed by rifle shots from the posse members, each firing several times. The sound of the gunshots was deafening.

  “Hold your fire!” shouted Marshal Gust. “Hold your fire!”

  Once more it was quiet, as the smoke from the gunfire drifted across the audience. Through the smoke emerged two men, their arms high in the air. Marshal Gust, his pistol pointed at the two robbers, marched them up to the podium.

  The threesome stopped in front of the podium as Earl Wade walked up to the marshal and his captives.

  “Congratulations to you, Marshal Gust. Can you tell us how you managed to capture these dangerous criminals?”

  “Well, I tell you it was this way. We managed to track these crooks from the bank to the woods over there, where we captured these guys, but not without a fight. I organized the posse with some of them on the south side of the woods, some on the west side, some on the north side, and some on the east side. When they tried to leave the woods and they spotted the posse, they commenced shooting. But we outgunned them. No question about that.”

  “Do either of you men have anything to say?” asked Earl Wade as he looked to the men with their hands still raised in the air.

  “Well, I’m One-Eyed Billy and this here is my sidekick, Norman. And we’re pretty darned disappointed that we got caught by this small-town marshal and his gun-slinging posse. What did us in was the sand. This dang country is so sandy that all the marshal had to do was follow our tracks to that there woods. And that’s what they did.”

  Well, that’s it, folks,” said Earl Wade, turning back to the audience. “That’s the story of the famous Link Lake bank robbery. Let’s give a big round of applause to our actors.”

  Emily Higgins, Billy Baxter, Fred Russo, and Oscar Anderson all joined hands and bowed. The extras then took their turn bowing to the audience.

  As the sun set in the west, casting long shadows across the waters of Link Lake, the audience began picking up their blankets and moving toward their cars. In the distance a whip-poor-will called, the sound echoing across the lake.

  17

  Village Board Vote

  AMES COUNTY ARGUS

  Link Lake Village Board Approves Sand Mine

  By Billy Baxter, editor

  On a vote of five to one, the Link Lake Village Board voted to approve leasing a portion of the village’s Increase Joseph Community Park for the construction of a sand mine. The Alstage Sand Mining Company of La Crosse has signed a twenty-year contract with the village, with a percentage of the profits from the sale of the sand going directly to the village’s coffers.

  Marilyn Jones, president of the Link Lake Economic Development Council, said, “Mayor Jessup and I, along with all the members of the Link Lake Development Council, are extremely pleased with the decision. Alstage will bring much-needed jobs to our community and with a percentage of the profits from the mine going to the village, many of its budget problems will be solved as well. Alstage is an environmentally respected company with a strong reputation for responsible mining.”

  The Link Lake Historical Society strongly opposed the decision. Emily Higgins, president of the society, said, “I can’t believe the mining company plans to dig up our famous park and cut down the historically famous Trail Marker Oak, which the company says stands in the way of the only practical road to the planned mine. Neither the village board of Link Lake nor the Alstage Sand Mining Company has any respect for history. The historical society will do everything in its power to save this famous tree and the sacred sand on which it stands.”

  Emerson Evans, a spokesperson for the Alstage Mining Company, indicated the company was extremely pleased with the village board’s decision. “We look forward to working with the good citizens of Link Lake, and we are pleased that we will be able to offer several employment opportunities to this community,” said Evans.

  18

  Fred and Oscar

  Just read in the Ames County Argus that the value of our farms has climbed up a notch,” said Oscar Anderson, as Fred Russo joined him at the Eat Well Café in Link Lake.

  “How’s that?” replied Fred as he took his seat.

  “Ain’t you been keepin’ up with the news, Fred? Everybody’s talking about sand these days.”

  “Well, I got 160 acres of sand, sprinkled with more than a few stones too. Made life interestin’ when I was still farmin’. No fun slamming into one of them damn stones with a plow or a disk or a grain binder or whatever I was workin’ with at the time. Hated them damn stones. Every one of ’em. Hated every damn stone that I ever saw.”

  “Fred, I’m not talking about stones. I’m talking about sand.”

  “Why you talking about sand? Ain’t you got anything more important on your mind than sand? Especially after we both tried to farm the damn stuff for fifty years. Fifty years is a long time to farm sand when you never know if you’re gonna get a crop or not. Unless it rains regular. When it rains regular you sometimes get a crop, but never as good as those who farm on the heavy land. Never grow crops like that.”

  They both stopped talking when Henrietta refilled their coffee cups. She smiled when she did. “Anything else I can get for you boys this morning?” she asked.

  “Nah, coffee is enough. Them big sweet rolls look mighty appealing, though. But we eat one of them and we’ll just get fat.” Fred laughed.

  “Speak for yourself, Fred,” said Oscar. “Who’s the one that’s put on a few pounds?”

  Henrietta smiled once more and returned to the lunch counter, leaving the two old friends to themselves.

  “Let’s get back to sand,” said Oscar.

  “Boy, you are stuck in the sand,” answered Fred.

  “Guess I’m just gonna have to spell it out for you, Fred. Bring you up to date with the rest of the folks hereabouts.”

  “I kind of resist that comment.”

  “Resent, Fred. Resent.”

  “What? What’d you just say?”

  “You hear about that big Alstage Sand Mining Company that’s comin’ to Link Lake?”

  “Did hear something about it. Guy at the lumberyard mentioned it the other day. Sounded to me like another gravel pit. Got two or three gravel pits already in the county. Figured that this was another one.”

  “Fred, this ain’t no gravel pit. It’s a sand mine.”

  “A sand mine? What in hell is a sand mine?”

  “See you ain’t been keepin’ up with the news. You gettin
’ that old-timers’ disease that makes you forgetful.”

  “Oscar, I ain’t got no damn old-timer’s disease. I just been busy as hell out at my place—hardly got time to go the bathroom, I’ve been so busy.”

  “I suspect you ain’t heard of frackin’ either?”

  “What was that you said—did you just drop that big old F word that’d get us in a heap of trouble when we was kids and said it?” Fred was grinning like he’d just eaten the last piece of pie at a threshing dinner.

  “I said frackin’, not what you think I said.”

  “Still sounds like you’re trying to spit out the F word and can’t quite muster enough courage to do it.”

  “Fred, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” said Oscar. He was smiling as he said it.

  “Fracking is a shortened version of hydraulic fracturing, a way to spread apart rocks that have natural gas stuck between ’em.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so? Of course I have heard of draulic fracting,” said Fred.

  “Hydraulic fracturing, Fred. Hydraulic fracturing.”

  “Call it whatever you want. But what’s natural gas got to do with sand and the value of our farms?”

  “Here’s the deal, Fred. Our sand is very special sand. It’s tough and is just what those natural gas companies need for hydraulic fracturing.”

  “So?” Fred raised his cup and took a long drink of coffee.

  “So the Alstage Sand Mining Company is coming to Link Lake and plans to mine sand in the Increase Joseph Community Park that they have leased from the village,” said Oscar. “And I must say, I’m not very happy about having a sand mine in our park. That will put a kibosh on our annual bank robbery reenactment, to start with. To say nothing about all the people who simply like to walk in the park or maybe have a picnic there.”

  “Is that where they’re gonna have that damn old mine?”

  “That’s the place. What’re we gonna do to keep it from happening?” asked Oscar.

  “Seems like it’s a done deal.”

  “Does sound that way, doesn’t it?” said Oscar. “You’d think so, but that’s not what’s gonna happen.”

  “You know what would be worse?” asked Fred. “They could start diggin’ up that sandy farm of yours.”

  19

  Ambrose’s Reaction

  Ambrose couldn’t remember when he had been so upset about something. He turned to his pet raccoon, which was standing by the chair where he was sitting.

  “Do you know what, Ranger? Those damn fools on the village board just voted to put a sand mine in our village park. And even worse, the mining company says they’ve got to cut down the Trail Marker Oak to make a road into the mine.”

  Ranger looked at his master with an apparent understanding of the torment Ambrose was feeling.

  “How stupid could the Link Lake Village Board be to allow a mining company to tear up the village’s only park, and quite a historical one at that? And the thought of cutting down the Trail Marker Oak makes me sick to my stomach.”

  Ambrose looked out the window of his old farmhouse, toward his garden that had begun to produce well as ample rains had come to Ames County in the spring and had continued periodically into early summer. He wondered again, was this the time to reveal his true identity?

  In 2010, Stony Field had won the National Environmental Writer of the Year award. The National Association of Environmental Writers made the award, which in addition to the publicity included a $10,000 prize. The organization thought that surely the award would cause Stony Field to emerge from the shadows—who would pass up $10,000? But no one appeared at the awards ceremony and the $10,000 went unclaimed for the first time in thirty years. By now people wondered if there was such a person as Stony Field. Some suggested the column might be the work of several writers collaborating.

  Stony Field remained a mystery, but nonetheless a well-informed, albeit controversial environmental writer not afraid to take a position, but who also invited those disagreeing with him to speak out. More than once he had written that his goal was to get people thinking about the environment and then acting responsibly. But he was highly critical of those who failed to produce arguments supported with facts and clear, critical thinking. Occasionally, and more often in recent years, he found himself taking on the loud-talking, fact-lacking radio and TV pundits who made a lot of noise, much of it directed toward him and other environmental writers who dared to stand up for the natural environment and argued for a balance between decisions that enhanced the economic well-being of a community and at the same time protected the environment, as well as a community’s identity and history.

  Ambrose opened the door to his little office, a door he kept locked for here is where he wrote his columns, kept his considerable collection of books (Gloria mailed him new and what were considered significant environmental books as soon as they came off the presses), scrapbooks of his published columns, a wall of awards he had won for his writing, and framed letters of congratulations from a variety of notables including Al Gore. He was proud of what he had accomplished, and perhaps even more pleased that he was able to do what no one thought he could—a stuttering person had become a nationally known environmental writer. How could that be? He chuckled at the thought of it. He sat down on his well-worn office chair, picked up a sheet of typing paper, and fed it into his old Remington manual typewriter. This typewriter had served him well; after all these years, he still enjoyed the feel of the keys beneath his fingers, and the ding that announced he should throw the carriage and start a new line of type. It took some work to type on a manual typewriter; each key required a definite push before a little lever rose up from its resting place and slammed against the paper with a definite “thunk.”

  He had not admitted this to Gloria, but it was when he was sitting at his typewriter, watching letters, words, and sentences line up on the paper in front of him, that he felt most useful, most wanted. His main loves these days were working his garden, smelling the fresh soil as he turned it, his pet raccoon and dog, walking the trails on his farm, and writing his weekly columns. And of course he had never gotten over Gloria, the one and only true love of his life. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t think about her and the wonderful times they had together, now so many long years ago.

  He began typing:

  FIELD NOTES

  Mining for Sand

  By Stony Field

  My sources in little Link Lake, Ames County, Wisconsin, have informed me that their village board has approved a sand mine to be opened in the village’s Increase Joseph Community Park. They are offering a twenty-year lease to the Alstage Sand Mining Company of La Crosse, a company with several operating sand mines in western Wisconsin and in eastern Minnesota.

  Alstage Mining has indicated that the only reasonable access to this proposed mine requires that a famous historical tree, known as the Trail Marker Oak, must be cut down. This old bur oak once pointed the way for Native Americans on their way to the Fox River and for the French trappers who followed the same route. The old tree has a rich and unique historical past, and I’m told a famous Indian chief once got the Village of Link Lake’s founder, Increase Joseph Link, to pledge that the tree would never be cut.

  Has the Link Lake Village Board lost its senses? Is the board so under the thumb of Marilyn Jones’s Economic Development Council that all they can see is jobs and dollar signs? Do they not realize that when a community ignores its history that it loses its soul? Communities, like people, have histories, and when they forget their histories, they forget who they are.

  Link Lake’s historical society, under the able leadership of Emily Higgins, knows that history provides a foundation for a community and gives it life and a sense of place. Higgins and her group have worked hard to convince the Link Lake Economic Development Council and the Link Lake Village Board of the error of their ways—apparently with no success.

  In addition to the Alstage Sand Mining Company’s lack
of interest in local history along with the village board’s don’t-let-history-get-in-theway-of-progress mantra, I have heard no discussion about the impact of a sand mine on the environment. No one in Link Lake has mentioned the enormous amounts of water necessary for processing this special sand. No one has talked about the health dangers from the dust created by these mining operations. No one has mentioned the need to improve the roads in and around Link Lake to accommodate the hundreds of trucks that will haul the sand to the rail yards in Willow River, to say nothing about the increased traffic that will result. Are jobs so important that the creation of them trumps all other matters? It would appear so for Link Lake’s Economic Development Council and the Link Lake Village Board.

  Is there still time to reverse this awful decision? Let’s hope so. It will be a sad day in Link Lake when the Trail Marker Oak comes down and huge heavy-laden trucks begin hauling Link Lake’s precious sand to the rail line in Willow River, where it will become part of fracking operations in the west, where this dubious process of procuring natural gas and petroleum previously impossible to access is occurring.

  But, as some of us are apt to say, it’s never too late. Any decision made can be unmade. I am inviting readers of this column to write their thoughts to the Ames County Argus, one of the newspapers in which this column appears and one read by the majority of citizens in Ames County and the Link Lake community. Let the Link Lake Village Board know the error of their ways, and let the Link Lake Economic Development Council know that the future of a community depends on more than jobs.

  20

  Editor’s Response