by Jerry Apps
AMES COUNTY ARGUS
Reaction to Stony Field Sand Mining Column
By Billy Baxter, editor
Never in my many years of editing the Ames County Argus has a column writer prompted so many people to write letters to this newspaper. More than 200 letters to the editor arrived at this newspaper since the column was first published, with more arriving each day. Most come as e-mails, but regular letters have filled our mailbox as well.
Stony Field, the award-winning but mysterious environmental writer, is prone to stir up people, but with his recent comments about a sand mine supported by the Link Lake Economic Development Council and recently approved by the Link Lake Village Board, he hit a hornet’s nest. Letters are coming from throughout the country, from the east and the west coast, from north and south, from rural areas and major urban centers.
The letters run about two to one in favor of Stony Field’s position—he argues quite convincingly that a community needs to attend to its history and be concerned about the environmental impact of a new development beyond merely supporting an idea because of the potential for additional jobs in the community.
We obviously do not have sufficient space in the Ames County Argus to print all of the letters we have received, so what I have done is select a sampling, trying to be fair in including those that agree with Stony Field and those that take issue with what he had to say. Some of the letters are so filled with angry invective and too often include words that cannot be repeated in a family-oriented newspaper that I have set them aside. Here is a sampling of the letters, both agreeing with and, often strongly, disagreeing with Stony Field’s perspective:
Dear Editor:
What would this country do without a Stony Field and the other environmental writers who call to task the create-jobs-at-all-cost ilk that seems to be gaining traction these days? Here in Louisiana we have no sand mines, but we do have hydraulic fracturing taking place, and we know the environmental problems associated with it. Our country must get over its money, money, money attitude and become more tuned to what the planet will look like two and three generations from now. Hats off to Stony Field and his challenge to the Link Lake community to rethink its decision to build a sand mine in, of all places, a community park.
Sincerely,
John Reid, Baton Rouge, Louisiana
Dear Editor:
Stony Field reminds us, quite eloquently, of the error of our ways as we stumble into the future with dollar signs, and only dollar signs, on our minds. Mr. Field, wherever he lives, knows that for a society to survive and prosper in the future, it must know and accept its history as the foundation for all present and future activities.
He is so right in challenging our little community of Link Lake to give more thought to its recent decision to build a sand mine in our one and only park, Increase Joseph Community Park, named after the founder of our village.
Thank you, Stony Field, for telling us what we should have figured out for ourselves—that any economic development in a community must be seasoned with an ample amount of historical information plus clearheaded knowledge of potential environmental impacts.
One of your supporters,
Emily Higgins, president,
Link Lake Historical Society
Dear Editor,
I often wonder why your paper continues to publish the trash written by an out-of-state writer who seems to relish sticking his nose in the business of small communities, such as Link Lake, Wisconsin.
Stony Field is clearly one of those save-the-environment-at-all-cost liberals who just doesn’t get it. No jobs. No income. Nothing to eat. Who gives a rip about protecting the environment when they are out of work and don’t know where their next meal is coming from? I doubt you’ll find many hungry people carrying Save the Environment signs.
I would suggest your paper seriously consider dropping the Stony Field column. Those of us who live in rural communities, such as Link Lake, don’t need to read the trash that Stony Field writes. I am a proud member of the Ames County Eagle Party. One of our goals is to put the kibosh on wild-eyed liberal writers such as Stony Field. They are a detriment to our society and are part of the trend that is dragging our country down.
Unless you drop the Stony Field column, I will find it necessary to cancel my subscription to your paper.
I hope my cancellation will not be necessary.
John Katz
Willow River, Wisconsin
21
Ambrose and Ranger
On this cool June morning, with dew sparkling on the hay field that Ambrose could see out his kitchen window, he sat enjoying a cup of coffee and reading the recent issue of the Ames County Argus. Ranger, his ever-present pet raccoon, stood at his side.
“Well, Ranger,” said Ambrose, “it looks like old Stony Field got people thinking about putting a sand mine in Increase Joseph Community Park. Even got Bill Baxter at the Argus to sit up and take notice.” Ambrose showed the newspaper editorial to the raccoon. “Know what Baxter said, Ranger? Here, I’ll read it to you. ‘Never in my many years of editing the Ames County Argus has a column writer prompted so many people to write letters to this newspaper.’”
The raccoon looked at the newspaper held in front of him and lifted a paw to touch the paper.
“And look at all these letters, Ranger, most of them agreeing with me. Just look at that. Maybe my writing is making a difference after all. Maybe there is still something we can do about stopping a sand mine from coming to Link Lake. Let’s hope we can muster enough opposition to at least save the Trail Marker Oak. What a tragedy if that old tree came down.”
Ranger looked at Ambrose and held out a paw for him to shake.
“We’d better get to work—lots of weeding to do in the garden, and our roadside stand needs a little sprucing up before we can be open for business. Wish I had more energy. Old age must be creeping up on me.”
22
Karl Adams
Karl Adams arrived at the Appleton airport, rented a car, found Highway 10, and headed west toward Link Lake, some forty miles away. As a consulting mining engineer with offices in Portland, Oregon, he traveled the world, helping mining companies set up new operations. The Alstage Sand Mining Company had hired him to help them set up their mining operation in Link Lake, Wisconsin. The company had set late October for the mine’s official opening.
Karl, a lifelong bachelor, was tall, thin, and had a full head of black hair, deep penetrating eyes, and a personality that quickly won over people. He was especially good at coming into a community where a mine was planned to soothe over any negative feelings about mining, and, of course, to emphasize all the positive features—especially the job creation and economic benefits that result when a mine opens. In the twenty-five years that he had been a mining engineer, a community’s acceptance of a mine had become ever more contentious. Some people didn’t want a mine in their neighborhood, plain and simple. It didn’t matter that the country needed coal, or steel, or whatever else was dug from the ground; these people saw mining as a way, to use their words, “to rape the environment.” He also had seen mining become a political issue, often tied to economic development and job creation with little concern for environmental protection.
In Karl’s mind, bringing a mine into a community had its pluses. He was also a realist and knew a mine had a downside as well, but if all the rules were followed, a mine could be both an economic asset to a community as well as friendly to the environment. Increasingly in recent years, he found himself doing more public relations in a community than technical mining work. He was happy to do it and in fact rather enjoyed working with people, both those who applauded the coming of a mine as well as those who would never accept one coming even after a mine had been approved. As he drove over to Link Lake from the airport he thought about the only time he had been to Wisconsin, when a mining company had hired him to help with some exploratory work for a possible mine in Oneida County. That mine had never opened and the mini
ng company decided to go elsewhere.
His contact at Alstage, Emerson Evans, had said little about the new mine in Link Lake, other than sending Karl some technical information about the quality of the sand there, and the fact that the mine would be located in a community park. The location seemed a bit odd to Karl, but it was not his job to question the site of a mine. He was to make sure the majority of people in a community were on board and supportive when the mine began operations. He had been in the middle of some really nasty situations where communities had chosen sides both for and against a mine’s opening. He hoped that Link Lake would not be one of those places. Karl had read about the new iron mine in northern Wisconsin, and how it not only divided the northern Wisconsin community where the mine was to be located but also divided the state as it became a hot political issue with most Republicans foursquare behind the idea, and many Democrats raising serious questions about the mine’s potential environmental impacts.
Karl Adams had done his homework. He had gotten the names of the members of the Link Lake Economic Development Council and names of the mayor and the Link Lake Village Board members. The latter group had negotiated the contract with Alstage. He especially wanted to meet Marilyn Jones, whom Emerson Evans with the Alstage Sand Mining Company praised as one of “the strongest leaders and most forward-looking persons” he had met in a while. Evans told him that she owned and operated the Link Lake Supper Club. He also had checked out the local newspaper, the Ames County Argus. Karl had learned many years ago that the local newspaper was a good place to start if you wanted to get a feel for a community, what was bothering it and what was making it feel good. Billy Baxter, editor of the Argus, was on the top of his list of people he wanted to talk with.
Arriving in Link Lake, Karl drove up and down Main Street, noticing the Eat Well Café, a couple of craft shops, an antique store, a furniture store, a dollar store, and, nestled against the lake, the Link Lake Supper Club. On the outskirts of town, he found the small but tidy-looking Link Lake Motel—the kind where you drive your car up to the door. It advertised “American Owned, Free Wi-Fi.” Karl checked into the motel and then following the directions he had gotten from Alstage, he headed his rental car toward Increase Joseph Community Park. The park was only a mile or so from the motel and easy to find—one of the advantages of a small town is that almost everything is easy to find. He stopped at the park’s entrance, where he spotted a massive bur oak tree. In front of the tree stood a concrete post with an attached old metal plaque that read, “Trail Marker Oak. A sacred tree.” He wondered what that was all about. He spent the next hour exploring the park, using the technical information he had gotten to see exactly where the sand mine would be sited, the location of the processing facility, and the possible transportation routes in and out of the park.
The park was a beautiful, peaceful place. He noticed children playing on swings and a couple of families having a picnic lunch on tables organized under pine and oak trees with a fine view of the lake in the distance. The air was filled with the laughter of children and the sound of birds singing high in the treetops.
He made several notes in his pocket notebook and took photos with his phone. When he finished with his introductory inspection he headed toward Willow River, where he hoped to find Billy Baxter and gain some inside information about Ames County, Link Lake, and the coming of a sand mine to the community.
Baxter was in his office when Karl arrived, trying to decide what he should put in the coming issue of the Argus, and especially trying to decide how many more letters to the editor about the coming sand mine he should publish. The letters kept rolling in, still about two to one in opposition to the mine. Baxter was torn. If he kept printing the letters it would surely add fuel to the flame of opposition that was already burning brightly, and if he stopped publishing the letters he would be accused of selling out to the pro-mining group. He also had in the back of his mind ad revenue; he knew he should never make an editorial decision based on ad revenue, but it was ad revenue that kept his paper going, and a good number of his ads came from businesspeople who backed the coming of the mine and weren’t at all bashful in reminding him of that fact.
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 peopl
e 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
Karl at the Eat Well
On 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.