by Jerry Apps
Books by Jerry Apps
Fiction:
The Travels of Increase Joseph
In a Pickle
Blue Shadows Farm
Cranberry Red
Tamarack River Ghost
Nonfiction:
The Land Still Lives
Cabin in the Country
Barns of Wisconsin
Mills of Wisconsin and the Midwest
Breweries of Wisconsin
One-Room Country Schools
Wisconsin Traveler’s Companion
Country Wisdom
Cheese: The Making of a Wisconsin Tradition
When Chores Were Done
Country Ways and Country Days
Humor from the Country
The People Came First: A History of Cooperative Extension
Ringlingville USA
Every Farm Tells a Story
Living a Country Year
Old Farm: A History
Horse Drawn Days
Campfires and Loon Calls
Garden Wisdom
Rural Wit and Wisdom
Children’s Books:
Eat Rutabagas
Stormy
Tents, Tigers, and the Ringling Brothers
Casper Jaggi: Master Swiss Cheese Maker
Tamarack River Ghost
A Novel
Jerry Apps
Terrace Books
A trade imprint of the University of Wisconsin Press
Terrace Books, a trade imprint of the University of Wisconsin Press, takes its name from the Memorial Union Terrace, located at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. Since its inception in 1907, the Wisconsin Union has provided a venue for students, faculty, staff, and alumni to debate art, music, politics, and the issues of the day. It is a place where theater, music, drama, literature, dance, outdoor activities, and major speakers are made available to the campus and the community. To learn more about the Union, visit www.union.wisc.edu.
Terrace Books
A trade imprint of the University of Wisconsin Press
1930 Monroe Street, 3rd Floor
Madison, Wisconsin 53711–2059
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Copyright © 2012 by Jerry Apps
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any format or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without written permission of the University of Wisconsin Press, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Apps, Jerold W., 1934–
Tamarack River ghost : a novel / Jerry Apps.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-299-28880-8 (cloth: alk. paper)
ISBN 978-0-299-28883-9 (e-book)
1. Swine—Wisconsin—Fiction.
2. Factory farms—Wisconsin—Fiction.
3. Farm life—Wisconsin—Fiction.
4. Reporters and reporting—Wisconsin—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3601.P67T36 2012
813'.6—dc23
2012009944
To
Sue, Kate, and Natasha
Contents
Books by Jerry Apps
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
1. Josh Wittmore
2. Lazy Z Feedlot
3. Fishing on the Millpond
4. Natalie Karlsen
5. Tamarack River Valley
6. Farm Country News
7. Tamarack River Ghost
8. Nathan West Industries
9. Dr. William Willard Evans
10. Dr. Randy Oakfield
11. Research Proposal
12. Big Hog Farm Coming
13. Dinner Date
14. Ice Fishing
15. Valley History
16. Fred and Oscar
17. Skiing in the Park
18. Informational Meeting
19. Opposing Positions
20. Fred and Oscar
21. Yes or No to Factory Farms
22. Winter Festival
23. Fred and Oscar
24. Paper Problems
25. Smear Tournament
26. Nathan West 435
27. Decision Time
28. Tamarack Museum
29. Zoning Committee Meeting
30. Newspaper Demise
31. New Journalism
32. Fred and Oscar
33. Different Results
34. Spring Snowstorm
35. Confession
36. Opening Day
37. Electronic News
38. Surprise Present
39. New Hog House
40. Outrage
41. Department Decisions
42. Fourth of Seventh-Month
43. Truce
44. Disaster
45. Blame
46. A New Beginning
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
I began this novel while in the Boundary Waters Canoe Wilderness Area of northern Minnesota. It was in early September 2009 that my son and canoe partner, Steve, and I were staying in Moose Cabin at Hungry Jack Lodge and day-tripping into the famous canoe area. On a rainy afternoon, when we appreciated having a roof over our heads, I posed a “what if ” question to Steve, who is chief photographer at the Wisconsin State Journal. (My novels always begin with “what if?”) I asked, “What if an agricultural reporter is caught up in the potential demise of his newspaper and at the same time faces one of the biggest stories of his career, a potential large-scale hog farm coming to central Wisconsin?” Being a newspaperman, Steve was intrigued with the idea. When we weren’t paddling or fishing, we began fleshing out the main characters, and the basic elements of the plot. A year later and once more in the Boundary Waters, we worked on the drafts I had been writing since the last time we were there. This time we discussed subplots, further character development, dialogue, and a host of other matters, including the ghost. Many thanks to Steve, for his knowledge of the newspaper industry, as well as his always honest appraisal of my musings.
All of my writing, novels included, requires a considerable amount of research. Even though I grew up on a farm and had a professional career in agriculture, there is much I don’t know. Emeritus Professor Gerald Campbell, Department of Agricultural and Applied Economics, University of Wisconsin–Madison, College of Agricultural and Life Sciences, helped me understand some of the nuances of integrated agricultural firms as well as insights into confined animal feeding operations (CAFOs). I appreciate his knowledge and insight.
A big thank you to my friend and fellow historian Elmer Marting, Monona, Iowa. Elmer introduced me to Steve Kregel. The Kregel family operates a well-run hog-producing operation near Guttenberg, Iowa. Steve not only took time to answer my many questions about large-scale hog-producing operations, but he also gave me a tour of one of the buildings so I could see their very modern system firsthand.
Discussions with my brother, Donald, helped me to recall how we cared for hogs on the home farm when we were growing up and raised as many as fifty hogs during the war years of the early 1940s. I also want to thank Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources conservation warden Todd Schaller for information about firearms and equipment DNR conservation wardens have at their disposal.
Several people took time to read various drafts of the material. My wife, Ruth, read sections of
the manuscript and offered helpful comments. My daughter, Sue, elementary teacher, author, and reading specialist, read parts of the manuscript several times. Her eye for character development and plot sensibility was greatly appreciated. Natasha Kassulke, editor of Wisconsin Natural Resources Magazine, read the entire manuscript and offered several valuable suggestions for its improvement. I can’t say enough about Kate Thompson’s contributions. She digs into my stories, looks around to find out if they make sense, and then makes suggestions both large and small to make the story a better one. Thank you, Kate.
A special thank you to Raphael Kadushin, senior acquisitions editor at the University of Wisconsin Press, for believing in my work and supporting me every step of the way. Many others have helped and encouraged me, as I worked my way through the development and writing of my several novels. A big thanks to everyone who in one way or another helped me with this one.
Tamarack River Ghost
Prologue
April 1900
Tamarack River Valley, Central Wisconsin
“Daylight in the swamp!” yelled the log-driver foreman as he pounded a stick on the bottom of a cooking pot. “Daylight in the swamp!” A hint of pink showed above the pine trees to the east, but it would be another half hour before sunrise. The night temperature had dropped into the low thirties, and white frost covered everything, not unusual for April in Wisconsin. The mighty Tamarack River roared as it tumbled over rocks and raced south. Logs, thousands of them, filled the river, which was just below flood stage. Huge chunks of blue ice also floated on the water, some breaking apart when they crashed into the rocks, sending up plumes of frigid spray.
“Hell, it’s still dark,” mumbled Mortimer Dunn, one of a dozen log drivers sleeping in the big white tent the crew of sturdy men had pitched on the banks of the river the previous night, just before the sun went down. Dunn’s big, brown German shepherd slept beside him. Prince was his constant companion in the woods and on the river. The dog wore a leather collar with a little brass bell attached, so Mortimer could keep track of him while he was hustling logs caught in an eddy or hung up on rocks, something that happened often on river drives. Mortimer also carried a wooden whistle in his pocket, one he had carved. He used it to call Prince when they became separated, as sometimes happened when they moved down the river.
Dunn, only five feet seven and 165 pounds, was part of an elite crew in charge of guiding logs down the Tamarack River when the ice went out in the spring. They moved the logs from the pine forests north and east of Stevens Point to Lake Poygan, then on to Lake Winnebago and the sawmills in Oshkosh.
“Doin’ you men a favor. Worked you kinda late last night, so thought we’d get an early start today so we can knock off a little earlier this evening,” the foreman said in a too loud voice.
Most log drivers also worked as lumberjacks during the long winter. They earned twice the money as log drivers as they did as lumberjacks; riding the logs on the river was a far more dangerous job. As lumberjacks, they sawed down giant pine trees and, with teams of oxen and bobsleds, toted the logs to the river’s edge, where they stacked them in huge piles, waiting for the spring breakup, when they rolled the logs into the Tamarack’s cold, brown, swirling waters.
The men, cursing and scratching themselves, crawled out of their bedrolls, dressed, and prepared for breakfast. With breakfast finished, several greased their legs and waists with lard to protect them a bit from the icy cold water. The cook prepared lunch for them and placed it in nose bags, canvas sacks they took with them so they could eat without leaving the river and the thousands of logs they shepherded south. The men climbed into their bateaus, double-bowed boats, and began their day’s work.
Mortimer Dunn and Prince, riding in their bateau, brought up the rear of the crew, ready for any emergency the log drivers might face as they kept the big pine logs, some of them four feet and more in diameter and twenty feet long, moving in the rapid current of the river. Mortimer’s specialty was undoing logjams, which meant first locating the key log that must be dislodged before the logs in a pile-up could begin moving. Though a small man, he was all muscle, with the agility of a cat, a characteristic that served him well on the river drives.
The men used long pike poles with metal spikes on the ends to nudge the logs along. Occasionally, when several logs were hung up in a rapids or in a sharp turn in the river, the men climbed out of their boats and rode them, often falling into the bone-chilling water. The work was not only uncomfortable, it was also exceedingly dangerous. Every river had its “dead-man bends” where a log driver had lost his footing, drowned, and was buried on a little knoll overlooking the water.
But this day was going well. The logs moved straight and true, with few hang-ups. So far no one had to leave his bateau to dislodge a log stuck on the river bank or caught on a rock.
Mortimer saw the floating cook shack, the “wanigan,” coming down the river a half mile behind them. It was a barge made of logs chained together with a small, unpainted, rustic wooden building riding on it. In addition to being a floating kitchen, it also carried supplies such as axes and extra pike poles.
From the pocket in his thick red-and-white-checkered wool shirt, Mortimer retrieved his ever-present pipe and tobacco. He filled the pipe’s bowl, struck a match to the tamped-down tobacco, and tasted the sweet-smelling stuff.
The sun had come up and quickly melted the white frost on the river bank with a promise of making it a warm day—perhaps the warmest the crew had experienced this spring. Long Vs of Canada geese flew over, winging their way north, and calling loudly. A sure sign of spring. Mortimer heard the log drivers singing, something they did when things were going well and they were enjoying being on the river.
Ho Ho, Ho Hay, keep the logs a-going.
Keep ’em rolling and twisting.
Keep ’em moving, keep ’em straight.
On the way to the lake called Poygan.
Ho Ho, Ho Hay,
What a day, what a day.
Mortimer joined in the song as his big dog looked up at him. He felt good, much better than yesterday, when he and the crew had gotten soaked trying to dislodge a minor logjam. It took them more than two hours to loosen up the logs and get things moving again.
Mortimer thought of his wife, Amelia, and their five children who spent the winter on their farm in Ames County, in the Tamarack River Valley some forty miles south of where he was now. In November, when the farm work was completed, he traveled to the Northwoods and the logging camps where he had worked for the last several winters. His sandy Ames County farm did not produce enough for him to pay his taxes and otherwise make ends meet with his large family. The lumberjack income, and especially the extra money he made as a log driver, made all the difference. Mortimer missed his wife and family and thought of them every day.
A few days ago, he’d written his wife a letter and mailed it at one of the trading posts along the river.
Dear Amelia,
Oh, how I miss you and the children. Tell them I am doing well and have had some exciting experiences here on the great Tamarack River. Just yesterday, I spent most of a morning breaking up an enormous logjam that backed the logs up on the river for nearly a mile. We finally got it loose, and the logs started moving again.
It won’t be long now and I’ll be home with all of you, and we can begin putting in the spring crops. Working in the woods is not a bad job, but I sure miss working on the farm. Nothing beats the smell of freshly turned soil in the spring, not even the smell of fresh pine sawdust.
I have a special surprise for you, something I made during the long winter nights in the Northwoods. I can’t wait to see your reaction to it. A hint of what it is—something I carved.
From somewhere on the Tamarack River.
Love,
Mort
Dunn heard the singing abruptly stop, a sign of trouble ahead. Most of the crew had moved around a bend in the river, so Mortimer could not see what happened. He poled his bateau int
o the main current so he could catch up with the rest of the log drivers. As he rounded the bend, he saw the problem, another logjam. It didn’t look as serious as the one the previous day.
“Over here, Mort,” one of the drivers yelled. “The problem is over here.” Mortimer poled his bateau close to the jam and climbed out, the calks on his boots digging into the soft pine as he jumped from log to floating log, with pike pole in hand. Prince stayed behind, watching his master’s every move.
Mortimer bent over to see if he could spot the key log. When he did so, the entire jam broke loose of its own accord, with several huge logs falling on him and tossing him into the deep and treacherous Tamarack. The other drivers heard a scream like none they had ever heard before as they saw Mortimer Dunn disappear into the mass of logs that once more hurried down the river.
Prince heard the scream as well and jumped into the churning water, leaping over logs, the little bell on his collar ringing. The dog disappeared into the river, and neither Mortimer nor his dog was ever seen again.
Heartbroken when she got word of her husband’s death several days later, Amelia Dunn erected a tombstone in the family cemetery on the far corner of their farm, within sight of the Tamarack River. The words on the tombstone said:
Mortimer Dunn
Father, Log Driver, Farmer, Woodcarver
May 15, 1865
April 15, 1900
Mortimer Dunn’s tombstone stood next to that of his son, Albert, their firstborn, who had died on his third birthday.
On foggy nights in spring, just after the river ice goes out, people say they’ve seen Mortimer’s ghost on the river, rising above the water. Others say they’ve heard the tinkle of the little bell his dog always wore and smelled his tobacco smoke. And still others claim to have heard the song of the log drivers on still nights in spring, when the night is dark and there is no moon:
Ho Ho, Ho Hay, keep the logs a-going.