Tamarack River Ghost

by Jerry Apps

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.

  1. Josh Wittmore

  Josh Wittmore wondered how long his charade would last, how long he could continue until they found him out. He was reclining on his lumpy bed in front of the flickering TV in his dreary motel room in Crumpet, Missouri, when his question was answered.

  The Sleepy Rest Motel’s sign on the highway proudly proclaimed, “American-owned, clean, restful, all on one level.” When Josh parked in front of the motel a few days ago, he followed the little path to the door that was marked “Office.” Inside, a deeply tanned man with a Missouri accent greeted him. When he got to the room, it was one of the smallest he’d ever seen, maybe twelve feet by twelve feet. It included one hard-backed chair; a narrow desk; a tiny TV perched precariously on a metal shelf in the corner, its power cord stretched across the window air-conditioner to an outlet shared with an underpowered table light; and a bed with a reasonable mattress. The bathroom, not to be outdone by the rest of the accommodation, was tiny and sparsely furnished, with a shower made for those tall and skinny and not prone to turning around when showering. But the room was clean, as advertised.

  The motel, like so many built in the late 1940s, allowed a motorist to drive right up to the door, as if the room was to be shared by a vehicle. Josh was in room 18, his truck parked so close he could nearly reach it by stretching an arm out the room’s tiny window, which faced the highway.

  It was Friday night, and Josh was bone tired. He wondered why he should be exhausted; he was only thirty-two years old and in reasonably good shape. He was thin and tall, a little over six feet. Soon he was dozing, thinking about what he had been doing the past few weeks and at the same time trying to drive the job from his mind.

  The brick that crashed through the motel window landed at his feet with a thud, missing him by a few inches. Broken glass scattered throughout the room—a rush of warm September night air poured through the jagged hole. The red brick had a grimy piece of white paper held around it with a thick rubber band. Fully awake, Josh jumped out of his chair and picked up the brick, removed the rubber band, and unfolded the paper:

  Nobody takes pictures at the Lazy Z.

  The words were written in bold, black strokes. Josh put the brick and the paper on the only table in the room. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Were the culprits who tossed the brick still in the parking lot? Would they next be pounding on his door? He began to perspire. He ran his hands through his thick hair, which he had dyed from its natural brown to blond to help with his disguise. He also wore dark-rimmed glasses to complete his makeover—the glasses, all dusty and dirty, sat on the little desk.

  A few weeks earlier, Josh’s boss, Bert Schmid, the editor of the Midwest’s Farm Country News, had phoned him from the paper’s main office in Willow River, Wisconsin. Josh, a reporter for this popular agricultural weekly newspaper, worked out of the paper’s regional office in Springfield, Illinois. He’d been there since Bert hired him in 2000, when Josh graduated from the University of Wisconsin’s agricultural journalism program.

  “I’ve got an assignment for you, Josh,” Bert said when he called.

  “What have you got?”

  “You ever hear of the Lazy Z operation? They’ve got huge cattle feedlots scattered in three states. Got a big one over in Crumpet, Missouri.”

  “Yeah, who hasn’t heard of the Lazy Z?”

  “Some rumors flying around that they’re cutting a few corners, fudging some of the environmental rules, and lots more.”

  “I heard about that,” said Josh.

  “It’s more than a rumor. I was wondering if you could do a little digging around. Find out what’s going on there.”

  “Think I could. Should be kind of interesting.”

  “There’s a little more to it—might as well tell you right up front. A reporter from St. Louis spent some time out there trying to put a story together. She spent a couple of weeks working on a story that she never wrote. Shortly afterward she quit the paper and moved to Maine. Some said the reporter had been threatened—never any proof of it though. She did file a complaint.”

  “Really?”

  “The police stopped out at the feedlot. They talked to the manager, some guy named Tex Rampart, or Rapport, something like that—anyway this Tex guy said the reporter had been out there a couple of times, nosing around. He said he’d never threatened any reporter, male or female.

  “So you want me to just sashay on over there and ask a few questions and snap a couple pictures?”

  “Hardly,” said Bert. “The woman didn’t get the story; I have a better idea for you.”

  “And that would be?”

  “I want you to go undercover. It’s a helluva place to work, I’m told. Cow manure everywhere. Mud when it rains. Dirty dust when it doesn’t. Somebody is always quitting—or getting hurt or sick. Nearby stream is polluted.”

  “And you want me to find a job there, to go undercover?”

  “Seems like one way to get the story. Get an inside look at what goes on. You know how to ride a horse, don’t you?”

  “I do,” said Josh. “We had horses on the home farm—but I haven’t done much riding in the ten years I’ve been working for the paper.”

  “Here’s what I want you to do,” said Bert. “You figure out some kind of disguise, then you go over there and see if they’ll hire you. A cold beer says they will. You rent yourself a room at a motel in town—we’ll pay for it—and you are on your way.”

  Josh called the Lazy Z the next morning and asked if they had any job openings. He talked to a Tex Ramport, who said he was the feedlot manager.

  “Yeah, we always need help. You come on over here tomorrow, and we’ll have a little chat,” Ramport said. “See if we got anything that’d interest you. Be here around 1:30 or so.”

  Josh made a trip to the local Wal-Mart, where he bought hair dye and some dark-rimmed sunglasses. He checked the Maps Online website and learned that Crumpet, Missouri, was a little more than a three-hour drive from Springfield. He didn’t sleep well that night, wondering what he was getting into. This would be his first undercover reporting job. How dangerous could it be? he thought. He went to sleep with visions of being paid for riding a horse.

  The next morning, he pulled on his blue jeans, a faded yellow shirt, and a cowboy hat he bought when he visited Texas a couple of years ago. He fired up his Ford Ranger pickup and was soon headed south on Interstate 55. He tuned his radio to a country western station to get in the mood for his interview. He listened to Willie Nelson belt out “On the Road Again.” Next he headed west on Interstate 70, rolling into Missouri just north of St. Louis. Waylon Jennings was singing “Good Hearted Woman.”

  When he found State Highway 940, he turned toward Crumpet, some twenty miles south of the interstate, but even before he reached the town he could smell cow manure; the stench of a large feedlot told of its presence long before it came into sight. He drove through the town; Crumpet was but a couple thousand people. He spotted the Sleepy Rest Motel on the south side of town and tucked the information away in his memory. About a mile out of town, as he topped a little ridge, he spotted the feedlot stretching out in the valley in front of him on both sides of the highway. A cloud of brown dust hung over its many pens, all filled with cattle. The stench had become more intense; the ammonia burned his eyes. He spotted the entrance to the Lazy Z feedlot and a sign pointing to the office in a double-wide trailer. He glanced at his watch; he was right on time. When he climbed out of his pickup, he saw men on horseback, working the alleys between the pens, driving cattle and stirring up even more dust. Sounds of cattle bellowing and men yelling filled the air along with the yellow dust.

  “Hi-yah!” he heard a man yell as he pushed his horse alongside a steer that moved too slowly. “Hi-yah!” he yell
ed again. He poked the steer with a metal prod; it jumped and quickly moved on.

  Josh pushed open the door to the office and saw three women working at computers.

  “Can I help you?” an attractive young blonde asked as she looked up from her work.

  “I have an interview with Mr. Ramport,” he said.

  “And your name?” she asked. Josh wondered why such a good-looking young woman would work at a place like this.

  “It’s Wittmore, Josh Wittmore,” he said as he removed his hat.

  “Have a chair. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  Josh sat down and picked up a copy of the American Cattleman and began paging through it.

  “Mr. Ramport will see you now,” the young woman said, smiling broadly. She pointed to the door to the left. Josh hesitated for a moment.

  “Just go right in,” she said. She had a pleasant accent, a soft way of speaking, different from the folks up in Wisconsin, where he was born and raised.

  Inside, he saw a middle-aged man dressed in a business suit and wearing a bolo tie with a longhorn head. They exchanged names and shook hands.

  “So, you’re looking for work?” Mr. Ramport asked. He was all business. No small talk.

  “Yes, I am,” Josh said.

  “And why is that?”

  “Fellow’s got to eat,” Josh answered.

  “Good answer. You know anything about cattle?”

  “Some. I grew up on a farm in Wisconsin.”

  “Hell, they aren’t cattle you got up there. They’re cows. Out here we got cattle, about ten thousand of ’em, last count. And every damn one of them is better eatin’ then those skinny milkers you got up there in Wisconsin.”

  Josh laughed. “I expect you’re right about that.”

  “You know how to ride a horse?”

  “Been a while, but I do.”

  “You’re probably wonderin’ why I’m not asking about your previous work. Tell you the truth, I don’t wanna know. I don’t care if you just got out of jail, your wife kicked you out, or your last boss fired you. Don’t matter. If you can do the work, that’s all we ask.”

  “Well, I do need the job,” Josh said.

  “OK. If you’re willing to work for $7.50 an hour, you’re hired. You’ll be on probation for six months, and then we’ll talk about stuff like benefits. No benefits while you’re on probation. Check with Stephanie when you go out; she’ll have you sign a couple of things to get you on the payroll.”

  As it turned out, Stephanie was the young woman he’d met earlier. She pushed a couple of pieces of paper in front of Josh and watched while he signed them. “Don’t forget to print your name under your signature,” she said. She had the nicest smile. Josh wondered if she was married, checking for a wedding ring on her left hand. Just as quickly, he removed the thought of starting anything with Stephanie. He had other reasons for finding work at the Lazy Z.

  “When you go outside, you’ll want to look for Amos,” she said. “He rides a big white horse, and he’ll show you the ropes, so to speak.” She lowered her voice. “It’s Amos that really runs this place—and, by the way, you don’t wanna get on the wrong side of him.

  2. Lazy Z Feedlot

  Outside the headquarters office, the smell and the dust rolled over Josh again. He pulled on his hat, adjusted his glasses, and glanced around. Through the dirty haze he saw a skinny, weathered cowboy astride a big white horse. Josh held up his arm. The rider slowly moved the horse closer to Josh.

  “Name is Josh Wittmore,” Josh said when he reached up to shake the rider’s hand.

  “Amos,” the man said. His voice was rather high pitched, almost feminine. “I’m foreman of this operation. You get hired?”

  “I did.” Josh was taken aback for a moment by the foreman’s less-than bosslike voice.

  “Know anything about feedlots?”

  “Nope.”

  “Can you ride a horse?”

  “Yup.”

  “Good. Let’s find you something to ride, then.”

  Amos swung around in his saddle and yelled, “Charlie, go fetch this guy a horse, and slip a saddle on it. Pick out an easy one—don’t wanna put him in the hospital his first day of work.” Amos laughed at his idea of a joke.

  In a few minutes, Josh was astride a little bay mare, name of Daisy.

  “Tell you what,” Amos said. “You just follow behind me and keep your eyes and ears open, probably the best way to learn how this operation works.”

  “What all goes on here?” Josh asked.

  “Well, it’s pretty simple. We haul in a bunch of feeder cattle, heifers and steers that have been weaned from their mothers and maybe grass fed for a season. Some of ’em weigh six to eight hundred pounds when they git here. We feed ’em for six months or so and send ’em on to market. Most of ’em will be twelve to fourteen hundred pounds when they leave.”

  Josh was making mental notes, trying to be careful to ask questions a new worker would want to know, but not so many questions that he might arouse suspicion. Amos kept on talking without any prodding from Josh as they slowly rode down one of the dusty, manure-strewn lanes.

  “We feed a mixture of corn, grain byproducts, and hay. Feed them critters quickly take a likin’ to. Got a lot of crossbreds these days—they seem to put on the pounds faster than, say, your Angus or Hereford. Some of these critters even got a little Holstein blood in ’em. Folks eatin’ their steaks and hamburgers don’t much care what the critter looked like, as long as their steaks are tender and juicy.” Amos laughed; it came out as almost a cackle.

  Josh saw men on horseback, emptying pens and driving cattle to waiting semitrucks backed up at loading docks. Other men were driving tractors with feed trailers behind, augering feed into the troughs alongside the pens.

  As Josh made his way with his new boss through the feedlot, he learned it covered some seventy-five acres. His eyes burned from the dust, and the smell of cow manure was almost overwhelming. When he arrived at the lot’s far end, he noticed a lazy little river running but a few hundred yards from the last pen. He could see its dirty brown water from where he sat on his horse, and could also see little gulleys, now dry, from where feedlot runoff had entered the stream.

  They came up to the riders moving cattle from pens to the loading dock, where a cattle truck was parked.

  “Wittmore, you work with these guys. They’ll show you what to do,” Amos said. He introduced Josh to the men and told them Josh was new and they should show him the ropes. Before he rode off, he eased his big horse in close to the little bay Josh was riding.

  “If I hear one damn word from anybody that you’re screwin’ up or goofin’ off, you are outta here. You got that?” He looked Josh square in the eye. Amos had small, intense black eyes, sunk deep in his tanned, wrinkled face.

  “I got it,” Josh said, trying to keep his voice level and unafraid.

  With that, Amos turned his big horse and trotted off. That was the only conversation Josh had with the foreman that entire first week, so he assumed he was doing OK. Each evening, he returned to his little motel room covered with dust and grime and smelling more like the feedlot than the feedlot itself. After the first couple of days in the saddle, his behind was so raw in the evenings that he could hardly sit in the chair to work at his little Toshiba laptop, where he jotted down facts and impressions.

  Scarcely a day went by as he worked that he didn’t think about the young reporter who had been doing a story on the Lazy Z operation. He knew he’d better be careful and not ask any questions that went beyond what an employee needed to know to do his job and not go nosing around in places where he shouldn’t be.

  At the end of his first week, he filed a story for the Farm Country News using the name Jed Walker. He hoped that the folks at the Lazy Z would never put Jed Walker and Josh Wittmore together and figure out they were one and the same.

  Josh’s first story introduced his planned series, titled “Cattle Feedlot Situation USA.” He wrote: “Amer
ican consumers like their beef tender and juicy—the kind of beef that is corn-fattened in a cattle feedlot where thousands of animals are crowded together, not a spear of grass in sight. One-third of the country’s beef is produced in feedlots like this, some of them with a capacity for more than a hundred thousand animals. If more people saw a feedlot, they wouldn’t enjoy their steaks so much.”

  A week later, when he stopped in the Lazy Z office to pick up his paycheck, he noticed a copy of the Farm Country News on the counter. His story, with a generic photo of some other feedlot, ran on the first page and was topped with a big bold headline: “Is This What American Consumers Want?”

  When Stephanie handed him his check, she pointed to the newspaper.

  “You see that article?”

  “Don’t do much reading,” Josh replied.

  “Well, you ought to read it. This guy, Jed Walker, ought to be strung up.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s out to do places like this in, close us down. Look at all the people who’d lose their jobs.”

  Josh nodded in agreement and went back to work. His next week’s story was considerably edgier. He asked the occasional question around the feedlot, always carefully and never seeming to be nosey. And he had learned much. His article ran:

  The Long-Term Dangers of Consuming Feedlot Beef

  By Jed Walker

  That juicy steak sizzling on your grill can be the worst thing you can feed your family, if it comes from an animal fattened at one of the nation’s major feedlots. Owners lace their cattle feed with antibiotics to prevent disease in the animals, something nearly inevitable when so many animals are crowded together in an outdoor environment where they wallow in mud and manure.

  Numerous medical studies warn that antibiotic residue remains in the meat that people consume. Over time, people with various infectious diseases no longer respond to standard antibiotic treatment. Medical doctors are increasingly seeing “super bugs,” requiring new, more powerful antibiotics to control them.