The Cardinal Divide

by Stephen Legault

  But he was a superb aesthete. He sat on sun-warmed rocks on the lip of the Divide and let his eyes sweep across this world that he loved while his feet dangled over the precipice. Something far below, to the north and west of the existing road, caught his eye and he trained his binoculars on a small meadow: grizzly. You could not mistake the gait, the muscular amble, the broad hump on the shoulder. Head down, the bear made its way through the meadow, plucking glacier lilies as it went. Midway across the clearing it stopped and looked back. Had it heard something? Smelled something? Then two small bundles of fur emerged from the forest’s edge and bounded toward the big bear. Cubs of the year! Cole caught his breath. He had lived in grizzly country for nearly half his life and this was the first time he had seen cubs of the year. He watched through the glasses as the mother made a motion with her head, which Cole assumed was accompanied by a grunt or woof, and the cubs beat a path to her side. Then, together, they grazed across the clearing, and were gone again, swallowed by the forest.

  He sat for another five minutes, binoculars trained, hoping the trio would emerge to graze again. But they didn’t. He lowered the binoculars. What an opportunity for the city slicker he’d become. He thought of Dusty and Martin in their downtown Vancouver office towers, hoping to convince him to come and work for the corporate world. He shook his head and laughed audibly.

  His anger was both assuaged and inflamed by the sighting of the sow and cubs. What would happen if the McLeod River Mine was built? The skinny road below would be blasted wide and deep for the huge trucks that hauled ore from the mine to the mill. Cole knew that such a road, though a permeable barrier, would claim more than its share of wildlife over the course of a year. Grizzly bears would have to contend with the wheels of commerce as they roamed their wide territory. And the improved road would bring both legal hunters and poachers too. The bears, attracted to the wide shoulders of the road and their banquet of wildflowers, would become easy targets for those men, too lazy to step from their vehicles to hunt.

  He looked up and down the long, curving spine of stone called the Cardinal Divide. Such an evocative name for so distinct a landscape. But it occurred to Cole, the memory of the grizzly bears still rich in his mind, that this wasn’t the only divide to be found in Oracle, and it certainly wasn’t the cardinal, or principal one. After only a few days of kicking around town, to Cole it seemed that the principle divide in Oracle was between those who looked ahead for the town’s future, and those who looked back. People like Peggy looked forward, trying to imagine Oracle building a twenty-first century economy without really knowing what that might look like. David Smith looked back, pining for the boomtown economy of the nineteen fifties. That divide seemed as sharp to Cole Black-water as the rugged edge of the landform he was sitting on.

  Now it seemed that there was one man whose presence in the community might seal its fate. Mike Barnes had stirred the pot since arriving in Oracle, evoking powerful emotions, hope and fear, in the tiny town. One man determining on which side of this cardinal divide the town would land.

  Cole rose to his feet. It was time to face the enemy.

  Cole got back to his truck, threw the binoculars on the passenger side floor, and drove back to the mine compound. The anger was still there. He felt it in his belly. He felt it as a quickening of his pulse and his breath. For the first time since taking the job last Friday, Cole felt a sense of purpose.

  He arrived about an hour early. At the security booth by the chain-link gates, a middle-aged man in a black uniform asked to see his driver’s licence to prove his identity, a precaution that Cole Blackwater thought a little overzealous. This was, after all, a mine site, not 24 Sussex Drive or the House of Commons. Were they on to him? Was the guard actually calling the RCMP at this very moment to report him for impersonating a writer? Would it have been better to be straight up with Barnes and the others?

  “There you go, Mr. Blackwater,” said the security guard, handing him his ID. “What time do you expect to be through?”

  Cole looked at the man’s name tag. It read “JP.”

  “Not sure, JP,” answered Cole.

  “It doesn’t matter, really. I’ll be here or on my rounds when you come by, so if it wouldn’t be an inconvenience, would you mind signing out on your way past? The clipboard will be on the ledge here.” He pointed.

  “I don’t mind at all,” Cole said, relieved.

  “You know where you’re going?”

  “No, I’ve never been here before.”

  “Well, it’s easy to get lost. Lots of buildings. Most empty these days, but easy to lose your way. Follow the signs for the main Transfer Station, and when you get there, turn left – that will be west – and follow that road past the old power plant to the biggest building on the site. That’s the mill. There’s a yard between the mill and the admin building. You can’t miss it. It’s about as far away from where we are now on the site without ending up the trees.” The guard smiled.

  “Thanks,” said Blackwater.

  “No trouble. Have a good evening.”

  “You too.”

  Cole rolled up his window and drove up the road. He wove his way between a number of buildings: maintenance sheds, garages, a fuelling station for the massive dump trucks he had seen hauling rock from the open-pit mine. Beyond an enclosed conveyor that was used to move ore from the transfer station to the mill, he found himself beside an enormous building with doors large enough to accommodate dump trucks loaded with ore. Here trucks unloaded their burden of rock laced with coal to be separated into waste and rough mineral coal, which would then be loaded onto train cars to be shipped to market.

  Cole turned west and followed the guard’s instructions. The main administration building was small compared to the grand scale of the other structures around it, and constructed of red brick with neat, rectangular windows that faced east, and simple double doors that opened onto a gravel parking lot. Half a dozen cars and trucks were parked there. The cars seemed out of place, since he’d seen nothing but trucks since leaving town. Maybe the cars were driven by female clerical staff or receptionists. After the thought he scolded himself for the sexist nature of his thinking. His ex would have lambasted him. Then he grinned. Pointy-headed accountants might drive the sedans, too.

  Cole parked in the visitors’ section, turned the engine off, and collected himself. He knew very little about Barnes. He had done a hasty Google search before leaving his hotel room. He had planned to do more research on the man before this meeting, but the events of the day had pre-empted that, and he was feeling unprepared.

  Barnes was married. This much he knew. His wife and two school-aged children would be arriving in Oracle in the next few weeks, or so he had been told. Barnes had been in town for nearly six months without them. Why? Was the posting to Oracle so sudden? Was housing so hard to come by? Hell, in six months they could have built a home. Blackwater made a mental note to learn more about this man, if only to follow Sun Tzu’s advice to “know thy enemy.”

  Maybe Barnes had other reasons for not wanting his family to come to Oracle: marital reasons. Cole recalled George Cody’s angry accusation and Deborah Cody’s cool rebuttal.

  Blackwater had learned that Barnes had married into the company business and was likely being groomed for senior management. He had worked at two different mines in Northern Ontario, Cole recalled, neither one a coal mine. Cole made a mental note to check on Barnes’ track record. Maybe he would learn something that would reveal how the mine manager handled conflict. If Barnes was noted for being aggressive in his approach with those who opposed him, it might help Cole Blackwater to know in advance, so he could better prepare his clients’ strategy.

  Cole Blackwater had more questions than answers about Barnes as he stepped from the truck. He pulled a spiral-bound notebook from his bag and walked up the steps to the office. He was nervous about the whole cover story. He knew he was on thin ice.

  But then, he’d been on thin ice before. Thinner i
ce than this, he recalled.

  Cole was distracted by this thought when the double doors in front of him burst open. He snapped his head up and saw a small, wiry man march toward him. He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, with close-cropped hair and a weather-beaten face. In a second they would collide if Cole didn’t move or say something.

  “Hey there,” he said.

  The man stopped and looked up. “Who the hell are you?”

  Funny way of greeting a stranger, thought Cole. “Cole Black-water,” he said, uncertain if a handshake was called for.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’ve got a meeting with Mike Barnes,” Cole said.

  The man sneered. “College boy,” he spat.

  Cole paused.

  “Well, don’t just stand there,” the man spat again. “Go on up and see his eminence.”

  Cole forced a smile and walked past him to the doors.

  “You that reporter?” he heard the man ask, over his shoulder.

  Cole stopped, hand on the door. “Yep, that’s me.”

  “Right,” said the man, and headed down the stairs to his pickup.

  Friendly fellow, thought Cole, feeling the panic around his meeting grow in his stomach.

  Cole stepped into the administration building. There was a wood-panelled desk that held a computer and a telephone, but no receptionist. The walls were bare, the space inhospitable. A woman walked out of an office adjacent the entrance and strode toward him. She was attractive, dressed in black pants and a grey, form-fitting turtleneck over which she was donning a coat. She looked at Cole and said, “You must be his 5 PM.”

  “I’m Cole Blackwater, and I’m here to see Mr. Barnes, if that’s what you mean,” he said with a weak smile.

  “It’s what I mean,” she said, smiling back. “I’m Tracey, Mr. Barnes’ assistant. We talked on the phone. He’s on the fourth floor. No elevator. Stairs are at either end of the hall.”

  “Who was that angry little man who just left?” Cole asked as she passed him.

  “Oh, that was Hank Henderson,” Tracey said, smiling. “Our assistant mine manager. He’s all charm, isn’t he?” she said. She smiled again as she exited. A whiff of her perfume was all that remained. She walked down the stairs to the black Toyota Celica in the lot.

  Cole looked for the stairs and found them at the end of a hall past a row of empty offices. The staircase was wide, with polished wooden railings with brass fittings on either side. He climbed to the fourth floor, aware that his heart rate was higher than he’d like, and headed down the hall toward the centre of the building, looking for the mine manager’s office. The fourth floor offices were mostly empty; their vacancy seemed stark and unsettling. In the centre of the building was a reception area. A man sat behind the desk and typed at a computer. He was mid-thirties, clean-shaven, with short, blonde hair styled in a modern cut that struck Cole as being distinctly out of place in Oracle, Alberta. His dark green shirt was open at the neck and he wore no coat. Small wire-rimmed glasses made him look both a little nerdy and intelligent.

  Cole presented himself. “I’m here to see Mr. Barnes. I’m Cole Blackwater.”

  The man swivelled his chair to face Cole. “So you are,” he said, and stood. “And you’re looking at him. Glad to meet you.”

  Cole shook the hand. It was dry and firm. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “I was just checking some email. Note from my family. They’re on their way here next week.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  “No no, not at all. I was expecting you. Come, let’s sit down in my office. Tracey just left for the day, so I was just using her computer. Mine is on the fritz. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to get a computer fixed in Oracle. No big deal, really. I keep my appointments in my old fashioned Day-Timer, and can always bum Tracey’s machine. He closed the email window but not before Cole spied a photo of Barnes with a beautiful woman and two picture-perfect children.

  “Nice looking group,” Cole said.

  “Sure are.”

  “You must miss them.”

  “I do,” said Barnes. “Come, let’s sit down.” Barnes held the door to his office open. This room was very large, with windows that looked over the back of the compound and to the foothills beyond. There was a desk in one corner, a board table in the other, and in the centre of the room several leather chairs and couches were clustered around a low wooden table which held a pitcher and several glasses. The room was much more elegant than others he’d seen, its dark wood-panelled walls lit by the sunlight that even at this hour poured through a bank of windows.

  Cole stepped into the room. Into the lion’s den, he thought.

  7

  “I know you’re not a reporter.” Mike Barnes spoke calmly as they sat down and faced one another.

  Cole nodded, and slowly inhaled a long, slow breath to calm himself.

  “It was a pretty stupid idea, actually,” said Barnes, watching carefully for Cole’s reaction. “I had Tracey do a web search on your name when you called. I try to keep informed. It took a little digging. It seems you don’t have your own home page. But she found a reference to your name on a First Nations website out on the coast. She called them and asked about you. She told them she was checking references. They were very effusive. You must be good at what you do. Aside from masquerading as a reporter, I mean.”

  Cole smiled ruefully in appreciation of Barnes’ thoroughness.

  “My guess is that you’re in town to work for the environmentalists, and that you’d like to get inside the mine to scope us, use something to stop us. Know thy enemy stuff. Am I right?”

  Cole cleared his throat, and made to rise from his chair. “So, I guess I’ll be going now.” He grinned.

  “What for? Sit down. Let’s talk.”

  “Really?” said Cole cautiously, dropping back into his seat.

  “Sure. The best way for us to solve our differences is to talk them through. No?”

  Cole sat back down. He gestured to the pitcher on the table. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all, here, let me,” said Barnes and he poured Cole a tall glass of water. Cole sipped.

  “It might come as a surprise to you to know that I don’t think this community should be so dependent on mining. I guess we’re likely in agreement on that.”

  Cole choked on the sip of water in his mouth and nearly spat it across the table. What was Barnes going to say next, that he planned to take out a membership in ESCoG?

  “I mean it. Oracle has been a one-horse town since it started. Sure, it’s got the lumber mill, but how many people work out there? Fifty? Seventy-five tops. The Buffalo employs five hundred and in its heyday more like a thousand people worked in the mine. That was all fine and dandy in the nineteen fifties, but this is the twenty-first century, and Oracle can’t rely on coal forever. Don’t get me wrong.

  I don’t think the market for coal is going to dry up. On the contrary, I think it’s going to continue to grow. China, India, Brazil ... these countries are the next wave of the industrial revolution. China alone will keep the market for metallurgical coal hot for the next fifty years. The problem isn’t demand, though newer technology means we don’t need as much coal to make steel as we did before. No, it’s not demand that’s going to kill us. It isn’t even supply. There’s lots of coal left, thought it’s a little bit trickier to get at now. We’ve got to dig deeper, which costs more. No, the problem is competition.” Mike Barnes poured himself a glass of water and took a sip.

  Cole sized up Barnes. He was a sturdy enough man, possibly cruiserweight, though Cole doubted he’d ever thrown a punch in his life. He was fit, tanned. He probably liked to mountain bike on his days off. His hands were strong but smooth and well taken care of. His strength was born from his morning workout, not from slaving in the mill as the rest of the men in Oracle had.

  “Competition will be our downfall. The Buffalo Anthracite Mine simply can’t complete against less e
xpensive, more productive mines elsewhere in the world,” continued Barnes. “We simply can’t compete with low production costs off shore.”

  “Do you mean Indonesia and other developing economies?” asked Cole.

  “Sure. There are plenty of countries where coal is mined and milled for a lower cost than in North America. We pay ourselves too well. We have high standards for workplace safety. And though you may not agree with this, we have tough environmental regulations. All of those factors put a huge onus on the company to spend money on up-front measures to minimize our impact, and on remediation and mitigation. It all adds up.”

  “Back up a little,” Cole interrupted. “You bet I don’t agree with you about high environmental standards. High maybe if you compare us to Peru or Burma.”

  “It’s all relative,” said Mike Barnes, smiling. “My point is, this mine will have a declining presence in the local economy. Has had a declining impact on the local economy for more than a decade. People just refuse to see it. Acknowledge it. Oracle needs to accept this and learn how other similar economies have diversified, and take measures now to ensure its future, or it can dry up and blow away.”

  Every word out of Barnes’ mouth sounded familiar. He could have been listening to Cole’s conversation with Peggy McSorlie after the strategy session. He smiled.

  “What is it?” asked Barnes.

  “You’re singing from the same song sheet as my employer. How strange is that?”

  “Peggy McSorlie? Smart lady. People should listen to her.”

  “Some do, some don’t.”

  “Problem with ESCoGis that they’re fighting below their weight class. They think like kitchen-table locals. And the disreputable elements in the group don’t exactly win them any friends in town. And if you think I don’t have to listen to those disreputable sorts even in here,” he looked around the room, “you’re mistaken. Anybody who asks for a meeting here gets one. Even Dale van Stempvort.”