by Gary Barnes
Larry almost regretted having asked the question. He could tell that Clayton was just getting started and that if he didn’t change the subject quick Clayton would continue to spit out technical information for another half-hour. Quickly he glanced at his watch.
“Umm . . . if we’re going to get to that sawmill before quitting time we’d better get going,” Larry suggested.
“Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go.” Clayton stood and headed for the cash register to pay the bill while Larry returned the photos to the envelope.
Leaving the drugstore, they got into the Hummer and headed north on Highway 19. As they drove, Larry quizzed his mentor. “So what do you think of the Chitwoods?”
“Well, they certainly weren’t what I had expected,” Clayton responded. “They’re an interesting family, a lot more lively than the one I had growing up.”
“You seemed to have a good time.”
“Yeah, I did. I enjoyed playing football with the boys.”
“So you do have something in common with them!”
“I don’t know that I’d go that far, but they’re good people. I’m afraid that I ruffled Opal’s feathers last night though,” lamented Clayton.
“Oh?”
“She doesn’t approve of our project.” At that point Clayton pulled the H-2 into the parking lot of one of the saw mill operations that dotted that portion of the Ozarks.
*
The whirl of the sawmill was heard in the background and the pungent smell of fresh cut pine, mixed with the earthy smell of oak sawdust wafted through the air. A twenty-five foot high sawdust pile rose from the forest floor, fed by a conveyor belt that emptied the loads brought by dump trucks from the cutting operations. Clayton and Larry knelt at the base of the sawdust pile, and Larry used a long digging pole to obtain samples from deep at its core. They filled several sample vials from varying depths and labeled them. The chemical analysis would be completed at the portable lab upon their return to the base camp.
From there the duo retreated to Sinking Creek, which flowed within 200 yards of the sawdust pile. As they began their trek downstream, Clayton noticed a man dressed in typical sawmill worker safety equipment standing on the crest of the hill near the sawdust piles they had just left. The man was staring at them and taking notes.
Clayton and Larry methodically moved downstream as they continued to monitor for pollutants. Larry hoisted a long pole with a thermometer and an extraction vial at the end. He dipped it into the creek about eight feet from shore, and passed the vial end to Clayton, who recorded the temperature, removed the vial and labeled it. He then attached another empty vial.
They took water samples every hundred yards for a mile downstream of the mill operations. As they pushed their way through the thick underbrush that grew along the stream bank, Larry struggled to keep up.
“So, why is this stream called Sinking Creek?” asked Larry.
“Well, the streambed eventually makes its way to the Current River, but the water never does, unless its flooding after a heavy rain.”
Larry glanced at the twenty-five-foot wide, three-foot deep stream beside them and incredulously asked, “There’s a lot of water there, where does it all go?”
“It just disappears. About a mile-and-a-half downstream the bed rock gets very porous and the water sinks into the gravel. The whole stream goes underground leaving the gravel bed as dry as a bone.” Clayton stepped over a log and pushed back some foliage as they continued their trek through the woods. “Not too far from Blue Spring is a cave, Fears Cave. This water enters the cave through a spring and becomes one of the many tributaries to the cave’s water source. Then it flows out the cave’s mouth and makes its way to Current River.”
“How can they tell that the water in this stream is the same water that comes out of Fears Cave?”
“Dye tracings. It’s really a pretty simple process.”
Larry knew better than to ask more questions, fearing that Clayton would explain in vivid detail every step of the dye tracing process.
They continued to collect water and soil samples as they pushed downstream. Upon their return to the lab later that afternoon they would analyze the samples for turbidity, dissolved minerals and other solids, tannic acid content, ph variances, and other chemical anomalies. This data would then be cross-correlated with other data in a regression analysis of Chytrid infestation and genetic mutations.
Periodically they waded into the shallow waters of Sinking Creek to examine the leaves of various aquatic plants. They checked for frog eggs and tabulated the number of egg clusters in a given area. This would give them an indication as to whether population sizes were diminishing or increasing.
Throughout their trek, Clayton noticed that they were periodically being observed by the same individual he had seen near the sawdust piles. Though the observer had kept his distance, Clayton realized that the man had been following them for over an hour, recording their actions, and staring at them. At first Clayton had thought that the man was simply a safety officer doing his job at the mill and that they were coincidently crossing paths, but it had now become obvious that the observer was actually spying on them. Clayton felt uncomfortable at being observed but did not understand why their actions should warrant such attention.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sheriff’s Office
A few days later, Sheriff Akers sat at his desk at the Shannon County Sheriff’s office across the street from Opal’s café. He had been aimlessly shuffling papers, which seemed to be the never-ending sum total of his professional life. Not much ever happened in his county.
Sheriff Akers was an Andy Griffith type of person – older, wise, slow in his movements, not too excitable, not prone to panicking or making hasty decisions, and filled with a lot of good common sense – the type of sense that usually comes by graduation from the school of hard knocks. Some of the local town folk had even teased Sheriff Akers about his resemblance to the television actor, even though, unlike Andy Griffith, he was a little over-weight. However, what the town folk overlooked was that even though Eminence was the county seat of Shannon County, that Mayberry would have been considered a major metropolis by comparison.
Having filed his reports, the Sheriff rose to stretch his legs and walked out of his office into the main reception area. There he began to speak with Jane Chilton, the dispatcher, about some routine county business. As they were speaking, the door from the street opened.
“Well, good afternoon Hank,” Sheriff Akers greeted the tall lanky man who entered.
Hank Dobbs was a cattle rancher who ran four hundred head on his spread a few miles east of Eminence. He and his two sons, one married and the other studying agronomy at the University of Missouri, were among the few successful cattle ranchers in the area. The dairy business never caught on in the Ozarks, but raising beef cattle was gradually becoming a respectable operation. The open range guidelines established by the Federal Bureau of Land Management helped cattlemen lower their operating costs and thus subsidized their profits. Hank was a second generation rancher and hoped to pass his operation on to his sons.
“Sheriff . . . Jane,” Hank said as he tilted his head in the direction of the dispatcher.
“I came in to report some rustling.”
“Rustling! Are you sure? We haven’t had anything like that for a long time.”
“Well, no. I’m not sure,” said Hank as he removed his straw cowboy hat and scratched his head. “But I don’t know what else it could be.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened.”
“I’ve got my herd out in my south pasture, and with them I’ve got four calves. Soon as the calves can take fodder I was plannin’ on takin’ ‘em over to the feed lot in Salem. This morning my boys and I got on our four-wheelers to take a salt lick out to the herd.”
Sheriff Akers turned one of the wooden backed chairs around, straddled it, and sat down with the back of the chair facing forward. He motioned f
or Hank and his sons to join him. As soon as they got settled, Hank continued.
“Well, as we approached the area where I figured they’d be, we heard the calve’s mothers bellowing and bawling up a raucous. They wanted to be milked real bad. When we got to them their milk bags were swollen up somethin’ fierce but the calves were nowhere to be found. They’d just vanished.”
“Vanished?” inquired Sheriff Akers.
“Yeah, not a trace. We immediately milked the cows to ease their pain, then set out to find the calves. We searched everywhere but couldn’t find them. You know that calves don’t wander far from their mothers.”
“Not generally,” admitted the Sheriff.
“But I did find a section of my fence, near the river, that had been trampled down and it looked like something had been drug across the ground and down into the water. I figure that somebody stole my calves and drug them down to a waiting boat. I’m sure I’ll never get ‘em back, but just in case, I want to file a complaint,” concluded Hank.
“Well, I’d hardly call that rustling,” commented Sheriff Akers, “unless we can find more evidence than that.”
“Well, I couldn’t find any.”
“I doubt that any professional rustlers would have taken just the calves. More than likely this is just some kids pulling a prank.”
“Or hosting a barbeque!”
“Either way, I’ll keep my ears open and see what I can learn. In the meantime you might want to round up the rest of your herd and keep them closer to your barn.”
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rymer’s Ranch
Friday afternoon arrived and Larry drove up to the Chitwood home. Clayton had reluctantly agreed to accompany him as he took Johnny and his friends, Austin and Frankie, camping at Rymer’s Ranch, a primitive Forest Service campground on the Jack’s Fork River about fifteen miles upriver from Alley Spring – by way of the river. Unfortunately, there were no roads that went directly from Eminence to the Ranch, so it required a thirty-five mile, one-hour drive to get there.
The ranch was a beautiful area that was originally owned by the Rymer family, having been passed down through the family for a number of generations. However, when the Ozark National Scenic Riverways park system was created, the Rymers, like so many other dry farmers in the area, lost their property through the process of eminent domain. But unlike most other families, the Forest Service had agreed to create a primitive campground on the Rymer’s property and to name it in honor of the family.
Johnny and his friends were excited about the camping trip and especially about the privilege of riding in a new H-2. They quickly threw their gear into the back of the vehicle then climbed into the back seat, anxious to get started.
Tina greeted Larry and Clayton then turned her attention to the boys. “Now you be on your best behavior. I don’t want any monkey business or horsin’ around. Ya hear?”
“I’m sure they’ll be just fine,” Larry assured her.
“I really appreciate you doing this. W.T. works the night shift and Lillburn’s not the camping type. I’d be glad to take them but they don’t want to go camping with a girl.”
“We’ll have a lot of fun together so don’t worry,” Larry stated with certitude.
Clayton wasn’t so sure about the prospects of having fun; he had never spent much time around children. He was willing to go along however, provided that Larry did most of the chaperoning.
*
The Hummer headed south on Highway 19 and had barely left Eminence when it overtook a slow-moving eighteen wheeler. The twisty, hilly Ozark roads made it difficult for a car to go very fast, even when there was no traffic ahead. Stuck behind a semi, however, it almost seemed that a box turtle, which were quite abundant on the roads that time of year, could pass the backed-up line of traffic without trying. Larry was towing a bass boat behind the H-2, which made passing even more difficult.
The boys were discouraged because they wanted to get to the campsite as soon as possible. They grumbled for several miles until a short open stretch appeared and Larry yelled over his shoulder to the boys, “Hang on!” as he tromped on the gas peddle.
Johnny saw a golden opportunity and quickly lowered his passenger-side window. He then stuck his right arm out the window, made a fist and bent his arm upward at the elbow. He then quickly pumped his arm up and down simulating pulling on the cord of a semi’s air-horn.
As Larry passed the cab the semi driver gave two quick loud blasts on his air-horn. Johnny was ecstatic and flashed the semi driver a quick thumbs-up thank you sign. He then pulled his arm back into the car and the two other boys cheered with Johnny at his success as if they had assisted with the task.
Seven miles down the road they arrived at Winona where Larry turned right onto U.S. 60 and drove to Birch Tree, where they stopped for dinner at a local fast food establishment.
“Do you think you could take us to Jam Up Cave?” inquired Johnny quite enthusiastically as he squirted a blob of ketchup onto his burger wrapper so that he could dunk his fries into it.
“Yeah, that’d be so cool!” the other boys chimed in.
“I don’t know,” Larry replied. “I’ve heard it’s down there near Rymer’s but I don’t know exactly where it is.”
“I think it’s about five miles upriver from the campsite. It wouldn’t take that long to get there with your motorboat,” Johnny begged.
“Yeah,” added Austin. “The entrance is over eighty feet high and a thousand feet wide.”
“A thousand feet?” Larry responded. “I think you’re exaggerating just a little aren’t you?”
“No, the boy’s right,” said Clayton. “It really is that big, and it has an extremely large lake inside as well. The only access to the cave is by boat. It’s also unusual in another very important way, at least for us scientists. The cave faces north, so the indirect light reaching its interior keeps it in perpetual twilight-creating conditions which are perfect for the preservation of several plant species that have not been seen anywhere else in the Ozarks since the last Ice Age.”
“And you can only get there by boat, so can we go, pleeeeze?” pled Johnny.
“We’ll see. No promises until I find out more about it,” concluded Larry.
*
Night had fallen by the time they arrived at Rymer’s Ranch and set up their camp, though there wasn’t much to set up. Typical of most boys their age, Johnny and his friends did not want to go to bed. After much cajoling they finally convinced Larry and Clayton to play a game of Steal the Flag – boys against the geezers. Even though Larry was only a college student, the boys still considered him to be a geezer.
The game began with Clayton guarding the men’s flag and Frankie guarding the boy’s flag. The flags were placed about two hundred feet apart. The object of the game, as Austin explained to Clayton, was to steal the opposing team’s flag and run it back to your own team’s flag without getting caught or tagged in the process. This was especially fun at night in the dark, he explained, because you could sneak up on your opponents without being seen.
For the next hour the game seesawed back and forth, with each side taking prisoners and then helping them escape. At first it appeared that the men were at a disadvantage because there were only two of them. But it quickly became apparent that the teams were quite evenly matched, since Frankie was so fat that he simply could not run. In fact he was almost a detriment to his team. After an hour, however, Austin finally succeeded in capturing the men’s flag and racing it back to the boy’s standard without getting tagged.
The boys were jubilant that they had beaten the geezers but Clayton jokingly maintained that they had let the boys win just so that they could all go to bed.
Returning to their campsite Larry stretched out a 20' X 20' blue plastic tarp. Everyone unrolled their sleeping bags and lined them up along one end of the tarp. Then Larry and Clayton pulled the other end of the tarp up and over the sleeping bags. There was no rain in the for
ecast, but the plastic would protect them from any dew that might fall before morning. The boys were delighted to sleep under the stars instead of in a tent.
Once settled into their sleeping bags, it wasn’t long before both men were sleeping soundly, and snoring. The boys however, continued to talk and giggle until well past two in the morning.
*
The next morning proved to be a gloriously sunshiny day. Clayton was up early, making scrambled eggs and pancakes with blueberry syrup. Larry attended to the bacon. Slowly the boys began to stir. It’s hard to resist the aroma of sizzling bacon cooked over an open campfire.
After the boys were fully awake they eagerly began stuffing down pancakes faster than Clayton could make them.
Halfway through his third helping Johnny turned to Clayton and asked, “Dr. Clayton? Me and the guys were talking last night and we were wondering. How do you take a bath when you’re out camping like this? I mean, there’s a lot of other people camping here too. There’s even a group of Girl Scouts on the other side of the river. So how do you do it . . . um . . . you know . . . privately?”
“Well Johnny, it’s really quite simple,” Clayton began as he flipped another batch of pancakes. “As you said, there’s a lot of other people around so you have to do it a little differently. First of all, be sure that you use an environmentally friendly brand of camping soap. Then you wade out into the river as far as possible, you know, ‘til the water’s about up to your waist. Then dunk yourself all the way underwater to get good and wet.”