Don't Pay Me to Erode My Topsoil

The Upper Basin Chronicles

Chapter 39

Don't Pay Me to Erode My Topsoil

By the time the southbound coal train left only black dust behind, the Darin Adrian was finally making good headway, levering its fifteen barge corn tow toward the Lock and Dam 6 downbound guide wall. Not long after, the work of breaking the first cut of nine barges off for the initial lockage began, mostly out of sight of the boys and Rick Garcia, still standing at the foot of Main Street in Trempealeau.

Soon enough, the Adrian shoved the first take into the lock and backed clear of the gates. It would follow those nine barges down into Pool 7 with the last six in the second lockage. That this could not all be done in one smooth operation galled many a towboat crew on the upper river. Especially when the after watch kept finding lock after lock, while the forward watch slept on.

"Fact is," said Rick Garcia to the two eleven year-olds as the superstructure of the Darin Adrian began to lower into the lock chamber, "if you're thinking about towboats, the life of the deckhand is dirty, dog-tired, and dangerous. Now the pilothouse is a whole different story."

Just then, a Corps of Engineers pickup with a trailered flatboat rolled up behind them. Planner Larry Grimm climbed out and waved. Garcia introduced him to the boys. Ramon Garcia and Michael Murphy shook hands politely, but were more interested in the well-equipped federal flatboat than in the conversation of the adults. Grimm soon pointed them through the white picket fence toward the hotel.

"Why don't you boys knock this volleyball around while we talk, then we'll eat, ok?" said Rick Garcia.

"Sure, Dad!" "OK, Mr. Garcia," they said. The pair pulled off shoes and socks and plunged into the dredge spoil sand that formed the hotel's popular courts, the scene of many a cross-net battle evenings and weekends.

The friends soon discovered the sandy acrobatics of beach volleyball. They flung themselves after the ball in a mock championship, complete with play-by-play and imagined spikes and kills below the too-tall net.

When Michael floated a long ball over the net, Ramon ran for it with his back to his opponent. In a move that would win applause from any beach soccer fan, he took a final leap and kicked the ball high over his head diagonally toward center court. A bit of river breeze floated it beyond its target and into the big maple behind the hotel.

There it rattled from limb to limb, bounced down off the edge of a picnic table and vanished beneath a gooseneck cattle trailer attached to 3/4 ton pickup parked in the shade. A round man in striped bib overalls leaned against the passenger door. He was as old as Michael's granddad Owen. He chewed a toothpick that he pulled from his mouth as the boys ran up in pursuit of the ball.

"Now whatcha gonna do?" he asked in a gruff, yet still friendly voice. Four black and white Holstein milk cows shifted nervously in the trailer. One banged the aluminum side with a thrown hoof. Another bawled unhappily at the boys' approach. The trailer rocked with the cows' motion.

The volleyball rested in the gravel under the rear axle. The boys hesitated to crawl after it.

"I wouldn't either," said the old dairyman. "Couldn't, in fact, too much barley pop for me to crawl under there anymore. Not at my age. You boys just wait a minute, and George there will be out with our lunch, and we'll be on our way."

"Nice cows," said Michael as he reached a hand toward a large wet nostril pressed against the slats of the trailer.

"Yep. Older, but about the best 'round here. Sellin' 'em today up by Ettrick, though. Hamburger. Hate to see it. Good ol' girls. Saaaay, boss," the old dairyman addressed the boys and the cows together. He spit and replaced the toothpick.

"How come you're selling them?" asked Ramon.

The back door screen to hotel kitchen slammed. A farmer in his mid-50's approached carrying two styrofoam lunch boxes and a pair of root beers. He turned to the NRCS conservationist and the Army Corps planner, both in uniform and following him out the door.

"I don't usually get a hotel lunch," he said with a grin, "but my wife is cooking here today, so we can afford the special."

Garcia agreed that he was looking forward to the lunch menu himself, and made introductions all around. They boys pointed to the pinned volleyball. The cows shifted and bawled some more. They made brief small talk about cows and volleyballs while the younger dairyman looked at his watch, excused himself, and walked around the trailer to climb in on the driver's side. The diesel 3/4 ton barked once then clicked over steadily. The old man opened the pickup door. He cleared this throat and spit toward the river. He took a deep breath while he eyed the two federal employees.

"This young fella asked how come we're selling these cows," he began, speaking loudly over the sound of the idling pickup.

"There's no more money in it. Milk prices are still down. We're going broke. You boys have got us dairy folks in a real bind. You shifted price supports from dairy to corn and beans. Now all the milk comes from huge operations in California. Thousands of cows milked by computers. Meanwhile, up in the valley where my great-grandfather homesteaded 640 acres after the Civil War, we can't make a decent living."

"My great-grandfather came from Norway. He fought with the 15th Wisconsin Volunteers, and now his great-great-great grandchildren, fine young people with college educations, can't afford to come home to raise their families and take the place over. It makes me sick to think of it. What are we supposed to do, just sell it to some developer for commuter homes?"

"Come on, Dad. Let it go," a voice floated from the pickup.

"I'm not done yet," said the old man. "You got my ridge neighbors confining their cows, plowing up their pastures, and buying hay and silage from wherever. They're planting corn and beans like flatland farmers. Contour strips, be dammed! These guys are snapping up every small dairy farm they can get their hands on. Their big wide equipment, run by lead-footed hired help can barely turn around up there. So they run the row crops up and downhill more and more. The topsoil runs off like there's no tomorrow! It's going right down that river and you know it!

He was breathing hard, red-faced. He pointed the toothpick toward Rick Garcia and Larry Grimm.

"I'll tell you what, I never thought I'd say this, but I'm going organic. I thought I'd vote Republican first, but things change. They're taking good care of their land and their cows, and their families are making a decent living at it, too! They're not selling good cows to pay the bills like some of us. I'm not going to corn and beans just because you federal guys have got things screwed up that way. I won't."

The old dairyman climbed heavily into the pickup and slammed the door. He leaned out the window as the 3/4 ton clicked into gear and began to roll.

"Don't pay me to erode my topsoil!" he shouted at last.

The volleyball sat white and alone in the gravel.

###

Next...Chapter 40.

Thanks for these resources:

PRESENT-DAY AGRICULTURE IN SOUTHERN MINNESOTA - - IS IT SUSTAINABLE?
Gyles W. Randall, Soil Scientist and Professor, Southern Research and Outreach Center, University of Minnesota, Waseca, MN
Buffer Strips: Common Sense Conservation NRCS Wisconsin
Mississippi River Environmental Pool Plans St. Paul District, US Army Corps of Engineers
Lower Mississippi River Basin Planning Scoping Document BALMM Basin Alliance for the Lower Mississippi in Minnesota

The Upper Basin Chronicles, Chapter 39 was written and edited by John Gabbert.

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The characters presented here are purely fictional, and neither bear resemblance to persons living or dead, nor represent the views or opinions of Saint Mary’s University of Minnesota.