The Cardinal Divide

by Stephen Legault

  He cleared his throat. “Have you got today’s paper?”

  “Well, the local rag doesn’t come out ’til Thursday,” she said. “But the Red Deer paper’s daily. There are a few on the table there.” She pointed to the coffee table by the fireplace.

  “Can I take one?” he asked.

  “Be my guest,” she smiled.

  He grabbed a paper and beat a hasty retreat. He walked the four blocks to the highway and made his way to the Tim Hortons to read the news and coffee up. The place was quiet. By nine most of Oracle’s working class was already at the mill, at the mine, or in the woods. He sat at a table by the window, drank his coffee, and flipped through the paper.

  There it was. “Greens gear up to fight new mine,” read the headline.

  Cole sipped his coffee and scanned the story.

  A coalition of local activists, small business owners, and scientists is preparing to go head to head with Athabasca Coal, the proponent of the McLeod River Mine, located south and west of the town of Oracle.

  The group hopes to stop in its tracks plans for a new open-pit mine that will extract 30 million tonnes of coking coal in the region, saying that the mine will destroy wildlife habitat and put Jasper National Park at risk.

  That’s good, thought Cole. They got the small business owners and scientists angle in, so it’s not just a bunch of berry-suckers doing the whining.

  But local Mine Manager Mike Barnes says that the company has every intention of protecting fish and wildlife in the region, and says that the new mine will actually enhance local populations of wildlife in the long run.

  Barnes says that the open pits will be reclaimed so that after the mine closes in thirty years, there will be a series of lakes that will be stocked with trout, and the slopes levelled and seeded for sheep habitat.

  Barnes adds that the local economy, in a slump since a previous mine project was scuttled nearly a decade ago, needs this project to stay afloat. “We’re talking about our kids’ future,” says Barnes, who has been the Manager at Athabasca Coal’s existing Buffalo Anthracite Mine for six months.

  Not so good, thought Cole. This guy Barnes knows his stuff. He got a line in the paper about economy and kids practically in the same sentence. The story went on:

  But local activist Dale van Stempvort ...

  Rats, thought Cole.

  ...says that the mine is a “disgrace and an abomination,” and that activists are developing a plan to stop it. When asked what they had planned, van Stempvort said that no plan had been finalized yet, but that he was “willing to do anything necessary to keep the mine out of Cardinal Divide.”

  Cole stopped reading. He put down the paper and looked out the window. His job just got a lot harder.

  He dialled Peggy McSorlie’s number on his cellphone and listened to it ring. She answered the phone.

  “I’ve read it,” he said without saying hello. “I told you,” he said angrily.

  “I know you did. What can we do?”

  “Nothing, I guess,” he sighed. “I think we’re just going to have to carry on with our plan of yesterday.”

  “OK,” agreed McSorlie.

  “But it’s like he wasn’t even there. Wasn’t even listening when we talked about keeping a lid on this for a while. What did he do, call the reporter from his truck as he was leaving? He would have had to make the print deadline.”

  Peggy was silent a moment. “I’m sorry, Cole.”

  “No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I should have come down a little harder on him.”

  “It wouldn’t have helped.”

  “Likely not,” he said, less angrily. “OK, well, on with the show.”

  “You’re still going to call Mike Barnes and ask to see him?”

  “More reason now than ever. In fact, in some ways, this fits well with my cover story.”

  “And what about Dale? Should I call him?”

  Cole thought a moment. “No, let me. I can lean on him a little without risking a long-term relationship.”

  They said goodbye and hung up.

  Cole sipped his coffee. Then he checked his Palm Pilot for the mine office number and dialled it, taking a deep breath as he did.

  “Buffalo Anthracite Mine. Sophie speaking.”

  “Mike Barnes, please.”

  “Just a moment.” Cole waited while the call was transferred.

  “Mike Barnes’ office. Tracey speaking,” said a woman with a cool voice.

  “This is Cole Blackwater calling,” he said. “I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Barnes.”

  “Will he know what it’s about, sir?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m a business writer and I’m interested in doing a story on Mr. Barnes and the McLeod River project.”

  “OK , let me see.” After a minute she returned. “Mr. Barnes is in meetings all morning, sir. Would you like to talk with Mr. Henderson, our Assistant Mine Manager instead?”

  “No thanks,” said Cole, “and I’m not in that much of a rush. I was hoping for an hour or so of Mr. Barnes’ time, face to face.”

  Cole made a mental note to see if Henderson’s position on things was just the same.

  “Well, he could see you at the end of the day today,” she said.

  “That would be fine,” replied Cole. “What time?”

  “Five?”

  “That would be great.”

  “OK , I’ll leave your name at security. They’ll give you directions to the administration building. You know how to get to the mine site?”

  He said he didn’t, and she told him.

  He hung up. That was easier than he’d expected. No questions about which magazine, no questions about his credentials. But then, why should there be? There was no reason for the mine to suspect that the local activists had brought him in as a hired gun to help them stop the new mine. Not yet, he reasoned.

  He sipped his coffee, now nearly cold. He looked up Dale van Stempvort’s number in his Palm. How would he handle this call? Clearly van Stempvort had violated the group’s wish for confidentiality, and only a few hours after assuring Blackwater that he would do no such thing. Cole looked at the number. This call required more caffeine. He went to the counter and ordered another coffee and another doughnut. He sat back down and wondered what might motivate van Stempvort.

  In his years as an activist, Cole Blackwater had rarely worked on a file where someone like Dale van Stempvort didn’t show up as a fly in the ointment. People’s motives for working to protect the environment were complex. While nearly everyone who volunteered to protect places like the Cardinal Divide did it for noble reasons – protect nature, leave a legacy, care for wildlife – some people’s motives had nothing to do with the environment at all. The environmental movement was by nature an outsider’s game. And outsiders came in all shapes and sizes.

  Along with the everyday people who simply cared about nature, Cole Blackwater believed that the movement did attract its share of people who were disenfranchised by society, who were mentally ill, or who simply felt that the way to get attention was to stand out by speaking out. More often than not these people took drastic positions, looking for media attention, or created conflicts within environmental groups, choosing infighting over working to solve the real problems. Had these people lived in the nineteenth century, they would have circled the wagons and shot in.

  Dale van Stempvort certainly seemed to crave attention, even to revel in the conflict he created among his fellow activists. Black-water thought him unbalanced. He seemed dangerous. He had a propensity for rash statements, like the one staring at Blackwater from the pages of the newspaper spread open in front of him.

  So the question Blackwater posed to himself over his second cup of coffee was this: just how far would van Stempvort go to stop this mine?

  He looked at Dale van Stempvort’s number again on his Palm. He had taken everybody’s name, email, phone number, and address down after the first meeting at Peggy McSorlie’s farm and ent
ered them there for safekeeping. He picked up his cell and was about to dial the number when a familiar-looking pickup truck pulled into the doughnut shop parking lot. Cole watched, amazed, as Dale van Stempvort parked his truck and stepped out, adjusting his ball cap. Cole hid behind his newspaper. He didn’t want to be seen talking with Dale. He needed another couple of incognito days in town to interview the President of the Chamber of Commerce and others under the guise of a magazine story. Talking with Dale could cast suspicion on his cover, and at the very least make people think that the story was for Canadian Geographic rather than Report on Business.

  From behind the paper Cole watched Dale order a coffee and a muffin and then, without a word to anybody, walk back out. Cole swept his phone, paper, and Palm Pilot into his arms and followed Dale into the parking lot.

  Dale stepped into the truck. Cole checked over his shoulder and, certain he wasn’t being observed, deftly moved to the passenger side of the truck, opened the door, and slipped in.

  If Cole Blackwater’s sudden appearance in the cab of his truck startled Dale van Stempvort, he didn’t let it show. Instead he simply said, “Good Morning, Cole.”

  “Morning, Dale.”

  “Saw you behind the newspaper in the shop there.”

  “Well, I didn’t want to blow my cover quite yet,” Cole said, somewhat embarrassed.

  “Oh yes.”

  “Shall we go for a little drive, Dale? Have a chat?”

  “All right. Where to?”

  “How about just to the outskirts of town and back?”

  Dale backed the truck from its stall and turned right on the highway, heading west toward the mountains.

  “Listen, Dale, I wanted to talk with you about this story in the paper this morning. Have you seen it?”

  “Yes, I saw it.”

  “It’s quite the story.”

  “It sure is.”

  “Dale,” said Cole. “I’m a little disappointed that you went to the media after all we discussed yesterday.”

  “Now just wait a minute, Cole,” said Dale, turning his head sharply. Cole thought for a minute that Dale was going to explode, and prepared himself for the possibility of physical violence. He suddenly questioned the wisdom of jumping, unwitnessed, into the cab of a pickup with a man whose sanity he had only moments ago questioned. “Wait a minute,” Dale said again, more calmly, turning his eyes back to the road. “That reporter called me. I didn’t call him.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The reporter called me. The telephone was ringing when I walked in the door. I’ve never even heard of him before. Somebody from Red Deer that doesn’t normally work this beat.”

  “Did he say how he knew to call just then?”

  “I didn’t even ask. I just assumed that it was blind luck that we had wrapped up our strategy meeting. You know, a coincidence.”

  “Some coincidence.”

  “Well, the story has been pretty hot, and I have been in the paper a lot.”

  Cole looked at the paper in his hands. The byline was given to Richard T. Drewfeld. He made a mental note to call Mr. Drewfeld later that morning.

  “So you didn’t call the reporter.”

  Dale stiffened. “Cole, I know you don’t like me. Maybe I’m too rough around the edges for a big city environmentalist like you. But an agreement is an agreement, and we agreed to hold off the media for a week while we developed our plan.”

  “But you were quoted.”

  Dale hunched forward a little. “Yeah, well, what was I supposed to do? Tell the guy to fuck off, that there wasn’t any story?”

  “But Dale, you told the guy that you would be willing to do anything to stop the mine. That’s hardly a mush-ball quote. And the reporter knew that we’d been in a strategy session! Did you tell him that too?”

  “I did no such thing!” barked Dale in his thick Dutch accent. “Look, the guy seemed to have already known that we were planning to oppose the mine. It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to surmise that we were going to go head to head over this one. And as for the comment about doing anything necessary, well, he took that out of context.”

  Cole was silent. They had left town now and were still driving west on Highway 16. “Let’s turn around,” he said, as calmly as he could.

  Cole knew from years of experience that Dale van Stempvort, if he was telling the truth, had fallen for two of the oldest tricks in the journalist’s book. First, the reporter had conned Dale into believing that he already knew certain things. A statement as open ended as “I understand local enviros are gearing up to fight this mine” could have tricked van Stempvort into believing the writer knew about that day’s meeting.

  The second trick was to get van Stempvort talking and then just sit back and listen. People are uncomfortable with long silences, and often avoid them by continuing to talk. In this case Drewfeld may have simply asked what was being planned to stop the mine, and van Stempvort could have rattled on for 15 minutes. Then the reporter could have taken a sentence, even half a sentence, that met his needs and used it to make van Stempvort sound like the frothing-at-the-mouth radical he was.

  They drove in silence for a few minutes. Then Dale said, “I screwed up, didn’t I?”

  Cole breathed out heavily. “It could be worse. It could be that nobody was interested in this as a story at all. But yes, you did screw up. You should have told the reporter that you didn’t have anything to say or told them to call Peggy.”

  “Look, Cole, I’m sorry. Sometimes I just get a bit hot under the collar. I hate it so damn much what those bastards are doing, and are going to do, that I don’t think.”

  “We need to think, Dale, if we’re going to win.”

  Dale stared toward the approaching town of Oracle. “I know it,” he finally said.

  “Stay out of the media. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Dale said, smiling. Then, “Where can I drop you?”

  “Pull off 16 up ahead. I’ll hop out.”

  Dale pulled over on the shoulder of a side street about four blocks from Cole’s motel. Cole began to open the door. Dale grabbed his arm and Cole stiffened. Dale relaxed his grip, “Wait a minute, Cole.”

  Cole sat back, but left the door ajar. “What is it?” he said.

  “I know you think I’m some kind of raving lunatic. An eco-terrorist. A mad bomber,” Dale grinned at the labels. “I know that’s what everybody thinks. That I’m some kind of psychopath. That I’m dangerous.”

  Cole was silent. He watched the big man. Dale gripped the wheel with both hands intently, not making eye contact. “I’m none of those things, really, Cole. It’s just an act. It’s for show,” sighed Dale, looking over at Cole. “I didn’t have anything to do with blowing up gas wells.”

  “But you didn’t deny it when the stories came out.”

  “I didn’t and I know that seems pretty stupid. But it was a good opportunity to tell my story, and as long as nobody was laying charges against me, I didn’t see any reason to assert my innocence. I know that may seem dumb to you, but it gave my issue a lot of attention, Cole.”

  It gave you a lot of attention, Cole thought, but remained silent.

  “Anyway, I just really want to stop this mine. And if you say that means not talking to the media, well, then I’m willing to listen. For now.”

  Cole regarded him for a long, silent moment. He saw in Dale van Stempvort’s face no malice. He saw no guile. He saw simply a big, rough man fighting for something that he believed in. Did Dale van Stempvort conceal something dark and sinister behind his mask of innocence? Cole had no way of knowing. I’m a liar myself, after all, mused Cole.

  Cole sighed deeply. He swung the door open, and said, over his shoulder, “You gave me the benefit of the doubt yesterday. I’m giving it back to you now. Let’s hope neither of us comes out of this too disappointed.” He stepped out of the truck.

  He puzzled over the question of Dale van Stempvort as he walked the four blocks to his motel. He needed to tru
st Dale in order to continue with his work. He needed to know that there wouldn’t be a story in the paper the day after every strategy session. Some of the tactics they were considering required the element of surprise to be effective.

  The morning was bright and the temperature climbed steadily. It must be fifteen degrees, a respectable spring day in the Eastern Slopes. May could be bright and sunny, but as often as not it could shepherd in weeks of rain, even snow. Ian Tyson’s lament came to mind: Just like springtime in Alberta, warm sunny days, endless skies of blue. Then without a warning, another winter storm comes raging through.

  As he walked he found himself humming the tune. That melody catapulted him into Saturday morning breakfast with his brother Walter and their dad at the Coral Café in Clairsholm. After their morning’s tasks at the feed store, they would stop for breakfast before driving back to the ranch. Cole and Walter would fight to see who got to sit in the middle of the pickup. Whoever lost had to jump in and out of the truck a dozen times on the drive, opening and closing gates on the way home. He stopped humming. No sense in letting in any more of those memories. Cole pushed thoughts of his father back under the dark and heavy anchor that kept them in place.

  He reached the Rim Rock Motel and crossed the now nearly empty parking lot. It was 11 AM, and Blackwater guessed that nearly every person staying there was out on a job site. It was his intention to join them just as soon as he could. He climbed the outside stairs and followed the walkway to his room. His computer was waiting. He had some digging to do. When he reached his room he rummaged through his pockets, fishing for the key, digging through the usual collection of receipts, wrappers, coins, money, lint, and other rubbish. He heard a loud shout from a room a few doors down to his right. He looked up quickly, and noticed for the first time the open door, and the maid’s cart protruding slightly onto the catwalk.

  Cole held his breath, listened, and then heard another shout, a loud male voice. The voice was familiar. Curiosity overtook him, and he quietly walked the twenty metres down the catwalk toward the open door.