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Old man Flynn, who ran the only drug
store in town, surveyed the remnants of the place his father had taught
him to fish so many years before and shook his head slowly in disbelief.
Even though the fishing hadn't been so
good in the last few years, the beckoning waters had been like an old
friend, serving as a place of solitude and
comfort in the hectic world of Man and his modern society. A part of his
childhood had died and, with it, a little
bit of Flynn, too.
At the lower end of what had been Louisa,
Del Nixon also gazed out across the still-damp mud flats with a bit of
personal agony. His small marina had served a fairly good clientele on
weekends and holidays and had provided
a base for the many commercial fishermen who lined and netted the
waters. Though things hadn't been too good
recently, the boaters and ski buffs had provided enough weekend income
to stay open. Now, things were going
to be tough. Del had spent about all his spare dollars in helping the
commercial boys fight and win against the
anti-netting ordinances that were brought up the year before. Ironically
enough, even though they'd won in court,
most of the commercial fishermen had folded their nets and moved on to
other waters anyway. The fishing just
wasn't what it used to be.
Jimmy Patterson was ten years old the
month before the dam collapsed and his Dad had bought him his very
own fishing outfit as a birthday gift. Living right on the lake shore,
Jimmy had practiced every day from the bank,
hoping to become proficient enough that his Father would take him along
on his weekend fishing club
tournaments. Although he'd yet to catch a fish on his shiny, new rig, he
had been persistent and really worked
at it. Like any kid his age, Jimmy wanted to emulate his Dad and bring
home those big stringers of bass every
Saturday afternoon. Then, he could call HIS friends over to admire his
ability and manliness, too. Maybe they
could even eat some of the fish he caught. He'd heard that they were
real good.
Betty Jean Wilson didn't care too much
about the fishing aspects of Louisa but thought it sure was a shame that
the lake had been lost. Luckily, no one downstream had been injured by
the raging wall of water that had
suddenly erupted into the valley. Noting she had a bit of time before
reporting to work, Ms. Wilson pulled off the
shoulder of Lakeside Drive for a curious look. "A lot of mud and
junk", she though, as she stared across the
desolate scene. The wind currents swirled a foul odor from the lake bed
and, crinkling up her nose, Betty Jean
beat a hasty retreat to her car.
The local City Council had its problems,
too. For a good number of years, Louisa Reservoir had provided the
dumping ground for the city's sewage treatment facility. Even with a
major bond sale, the recent acquisition of
an additional treatment module had nearly depleted the city funds. Now,
it was unnecessary, in that there was
no lake to environmentally protect. On top of that, the remaining small
creek was insufficient to support the
ever-increasing discharge volume. They'd probably have to beg the 'Feds'
for a grant to purchase another couple
of those treatment sets, which would be somewhat embarrassing,
considering the resistance they'd given to the
EPA decree that they acquire the first one. The lake had always been big
enough to dissipate the waste before.
Maybe those Washington bureaucrats would just rebuild the dam, instead,
and make it easier on everyone.
Charles Rogers had been a State biologist
and conservation activist for a long time. He'd had an impotent hand
in trying to get the anti-netting bill passed on Louisa's waters and had
been the instigator of the study that had
declared the local sewage plant inadequate. Rogers had grown up on the
banks of the reservoir and, like many
others, felt the passing of a friend with its demise. It was only
recently that his department had undertaken a
study of the lake, in hopes of trying to ascertain why its fishing
productivity was on such a decline. The file
cabinet marked 'Shannon County' was jammed with letters from concerned
citizens and organized groups
complaining of the lack of fish stocking programs, the foul smelling
waters, the 'pros and cons' on the netting
issue, and the general conditions of Lake Louisa. It appeared
that, no matter what the complaint, nearly every
voiced concern labeled the Government as being at fault. Charlie thumbed
through the protruding files and, then,
wrote a memo requesting that the evaluation of Louisa be continued for
another week, even though the lake
proper no longer existed.
On the third day following the failure of
the dam, the weather changed and an approaching cold front caused the
winds to shift. The small community of Louisa was enveloped by a foul
smell from the area of the lake's remains.
Soon, the primary topic of discussion was the rancid odor. Most blamed
it on the dead fish which were obviously
left behind as the lake waters cascaded away. Bill Patterson, Jimmy's
Dad, was heard to remark that it smelled
like his garbage can on Sunday afternoon, after a hard Saturday's
fishing.
Charles Rogers and two of his associates
arrived four days after the incident. With a small Jon boat and hip
boots, they began to explore what was once the bottom of the lake.
Small, remaining pools were seined for fish
and samples of bottom materials were taken from various areas of the
lake bed. The heavy, mucus-like slime
was everywhere and emitted an odor like unto organic decay. Rogers noted
an absence of birds, which normally
prey heavily on low water conditions and the corresponding abundance of
easy-to-get food.
On the fifth day, Bill Patterson brought
in a nice limit of bass and crappie for his friends to admire and to get
his
picture in Sunday's sports page. He'd been to a lake in the next county
where fishing was good! The commercial
gill- netter had also had a good day on that same lake, filling the fish
market boxes with catfish and carp and
dutifully tossing back the mortally wounded game fish. Jimmy Patterson
still wanted to go fishing with his Dad,
and the City Council was planning a cross-county sewage pipeline. Del
Nixon closed his marina for good and
Betty Jean Wilson was laid off her job. Charles Rogers cried.
With dawning of the sixth day, the
morning newspaper was thrown against 7,324 door steps in Louisa
Township.
For one and all, the headlines were the same: "Louisa Was A Dead
Lake!" The article continued, "State
biologists, conducting a survey of the remains of Lake Louisa and the
area below the dam site, have concluded
that there was no significant fish, or other aquatic life, in the lake
at the time of the collapse of the dam. In the
small, residual pools of water remaining in the lake area, State
personnel accounted for only one small bass
and a few perch. The area below the dam gave no indication that any
significant numbers of fish had been
washed over. Local commercial and sport fishing groups blame the State
fishery management agencies for
the now- recognized condition of our fine lake."
Think about it.
Think seriously.
Do something. Get involved.
The future is now.
We can control it, if we but take that first step.
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