The Investigative Measures of the Crayfish Kill, Part 1

So, after exhausting all crayfish huntin’ in this once crayfish rich area, I finally broke down and bought some night crawlers. Three dozen. $7.50. Not much but still money I wouldn’t had ta spend if I still had my creek crawlin’ with crawdads. 

‘Cause the stream I’d planned ta fish, Kite Creek, was so low, I had ta walk up stream from my startin’ point…a considerable distance. Nice day, though, and the water felt pleasing even with it bein’, mostly, only low shin deep. Most of the holes which normally had big fish potential only held small ones.

Small mouth bass mostly, six ta ten inches. Still fun ta play with, yeah, but they sure ate up my worms: a problem that ya don’t have with crayfish ‘cause mostly only the bigger ones can handle ‘em, swallow ‘em er pull ‘em off yer hook.

Eventually I worked my way into an area with deeper, log-strewn holes and I did end up with five acceptable bass, two large mouth and three small mouth; all of ‘em legal keepers, er real near to it. Draggin’ them fish behind me, I was amazed at how far I ventured from my pickup. The sure knowledge of a beer on ice in a small cooler kept me goin’ until finally we made it. This “we” meanin’ me and my three dogs. They like these fishin’ days, every bit as much as I do. And I guess at that point it could’a meant them five fish I’d drug there too. This was the end Of the line fer them fishes though. A whack in the head with a hard stick and inta the bucket they slid.

READING FISH GUTS

I clean my fish soon as I get home. In the cleanin’ process I always check stomach contents, and inspect their guts in general. All these fish were healthy, no tumors er spots in their livers. What was obviously missing in their digestive tracks, though, were crayfish parts.

In nature there is no “always.” So finding a bass in late August with no crayfish parts still in its digestive track is a possibility, albeit, a rare one. The norm is (and this is fer both bass and catfish) that from gut to anus their system is turned orange, that’s the color the digestive juices of the fish turns them crayfish hulls. With yer fingers you can easily detect the bigger chunks, sometimes still whole crayfish with parts getting’ smaller as ya move down the intestines. And if ya squeeze the large intestine close ta the end you’ll squeeze out an orange tinted paste. I’m sure the fish benefit in this digestion of hard parts. It’s got to be good for their own growth.

I cleaned them five fish. Partly digested minnows, one of ‘em had been feedin’ on large brown beetles…but there was no remnents of crayfish ta be found. Five bass outta Kite Creek in August without crayfish in their guts. The odds against that, er at least the way it used ta be….

I don’t want ya thinkin’ my investigation of this matter hasn’t been done seriously, and in depth.

I’m waitin’, ya see. Gotta find ways ta keep entertained. And what I was waitin’ on was the Dept. of Ag’s. complete investigating report, which I’d requested through “Freedom of Information.”

HORRAY! I GET MY HANDS ON REPORT

And in a reasonable amount of time this big fat packet does land in my hands.

I’m happy ta say that the investigator did a rather complete and accurate job. He used Google Earth effectively and had also included hand-held photos, all of this showing what had gone wrong.

THE TOXIC COCKTAIL

During his visit to the aerial spraying Co. he’d discovered that Tombstone was only one of three deadly poisons mixed in this cocktail sprayed from the air. Headline and Sniper were mixed inta the soup, also. All three of these chemicals are highly toxic to aquatic life. All three of ‘em tell of what they do ta bees. And I go on ta add to almost all invertebrate life in sprayed zones. Good er bad doesn’t matter, they’re goners.

Invertebrates. Do you understand how we depend on invertebrates? How a healthy eco-system can’t be achieved without them? Stand in a prairie field and listen, feel all the invertebrate activity. Now go stand in a corn field. Dramatic, the difference. And while yer at it bring yer shovel and try ta find some earth worms... in the corn field, that is.

So we’ve got a highly toxic cocktail being applied with high speed crop dustin’ plane.

An interesting aside here is that the chances of anyone doing’ research on what kind of synergy might be released into the environment with these mixtures, are essentially nil. Research takes time and costs money.

ANYBODY GOT THE ANSWER?

Research inta long term consequences of these chemicals, many of which never existed naturally, doesn’t exist either, ‘cause this crap hasn’t been around long enough. Fifty years of exposure, a hundred? Nobody’s got the answer fer that one…but let’s not let trifles like this interrupt immediate profits.

The investigator talked ta pilot of offending aircraft. “The applicator,” stated, “he did not realize a stream was next to the field,” and a buffer zone was not left next to the stream.

SAY, WHAT?! WHAT?!

A stream running over a beaver dam and a succession of riffles, with the sun at the angle it was at that time of the morning…and the guy flyin’ the plane is unaware of its existence? This statement simply snaps any strands clinging to credulity. I’ve been in small aircrafts. Ponds, streams, hell, puddles are obvious to even an untrained eye. Don’t pilots have ta get regular eye exams?

The photos of the investigator, the goggled topography, even his spray plan for the day should’a given this guy a tip off. Com'on, Stan, yer not tryin’ ta pull our collective leg, are ya? 

(Visit the Evidence section of this blog for aerial photographs of the area.)

BLIND PILOT DIDN’T KNOW WIND SPEED ER

DIRECTION, EITHER.

The pilot was also off on the wind speed. Stan had “guessed” the wind speed at eight miles per hour and outta the east. In fact, according to “Daily history. HTML? Reg,” it was a steady ten mph wind from E.NE. Grove Creek does not pass through this area in anything but the lee of corn field, exactly in direction of drift, with an E.NE. wind.

I started thinkin’ about how long these deadly droplets might stay adrift? Four seconds? Twenty? I know I’ve smelled ag. sprays from as much as a half mile away.

I got out my calculator. Let’s see…if the wind is flowing past a fixed position at ten miles an hour…that means it’s traveled 5280 feet ten times. That’s 52,800 feet, er exactly ten miles. An hour now divided inta minutes, 60 divided 52,800 = 880 feet per minute. Now ta get the drift per second all we gotta do is divide that 880 feet by 60 seconds and we come up with a drift that’s 14.66 feet per second. Again I’m only guessin’ just how long some of this stuff lingers in that ten M.P.H. wind, me givin’ due respect ta things like prop wash.

Just fer arguments sake let give the “time in air equation” five seconds. That’s fair, don’t ya think? I mean this stuff isn’t lead shot but a vapor.

Five seconds at 14.66 f.p.s. comes out to 73.35 feet of drift. Way more than enough distance ta cover the whole length of Grove Creek and certainly have an effect on our neighbor’s large ponds. Nice shot, Stan. Direct hit.

You didn’t see that stream, Stan? You didn’t see those quite large ponds? Have you ever sat down and done any serious wind drift calculations? I’m left hopin’ that this is a one-time fluke experience, and not a common practice. However, my thus far evaluation of things points in that “common practice” direction.

STAN BLASTS 1,631 ACRES WITH DEATH IN ONE DAY

I have a copy of Stan’s work sheet here in front of me, for that day. He was a busy pilot, no doubt about it. I count 20 aerial sprayings, him startin’ at 5:51 a.m. and keepin’ at it till 8:20 p.m. This confirmin’ my remembrances of dawn ta dusk aerial spray activity fer that more than one week period. Not all this noise comin’ from Stan, ya understand. I don’t know yet what other crop duster were workin’ this area but I’m gonna find out.

Stan completed 20 missions. He musta been a tired man. I’m wonderin’ if his eye sight had deteriorated through the course of the day, er improved. He sprayed 1,631.00 acres with this, er similar deadly cocktails. If Stan kept up this incredible pace fer at least a seven day week, which I’m pretty sure he or other pilots did…well…one can imagine the huge scope of eco contamination.

(Stan's worksheet is available for viewing in the Documentation section of this blog)

THE BIG HARD SLAP!

Also in the fat envelope I received a copy of a “pesticide misuse complaint enforcement evaluation form,” this is the form which Dept. of Ag. chief of bureau of environmental programs and pesticide misuse, Warren D. Goetsch, used to determine what kinda action ta take against poor- sighted and overworked Stan.

Under the first category: #1. Harm or Loss Incurred. Stan got nicked fer one negative point on line at which states exposure to plants, animals or humans with no symptoms of damage; and then there a notation scribbled in a large box for comments, “Death of crayfish could not be confirmed.”

First off a crayfish is an animal, and I think death is pretty serious damage. And that comment about non confirmation of dead crayfish? Even his own investigaters report confirmed the death of crayfish. None-the-less Stan only gets one negative point here. What the hell would one have ta do ta confirm the death of crayfish?

This form, by the way, makes very little sense. Nowhere does it give demerits for eco damage. It’s concerned with property losses but not environmental ones. It makes one wonder why it’s in the hands of the bureau chief for “Environmental programs.”

Stan gets hit fer two negative points in the next category #2: Signal Word…whatever in hell that means. I think he’s awarded these demerits ‘cause he ignored the obvious warning with respect to aquatic habitats that the three chemicals in this cocktail so obviously give.

Stan really gets clobbered in #3: Degree of Responsibility. Wham! A four pointer slam biased upon his negligence.

In category #5: Violation Type, he picks up another three negative points for use contrary to label directions “resulting to exposure to other persons or the “environment.” Ha, ha! Usin’ my magnify’ glass I do finally find this one single word relating to the environment.

In the comment section for this category here is where Stan stated he did not realize that stream was next to field.

With his own investigators report which pictorially shows that that would be all but impossible, except fer someone who was near legally blind, how could this bureau chief not rap him harder fer that whooper!

Three negatives was all that could be given on this evaluation form, though. There are no higher numbers.

Usin’ some logic that escapes me completely, Stan comes up with a negative score of only ten. And that throws him in line fer that toothless warning letter.

Absurd, this evaluation form. Judge fer yer self. A joke is how I’d rate this paper shuffling, paper eatin’ work.

(The Complaint Enforcement Evaluation Form is available for viewing in the Action section of this blog.)

The Great Grove Creek Crayfish Kill, Part 2

So I settle inta waitin’ ta see what kinda action the Il. Dept. of Ag. was gonna take in this open and shut case of, what should be highly criminalized, eco degradation…that chemical trespass inta my space. 

 

And as good as I knew stream fishin’ with crayfish most likely was, well, I had great desire ta find some crawdads, someplace, and go catch another stringer full of nice fat, big fish.

In conversation with neighbor who’s ground had been directly sprayed, he’d told me that he and actual farmer had gone up stream past where the action had occurred and, supposedly, they’d found live crayfish. Because there’s this long string of timber and pasture land that creek ran through, where spraying didn’t occur, I figured it worth a try.

I could drive right to area he directed me to. For me with dip net and bucket the water was easy to slide off inta. Cool. Refreshing. It was a hot enough a.m. I worked my way slowly up stream into crayfish habitat, rocks and riffles, water with a high oxygen content, which should have been ideal…and came up without a single sighting. I moved on upstream….

Over log jams and under tree limbs, up to my waist sometimes in the deeper holes, good crayfish habitat I searched through for well over an hour and came up with zero.

I couldn’t help thinkin’ back the week before when the aerial spraying, both by fixed winged aircraft and helicopter, went on from before sunrise till after it set, and this fer a long string of days. Couldn’t help but hear it near all the time settin’ here in my cabin or working around the place. Further up stream this flow went through other ground that was either corn or beans. Both these crops got heavily sprayed.

So with all that spraying activity, and after this failed attempt ta find my favorite bait, I set ta thinkin’ about other streams in the area.

I’d like ta say that I changed streams and came up with plenty of bait, but I can’t. I crisscrossed the area fer five er six miles from here, me stopping at creek crossings, checkin’ under bridges and in first rock/riffle area I encountered…and…and you talk about disheartened, those son’s-of-bitchin’ aircrafts had done an amazing thorough job. I couldn’t help but feel eco-raped, and on a large scale.

How much of that poison got sprayed over Ogle County? I found myself questioning. “There’s had ta be records!”

So I wrote that first story. Proofed it, printed it, proofed it again and set ta slowly checkin’ fer public reaction, me knowin’ that from some of my academic friends I’d get all kinds of flap about my country-speak style of writin’. Most who read it, liked it, had no trouble with it at all.

At the Ogle Co. Energy Fair, where we set up a tent and get opportunity to make contact with environmentally concerned and generally quite intelligent people, I had the opportunity to hand out quite a few copies. And, also, there were numerous who took the time ta read through part er all of the “Tombstone” information that my wife had gathered through the Internet.

This stuff reads like an eco nightmare. After giving copies to surrounding landowners I’ve asked the question: “After understanding what this stuff is, what it does…would you allow the use of it on your property?” And I’m glad to report that the answer has been 100% , “No!”

There at that Energy Fair I learned that the lethal chemical is a synthetic, petroleum based, sorta copy of organic rotenone. A totally non natural chemical. Somethin’ the natural ecosystem’s never encountered before. None of us, either.

And then this one gentleman, who’s sorta become an online investigator, and who’s been showin’ my story and that Tombstone info around, he finds where it’s made, Loveland Colorado, where he runs inta hung-up phones when he tried ta ask questions.

Also, he’d made contact with people in the chemical business in diverse areas like Texas and Louisiana, where the sprayers have quit usin’ this stuff fer exactly the same reason as the problem it’s caused here in Ogle Co.

So I wasn’t just layin’ back in the woods here, doin’ nothin’, just waitin’ fer the wheels of the Department of Ag. ta churn out its conclusive action in this case. No. I already knew, had been numerous times informed, how this thing most likely would go.

And that’s just the way it did. 

“Ha! A slap on the wrist!” Not my reaction but from those few I’ve shown this gem to.

And it is a gem, too. I’m going to embrace and treasure it.

So the investigator did ascertain that a violation had indeed occurred. I made a mental note that I need to get my hands on this investigative report, me knowin’ full well what a hassle it’ll be to go thorough “Freedom of Information” procedures. But I guess I’ll do it.

And I guess this letter places the blame for the eco destruction that happened here directly on a Mr. Stan Boling of Woodley Aerial Spray, Inc. All this stuff will be good info. to hand over to my pro-bono legal team…just as soon as I get that little detail pulled together. I made a mental note ta go first and talk ta this guy, see if he’ll cooperate with me and give me information, like, just how much of this crap got dumped on this part of Ogle County durin’ that week-long blitz, so I don’t have to subpoena his records. Which I will do if I have ta.

And I guess I know where to vent my anger with respect ta this slap on the wrist. Certainly I’ll attempt conversation with Mr. Warren A. Goestsch, Il. Dept. of Ag. Bureau chief, with respect ta this incident.

Boy! The questions that come ta mind with this dude. Like, fer starters, how many punches as opposed ta slaps does his agency merit out? Does anybody do serious jail time for doing serious eco damage? Do they have any sort of a baseline with respect to eco damage? Do they even take eco damage seriously? Like is this Il. Dept. of Ag. agency really lookin’ out fer the public’s interests, er is it just a toothless and tame pet of the Agro Chemical Industry?

And, too, I’ve got great desire ta find out how this responsibility wasn’t in the hands of the E.P.A., how it got hijacked by the Department of Agriculture, which I’m sure is heavily influenced by the Agro Chemical Industry. The more I think about this stuff, what’s goin’ on all around us and all the time with almost no one completely award of it er in control, I guess the more upset I get, the more goaded inta action I’m gettin’.

As I discover more, I promise ta keep ya informed.

Which agency? I find myself questioning, Dept. of Ag. er E.PA. has the say-so as to whether a chemical like this Tombstone is safe for usage and under what conditions?

Under what circumstances is aerial sprayin’ safe at all? Damn…look at all the warnings of the products own promotional literature. Considering the impossibility to calculate all the movements, in some cases like micro movements of air currents below an aircraft that’s creating major turbulence either behind er below it…how do ya keep shit like this Tombstone in place?

By now I’ve run this equation past a whole bunch of people, all of them, 100%, admitting to the impossibility of just that.

Whew! T.J’s comin’ fer the weekend. How am I ever going to simplify and explain all this to a six year old?

Do you know what the attention span of a kid that age is? I never timed it but I bet, except with video games, I’m guessin’ T.J.’s at less than five minutes, at best. And much of the time considerably less than that.

With his own essential pillow and blanket he sleeps on the couch here in the cabin, the same couch that our three dogs are accustom ta occupying, too. They know it’s off limits with him beddin’ there.

He sleeps like a rock, and I mean from the time his head hits his pillow. Bam! Sleepin’. And usually I can get my early a.m. two cups of coffee and an hours’ worth of uninterrupted readin’ time in before he starts ta even stir.

Not this last morning though. I’d not even sat down with my first cup and our big dog Miley, who just simply adores kids in general and especially him, licked him awake. Fer a while they played, which seemed Miley’s purpose. But then he turned his attentions ta me who’s right in the middle of a critical part of book I was readin’: The Forest Unseen, David G. Haskell. A really good read for anyone interested in the environment.

O.K. T.J. Let me finish just this one paragraph – admittedly a long one – and I’ll help you rid Miley of those nasty little cling-on burs, his passion of that moment.

Never got ta the end of it, something that demanded intense concentration. Had ta mark my page, close the book.

We tended ta Miley’s burs outside with a bur comb. He spotted a watermelon atop the cluttered picnic table. Boy-oh-boy does he love ripe watermelon. This one that I sliced open just happened ta be particularly good.

Fer maybe 20 minutes then I tried ta teach the kid ta far-spit watermelon seeds. I’m a lot windier than he is.

He followed me through feedin’ dogs and takin’ my vitamins. “Grandpa, how come you take so many pills?” “Cause I’m an old man, and I think I need ‘em.” Somehow this turned into a contest of who could kick their hand held highest over their head. He practices “Tae kwan do” and easily beat me.

We work our way up to my shell workin’ studio/a.m. exercise area, me with hopes I’d get ta do my daily routine. Good luck.

O.K. I conceded. Right then seemed like a great time ta continue educatin’ the kid. Did he remember us playin’ in the creek last time he’d visited? And all those animals we’d found under the rocks, the crayfish? “And the fishes,” he answered, shakin’ his head yes.

I set inta tellin’ the story as graphically, me with outstretched arms simulatin’ a crop dustin’ plane. I knew if I didn’t keep the action, the drama, I’d lose his focus. Which I did several times, him wantin’ ta lay on the floor and pet Miley.

Our conversation went on for well over an hour, during which I had him digestin’ concepts like eco systems and food chains. We approached this from multiple directions. And when he understood that deadly poisons sprayed in one place could affect things quite far away, “That’s stupid. That’s stupid,” he muttered numerous times with respect ta the sprayin’.

It was a hard lesson, I’m a hard teacher. At breakfast time, he, my wife and me eatin’ cereal with fresh peaches out in the yard, she asked him if he understood what his grandpa was talkin’ about? “Yeah. Mostly. For little people, it’s pretty dense stuff.”

Naturally, her and I laughed. “Yeah, T.J.,” Marcia came back, “That’s pretty tough stuff to explain even to grown people.

A four-wheeler ride around and about in the multi-trailed eco reserve was what he was up for. Always. Him settin’ in front of me with hands on controls, his grandpa with hand on the brake. We can easily chew up a couple of hours this way, us stoppin’ at points of interest; both his and mine.

Time spent in the creek, of course, was essential. The dogs led the way down an old beaver slide, T.J.’s gettin’ a nettles lesson in the process. Creek water and juice from the jewelweed, that’s the remedy I showed him. O.K. We’re in the water and there’s a small bridge belongin’ ta my north neighbor and this he’s got ta investigate. In conversation with this neighbor, the week before, I’d told him about the great “Grove Creek” crayfish kill, of which he’d already had the news. “My little nephews love ta catch crawdads when they camp down there. Lots of ‘em under the bridge, er at least there used ta be. He hadn’t been down there ta check.

Well T.J. and I did the checkin’. Lots of nice rocks. The creeks current is good right there so the water, after just comin’ over a riffle, carries plenty of oxygen. Perfect crayfish habitat. By now ya can pretty much figure out what we didn’t find. I drew T.J.’s attention to the undersides of rocks we turned over. “Remember all the little critters we found last time?” And of course he did. And of course he could see the difference. Dramatic. Tragic.

Tracks in the mud along the bank, next caught our interest. Easily seen were those of raccoons, muskrat and deer. T.J. didn’t know raccoons and muskrats eat crayfish, especially the former. I told him that them coons were most likely searchin’ fer that kind of food when they laid down them prints. “Do deer eat ‘em?” he questioned. No. Deer didn’t, I assured him.

The rest of the day we spent in shell studio, us makin’ him a purple oyster belt buckle. He just loves cuttin’ and polishin’ shells.

To be continued….

The Great Grove Creek Crayfish Kill

Who gives a damn about crayfish?

Well, I know I do…and I’ve got this six year old great-grandson, T.J., and I’m pretty sure he does, too.

T.J’s a town kid, lives in an apartment complex – a nice one but still an apartment complex: him and lots of other indoor electronic kids. He literally jumps at every opportunity ta come out and visits his old grandpa who lives in the woods. This relationship is still pretty new to both of us. Him stayin’ out here fer several days in a string, that’s what I mean.

At first I was worried about what me and a six year old were gonna do ta pass the time. Been a long time since I’d had an active li’l kid underfoot. I shouldn’t have been. I’m about rested up enough fer another round.

He tags with me everywhere, whatever I’m doin’. His interests are wherever we’re at, which, in all kinds of weather, is mostly outside my cabin.

T.J. thinks it’s neat ta have this old man who’s like the caretaker fer this 100 acre eco reserve that’s got this great stream that serpentines it’s way past wetlands, prairie fields and then through dense woods. He doesn’t know yet that he’s this old man’s sorta captive deep-ecology student, but eventually I’m sure he’ll catch on.

Last time he was out here we focused on the stream and the multiplicity of life forms that abound and thrive in it.

“Grandpa, I can’t catch the little fishes. They’re too fast. But I did find a lobster.” He says this ta me as I’m readying the small pump I use ta pull water to my gardens and prairie plant nurseries.

“A lobster!” I responded, me knowin’ he was describing a crayfish. I’d told him we were going to try and find some crayfish that morning, he didn’t know what they were and now there in the creek-crossing riffle he’d discovered one on his own.

I took time to verify his find and then he said, “Hey, look! There’s another…and another!” Rocks, riffles, crayfish, that’s how things laid there.

I showed him how to get down stream of the rocks, let the current carry away the stream bottom dust that our feet were kickin’ up. Then we slowly worked our way back up into the riffle, us looking for rocks that crayfish would be hangin’ under. Most of the good rocks, when our eyes adjusted ta lookin’ fer ‘em, had their residents, claws first, peekin’ out after disturbance we’d made and were continuing to make. Big ones, small ones, we spotted lots of crayfish.

He picked up the recently shed carapace or shell of a large one, him surprised that there was nothing but water inside. I told him about why a crayfish sheds it shell and how it makes another to fit it better just as fast as it can. We lifted some close by rocks and found one in hiding that looked to be about the right size for the old shed and I was lucky enough to capture it in my cupped hands. “Uh. Soft,” that’s what T.J. exclaimed.

I told T.J. what great fishin’ bait these soft ones were. I told him too that the medium size hard ones were good bait also. But these soft ones, the big fish react to ‘em just like a kid would to an ice cream cone. July and August. An ultra-light fishin’ rod. Us two knee deep in movin’ water, flippin’ these crayfish up into deep holes. Whew! We’d be catchin’ big ones.

As we turned over more rocks T.J. was surprised at the miriad of other life forms we encountered. Small fishes would dart out but then again some of ‘em just hid there, where he could see ‘em, when pointed out. Darters which were near perfectly camouflaged until a trained eye picked out their bent forms. Blunt nose minnows with faces covered in pointed, horn like, breeding tubercles. And still clinging to the underside of most rocks were species of invertebrate insects that do a big part of their life cycles submerged. I pointed out dragonfly nymphs. The tubes of cadisfly larva, clusters of snail eggs sorta glued to rocks underside. I showed him how we had to be careful to put these rocks back down like we found them so we didn’t mess up too much of other things lives.

Well, as things turned, about two days later we had an overcast day that I determined was just about perfect fer fishin’. It was way too dry ta dig worms but I did remember those crayfish. Shoot, me armed with handheld dip net and a bucket, in about 45 minutes I had about 30, maybe 35 real choice baits. And then shortly found myself knee deep in a bigger clear stream and tossin’ a hooked crayfish (this is not a sport for the faint at heart) up stream and into a deep hole.

The current nudged the bait back towards me, and, wham! The unmistakable strike of a pretty nice fish. I slacked my line, watch it move out away from me. Then I tightened up the slack till my rod tip told of tight contact, then, wham! I struck. The drag on my small reel screamed. I couldn’t see what it was yet as it fought ‘round and ‘round that pool.

Fresh water drum. Coming out of that fairly clean water, they’re real good eatin’. Smoked they’re supreme. Maybe a four pounder. I clipped him on my stringer, baited up my hook again, and made just about the same cast. Wham! I set the hook and this fish immediately broke water, and then did a tail dance across the surface. Small-mouth bass with its signature fight-back style. Nice one. I played him back and forth fer a good three er four minutes before I could grab its lower jaw and thrust my next stringer clip through thin tissue of its under mouth and then clamp around its jawbone. About 16, maybe 17 inches and definitely a legal keeper.

Another cast with near same results. This time a big channel catfish. I’d guess it at a four pounder. I was off to a great start and there were yet bigger, better holes in front of me.

Long story shortened considerably, I strung four big bass, six big cats and two drum, and threw lots of smaller ones back. The total stringer close to er exceedin’ 40 lbs. We were needin’ fresh fish in our diets. And with that steady supply of crayfish right outside my cabin door, why, hell…my bait source was near inexhaustible. I made my mind up that next time I take the kid.

Next day I was needin’ ta pump water into our hoop house, where I’ve got a good crop of peppers. I’m down at creek crossing hookin’ up my 1” pump and since the riffle where I’d harvested crayfish just the am before was right there beside me, I decided ta take a look ta see how many I’d missed. Right off I spot a big one layin’ belly up, and I’m thinkin’ it’s a shedder. But when I investigate further I discover it’s whole, and just dead. Fresh dead and not rotten.

Then I spot another smaller one layin’ maybe two feet away. And it’s whole and just dead, too. Then I went ta pokin’ round more and had no trouble findin’ lots more in the same condition. Then it became crystal clear that all crayfish in the area, all of ‘em, (not one live one) were stone dead. And then on top some of the protruding rocks I discovered the fresh dead bodies of dragonfly nymphs, which had crawled up there while still alive.

It hit me! The morning before I’d been doin’ somethin’, on yeah, pickin’ blackberries out in one of our prairie fields while a powerful prop plane was circling back and forth in efforts to spray the neighbors corn about a half mile away. This was before I caught crayfish and went fishin’.
Chemicals! This had to be a chemical kill. I checked five different riffle sites just on our ground here. Many dead but not one live crayfish. And, except for the fishes, the under rock community had suffered a hit as well. As ya might imagine, my temper started risin’. And I’ve got one, believe me.

Not knowing what to do I called the office of the State D.N.R. in Sterling. “A crayfish kill?” the lady who’d answered questioned with air of skepticism. “Yeah. Crayfish. My stream was alive with ‘em yesterday, and now they’re all dead.” Well, she wants ta know if I’m filing a complaint. And, “Yes, I certainly was.” She took down pertinent info. But gave me very little hope that an investigation could be conducted soon. I know what problems the D.N.R. has with budget and under-staffing. That’s when I decided I’d better go and collect and preserve the evidence.

Next day I went over to the neighbor whose ground had been sprayed. The same creek runs right through two big corn patches. The neighbors, who I’m pretty good friends with got the news. The wife stated that the past day’s aircraft activity had been like bein’ back in World War II, which she’d never been in but seen plenty of movie footage about. They don’t farm the ground, just rent it out.
I asked and was granted permission to take my collecting can down into creek there and look fer what I expected. Already going putrid rapidly, dead crayfish were an easy find.

“What da find?” the neighbor says as he meets me comin’ up outta creek.

I showed him. These were startin’ to stink.

“This ain’t right,” he comes on, and then repeated himself. We walk together over to his big shed that he’s turned into part of an extensive target shootin’ range. Three ‘er four of his shootin’ buddies were hangin’ there. They wanted ta see, too. “Yep. Dead crayfish. Phew!” Then echoed the neighbors, 

“This ain’t right,” they said to the man.

“Yep. This ain’t right. And I’m gonna do something ta make sure this was not going to happen again,” states me. Me by then getting’ pretty stirred up.

The neighbor calls the farmer and he’s upset. I know the farmer too and I’m sure he’d a never sanctioned such a thing. I called him later myself. Yes he was upset. He’d called the chemical company with his complaint already. He gave me phone number of this establishment and told me who ta talk to there. Naturally, I called.

This gentleman and me know each other but not very well. He was pleasant and straight with me. They subcontract out aerial spraying. He gave me the name of flying service and told me that the chemical used was called, “Tombstone.”

I called the flyin’ company, got a secretary. After me tellin’ her why I was callin’, she took down my name and number. Told me somebody’d get back ta me.

Since the D.N.R. hadn’t gotten back to me I called the E.P.A. “Crayfish?” this fella responds. “Yeah, crayfish.” He asked me if there were any fish involved? I hadn’t seen evidence of dead fish. 

Well…that might be a problem. There were plenty of regulations in place with respect to fish, but he wasn’t aware of anything on crayfish.

“Yer kiddin’ me,” was my comeback. You’ve got to have something on habitat degradation in general. I mean we’re talking about messing with the streams food chain. Disrupting ecological balance! You’ve got to have some base regulation that this sort of thing falls under.
I got a thoughtful response. He’d check.

He promised me he’d get back with me. And in not too long he did respond, tellin’ me the people I wanted to talk to on this were the Il. Dept. of Ag. Which he said he’d already contacted.

And it wasn’t long before I received a voicemail from somebody from Il. Dept. of Ag. Giving me detailed information on how to obtain a complaint form via Internet, which I, bein’ a dyed-in-the-wool Luddite techno fob, couldn’t do, but my wife, who’s almost the exact opposite, quickly and easily did. This landin’ a copy of complaint form right here in my ratty-ass cabin…right into my hands.

As compliantly and diligently as was possible, especially considerin’ how I’m normally functioning, I fill this not-complicated document out. Next day I faxed this to pertinent destination. I settled to wait.
It was only like three days when I get voicemail from an investigator from said agency. I made contact and this gent and me made arrangements to meet. I told him ta beep his horn when he pulled up and then stay in his vehicle until I’m sure I’ve control of the dogs.

At appointed time the guy pulls up and follows instructions and the incident of his arrival slowly subsides. Big guy, tall, and the fact he’s not afraid of dogs helps settle them. We do basic information exchange right there on his car’s hood. That done he wants me to take him down to creek where I’d first discovered dead crayfish. I jump on my four-wheeler and he follows me.

Now this is like eight days after the kill. He stands there at streams edge and peers into running water, obviously reluctant to get his feet wet. I’m in the water with sandals on, explaining how and what I’d discovered. I turned a few rocks from under which crayfish once scurried. I explained to him the extent of my search, the dead evidence I’d collected.

For the second time since I’d started this I’m told that it would be much more helpful if the dead crayfish were there visible in the water. After eight days, I questioned, what would be left of a dead crayfish? “Nothin’,” I answered my own question. They’d be back to elemental form.

He wants to see the dead and frozen crayfish. OK. We go back up the hill to travel trailer where I put ‘em in freezer. He looks ‘em over but in truth had no idea what could be done with them. After him declining he wanted to go over to neighbors place. I put them back in the freezer.

From over there the picture of what went on became more obvious ta this gent. Same stream, running next to and through tall tasseled corn field. He was not at all in the dark as to how spray planes operated.

He’d done his homework on “Tombstone,” read all about its usages’, do’s and don’ts. Obviously, to him, someone hadn’t been playin’ by the rules.

The neighbor was home but one of his shootin’ buddies was hangin’ there in what I’d guess you’d call their club house. He’d been there on day I’d investigated, him backin’ up my story ta this government gent.

From there he’d go check records of flying company. He’d file his report and send it down to Springfield. Anything from fines to nothing might result from this. He was up front with me. Lots of time this stuff just gets lost in the shuffle. I told him that I mostly understood. And my expectations weren’t really all that high.

In a few days T.J’s comin’ fer another visit. I’m going to try to explain this crayfish kill to him as best I can.

Chemical agricultural. I wonder if he’ll understand, right off, how he’s a victim of it, too. How all of us are. Us and the environment.


To be continued….