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And, of course, I’m looking for a good story.”
    “You might want to spend a little time in the Tamarack River Valley, lots going on there these days—and in some ways nothing going on.”
    “You lost me there, Ben.”
    “Some of the old timers out there aren’t about to change; they’re farming just like their grandfathers farmed. Then we’ve got a half dozen or so younger farmers and their families trying to make a go of it with vegetables and fruits—doing pretty well too, especially with the public’s increasing interest in buying locally. Our Wednesday farmers market here on the courthouse square started a few years ago has also helped their sales considerably.”
    “Had several of these kinds of farmers around Springfield too. Interesting group,” Josh said.
    “That they are. Something else, too. A couple years ago, a developer out of Chicago came in here waving dollar bills and tried to impress the locals with his fancy talk and big ideas. Wilson Johnson was his name. He bought out three retired farmers, got himself 480 acres, some of it right along the Tamarack River. He built a golf course and a bunch of log condos.”
    “How’s it working out?
    “Been a struggle for Johnson,” said Ben. “Guess there aren’t as many condo buyers out there as he thought.”
    “Sounds like some good stories out there in the valley.”
    “Yup there are. Even a whopper of a ghost story.”
    “You wouldn’t be talking about the Tamarack River Ghost?”
    “That’s the one.”
    “My dad told me the story when I was a kid. Scared the bejeebers out of me at the time.”
    “Yup, it’s quite a story. Lots of people believe it, too.”
    “What about these guys farming like their grandfathers? You have a name of someone I could interview?”
    Ben sat back in his chair for a minute and ran a hand through his thinning hair.
    “I’d suggest Dan Burman. He doesn’t have anything to do with my office, but I’ve heard he’s an interesting fellow. He’s one of those ‘keep the government away from me’ guys. He’s got a point of view worth hearing—even though I probably wouldn’t agree with him very much.”
    “I’ll go see him,” Josh said, getting up from his chair. “You got an extra hour to talk later today, when I finish out at Burman’s, assuming he’s home?”
    “Sure, I’ll be here. I plan on being in the office all afternoon.”
    Ben gave Josh detailed directions to the Burman farm, located along a little traveled gravel road not far from the Tamarack River and about fifteen miles from Willow River. This was a part of Ames County that Josh did not know well. He’d fished the Tamarack with his dad when he was a kid, but he didn’t know any of the people living there. Josh’s dad had a low opinion of the farmers in this part of the county. “Swamp angels,” he called them. “They take a bath and get a haircut in the spring, and that’s about it. Mostly live off the land. Hunt, fish, pick berries and wild apples.” Of course, Josh’s father was remembering farmers who lived in the valley two generations ago. Josh imagined those living there today did considerably better than their ancestors.
    Josh slowed his pickup, looking for the fire number that would tell him he’d found the right place. The driveway was almost overgrown with brush—box elder and the dreaded buckthorn that seemed to grow everywhere these days. He turned in and drove about fifty yards to the farmstead, a gray, forlorn-looking farmhouse with tall grass growing around it, a couple of sheds, a corncrib, and a barn that had once been painted red and was now a dreary gray.
    A big mixed-breed dog bounded out from in back of the house to meet him, barking and not wagging its tail. Not a friendly looking animal. Josh grabbed up his clipboard and cautiously opened the pickup door. The big dog, a dirty, short-haired brown animal that Josh figured was a cross between a rottweiler and a hound of some kind, stood a few yards off,