people, I’ll be reassured that he’s not only guaranteeing his retirement income, but that he’s doing the right thing ecologically.”
“And are you reassured?” I asked.
He nodded. “I will be, once the deal is done. Our land isn’t a bird breeding ground like the big parcel next to it that the energy company has been considering for rent, so that means the company should be knocking on my father’s door.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.
“But the energy people have some consultant who keeps insisting that it’s our property that has the breeding ground, not the one next door, so my dad’s going crazy trying to prove this consultant wrong,” Boo continued. “It seems like every time Dad turns around, this consultant has more ‘evidence’ that the birds—grasshopper sparrows, I think they are—are nesting on our land, even though my dad paid out of his own pocket for ground surveys to show our land isn’t being used by the birds. And get this—it turns out that the big parcel where the sparrows are breeding belongs to a cousin of this consultant.”
“The plot thickens,” I commented.
“But it’s still transparent,” Boo added. “The consultant is biased. He wants the rental income from the new wind farm to go into his cousin’s bank account, and he’s willing to lie about our land to make that happen.”
He placed his palms on my desk and leaned towards me.
“I don’t like liars,” he said.
I looked at his hands spread out on my desktop. They were the size of boxing gloves. Extra-large boxing gloves.
“Me neither,” I agreed.
“You were good with the chickens today, too,” Boo said. “You could pass for a farm kid from Spinit yourself.”
The name of the town sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. Seeing as I’ve driven to every corner in the state chasing birds for the last nineteen years, I wasn’t completely surprised I couldn’t recall its exact location, but I knew it would nag at me until I looked at a map.
“Spinit—isn’t that near Buffalo Ridge?”
Buffalo Ridge was a big spread of elevated land that stretched from the edge of South Dakota down through several southwestern counties of Minnesota and into northern Iowa. It was also home to one of the largest wind farms in the United States.
Because I occasionally birded in the area, I was also aware that much of the ridge was privately owned farmland, some of which was rented to the energy companies for turbine tower placement. One farmer I met told me he received an annual royalty payment of $4,000 for each turbine on his land, and that he knew of others who earned up to $8,000 per tower. The bigger spread a farmer had, the more turbines he could accommodate, and the more lease money he could earn.
If Boo’s family’s land was located on the ridge, I imagined his dad could make a pretty solid bundle of money from royalties.
As long as some consultant didn’t block the deal.
“No,” Boo corrected me. “Spinit is in the west central part of the state. It’s a tiny community in Stevens County, not far from Morris. This is a new wind farm project that my dad wants to get in on. The company wants to place turbines seventy-five acres apart to minimize wind speed loss, and my dad says that would mean seven towers on our land, with a twenty-year agreement. With that kind of annual income, he and my mom could be comfortable for the rest of their lives without having to work the farm.”
He stood back up and glanced towards my open doorway, then lowered his voice.
“My dad’s a proud man, Bob,” he said with affection. “I’ve offered to help my folks out in their retirement with some money I’ve got invested from my previous career, but he won’t take it. So I told him to let me know if there was anything—anything at all—I could do to make this deal happen for him.”
“You’re a good man and a good son, Boo,” I told him. “I hope it works out for your
“And are you reassured?” I asked.
He nodded. “I will be, once the deal is done. Our land isn’t a bird breeding ground like the big parcel next to it that the energy company has been considering for rent, so that means the company should be knocking on my father’s door.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.
“But the energy people have some consultant who keeps insisting that it’s our property that has the breeding ground, not the one next door, so my dad’s going crazy trying to prove this consultant wrong,” Boo continued. “It seems like every time Dad turns around, this consultant has more ‘evidence’ that the birds—grasshopper sparrows, I think they are—are nesting on our land, even though my dad paid out of his own pocket for ground surveys to show our land isn’t being used by the birds. And get this—it turns out that the big parcel where the sparrows are breeding belongs to a cousin of this consultant.”
“The plot thickens,” I commented.
“But it’s still transparent,” Boo added. “The consultant is biased. He wants the rental income from the new wind farm to go into his cousin’s bank account, and he’s willing to lie about our land to make that happen.”
He placed his palms on my desk and leaned towards me.
“I don’t like liars,” he said.
I looked at his hands spread out on my desktop. They were the size of boxing gloves. Extra-large boxing gloves.
“Me neither,” I agreed.
“You were good with the chickens today, too,” Boo said. “You could pass for a farm kid from Spinit yourself.”
The name of the town sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. Seeing as I’ve driven to every corner in the state chasing birds for the last nineteen years, I wasn’t completely surprised I couldn’t recall its exact location, but I knew it would nag at me until I looked at a map.
“Spinit—isn’t that near Buffalo Ridge?”
Buffalo Ridge was a big spread of elevated land that stretched from the edge of South Dakota down through several southwestern counties of Minnesota and into northern Iowa. It was also home to one of the largest wind farms in the United States.
Because I occasionally birded in the area, I was also aware that much of the ridge was privately owned farmland, some of which was rented to the energy companies for turbine tower placement. One farmer I met told me he received an annual royalty payment of $4,000 for each turbine on his land, and that he knew of others who earned up to $8,000 per tower. The bigger spread a farmer had, the more turbines he could accommodate, and the more lease money he could earn.
If Boo’s family’s land was located on the ridge, I imagined his dad could make a pretty solid bundle of money from royalties.
As long as some consultant didn’t block the deal.
“No,” Boo corrected me. “Spinit is in the west central part of the state. It’s a tiny community in Stevens County, not far from Morris. This is a new wind farm project that my dad wants to get in on. The company wants to place turbines seventy-five acres apart to minimize wind speed loss, and my dad says that would mean seven towers on our land, with a twenty-year agreement. With that kind of annual income, he and my mom could be comfortable for the rest of their lives without having to work the farm.”
He stood back up and glanced towards my open doorway, then lowered his voice.
“My dad’s a proud man, Bob,” he said with affection. “I’ve offered to help my folks out in their retirement with some money I’ve got invested from my previous career, but he won’t take it. So I told him to let me know if there was anything—anything at all—I could do to make this deal happen for him.”
“You’re a good man and a good son, Boo,” I told him. “I hope it works out for your
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