The Philosophical Value of Arsenic

Long have I maintained that civilization is a noble thing to watch, if from a distance. The farther away you are, the more sense it seems to make.

And so it is with the curious case of Johnson Lane–where the Earth gives forth poison, and people are gettin’ told to mind their own business while sipping it. It appears a company by the respectable name of Knox Excavating–which sounds like the sort of outfit that would dig a hole only to argue with it–has leased a swath of land big enough to lose several boulders in and promptly begun siphoning off a third of the groundwater like a thirsty mule at a silver rush saloon.

In its infinite wisdom and microscopic sampling spoon, the EPA declared all was well after inspecting two thimbles of soil–neither of which came from anywhere near the diggings. It’s like checking for termites by looking at the front porch and declaring the attic suitable for ballroom dancing.

Once made for bicycles and the occasional neighbor’s cow, the roads are gettin’ pulverized under the weight of haul trucks big enough to blot out the sun. And for all the wear and tear, Knox paid the county $86–less than what it costs to fill up one of those trucks with diesel–or for a man of modest appetite to eat dinner at the Delta Saloon in Virginia City.

Meanwhile, residents are advised by county officials to “sell your house,” which is sound advice if you’re fond of living in a ditch or enjoy the musical stylings of jackhammers at dawn. To top it all off, nobody can quite agree on who’s supposed to be holding the shovel–or the rulebook.

The county blames the state, the state blames the BIA, and the BIA is still trying to locate its permission slip. It is a game of musical chairs played with legal documents, but the music has stopped, and nobody notices.

In short, the Painted Rock Mine proves that progress–if left unsupervised, will dig its grave and try to sell you the dirt.