Chance Encounters, page 22
It was hard to resist the restless excitement of this city, wallowing in its wealth gained during the gold rush days, hell-bent on living up to its reputation. Chance visited the Opera House, listened to a world famous Italian soprano backed by an equally renowned orchestra. The best wines were served; the best imported chefs from France cooked for the major hotels.
Chance also attended prize fights, boxing and wrestling. A consortium was backing a number of challengers to send east to contest the title and claim bragging rights; they filled the main room of the Grand Hotel with their eager plans and expectation.
The waterfront organized racing regattas, sail against steam, steam against steam, and of course the fastest schooners were also slated to challenge the best of the east. Same with horse races, as people passionately argued odds and capabilities.
Yet among all these diversions, real work was being done: construction everywhere, steel mills and foundries worked iron, factories turned out their products, forests were harvested, the interior opened up to mining, ranching and farming. Each month more roads and rail linked up towns and villages. A continent was being subdued.
The influx from the east and Europe was drowning out the old Spanish heritage. San Francisco had become a gateway to the West. Perhaps, here the dream was alive as nowhere else in the country. Of course it had not felt the burden and devastation of war and hadn’t paid for its existence with blood, but did so with the sweat of effort and enterprise. It was hard not to become intoxicated by the heady expectations of possibilities the city exuded. Chance felt it, soaked it up in the daily flow. There were plans fomented at the next table, in the saloons and watering places, anywhere where people met and took time to talk. Chance was still looking around for something to start and was made even more restless by the ebb and flow around him.
For a while Chance toyed with the idea of visiting the west section of the railroad to see how they had fared. No question that they’d had the more difficult task of burrowing through the mountain ranges, bridging deep valleys, clinging to precarious cliff ledges and long tunnels which often needed mechanized ventilation to exchange the foul air.
On impulse, he bought a ticket and rode the train east, gazing with astonishment at the impossibly rugged terrain. Winding, narrow passes cut across the mountain ranges, skirted dizzying drops, or stared blindly at towering rock walls only to disappear into the total darkness of long tunnels. At times the grade was steep, needing two locomotives to move the train over it.
How had the Chinese done it? Chance wondered. Their task had been so much harder than on the eastern stretch. The only things that were the same were the crosses planted all along the route, more and more of them. Many generations of Chinese found their end here along the rail.
It didn’t matter who one was, or had been, success was the only measure that counted. Many self-made men paraded their affluence in brazen display, often to the point of vulgarity. Of course there was another side to all this, the upstanding communities and religious congregations that believed in social values and a strong moral code. It was sometimes hard to find a comfortable niche between these extremes.
Renting a horse and buggy at a livery stable, Chance drove northwest to the bluffs along Lands End Trail overlooking the enormous vista of the open Pacific. Untamed, the waves came rolling in to churn against the foot of the rocks. Chance dismounted and tied the horse to a hitching post, slipping a nose bag over the muzzle to let the animal feed. Mesmerized, he stared at the sea, the waves rising and falling, rolling along in a wide front to crash onto the beach. Sea birds darted in and out above the cliffs, wheeling and swarming in the air, filling it with their raucous cries. A steady onshore breeze blew with force and Chance squinted against the pressure and the flood of light unhindered by any clouds.
The air smelled of salt and tangy seaweed. Chance was swept by a nostalgic feeling, remembering his sea duty aboard the Orion and the Chelsea, his first steamship. He wasn’t usually sentimental so the upsurge of feelings took him by surprise.
“Where to now?” he asked himself. He looked west until the view slipped below the horizon. East? All the way to the Orient? North? South? He was truly at land’s end; confronted by water, nothing but water wherever he looked outward. More than ever, his life felt like a continuous journey without any direction. Where to then? How to find a new goal with sense and meaning? Smoke smudged the far distance, and as he kept his eyes on it, a steamship slowly settled under the column in the sky. It seemed hardly to move at all. A seagoing two-stacker, with screws rather than side paddles driving it. It came within easy reach of land then turned parallel to the coast, heading north. As it got nearer, Chance saw more detail: the lifeboats painted white, the flotation rings bright red. Morning Star stood out boldly on its side, out of San Diego. A pod of dolphins were riding the bow wave of the ship, which passed by the entrance to San Francisco Bay still heading north. Chance considered dolphins his special favorites, once having driven off a shark as he was swimming. They seemed to be leading the ship farther up the coast. On impulse Chance decided to head north himself, maybe to Alaska, purchased just years before and dubbed Seward’s folly. “Well, why not?” he affirmed the spur of the moment notion; “See the Arctic ice fields, polar bears and the Eskimos.” A sense of curiosity had always been his best guide. He had worked hard, learned and improved himself, but the knowledge he had acquired didn’t tell him where to go, his intuition did that, like a compass to show him the way.
He drove back to the city, at peace with the decision. Accordingly Chance started drifting north, soon finding himself in quieter Seattle. The climate was moody, and it rained often. The locals were more taciturn, not discharging energy constantly as the people in California. Buying a passage all the way to Alaska, Chance took a freighter and got as far as Vancouver where he ran into Jeremiah Hawthorn. Under the man’s influence, Chance cashed in his ticket, promising himself the trip to Alaska afterwards. After what? he wasn’t quite sure.
“I been to the gold fields of California and British Columbia. Twice I been up the Columbia, panned a small fortune out of Downie Creek in Big Bend country then lost the same on the mine we dug into the Selkirk foothills. The country’s wild, hard to reach and full of hostile Indians, but there’s gold, tons of it. Just waiting for enterprising men with courage and fortitude to find it.”
At first, Chance was less interested in the gold, more in the wilderness he’d heard described in the hotel populated mostly by prospectors and miners, either coming from or leaving for the vast interior. But gold was such a large part of every conversation that it was impossible to ignore. After all it had populated the west and displaced the fur trade as the reason for being.
Vancouver was quieter, certainly more orderly than San Francisco, and all around the English presence was felt. One had a greater sense of tradition, civility and appreciation of quality without drowning in self-indulgence. Chance sipped tea in one of the downtown tea rooms and looked towards the majestic mountains, foaming wild rivers, jewels of lakes set in tall forests full of animals and of course, Indians. The idea of being hundreds of miles from anybody appealed to him. He’d heard of the difficulties of reaching these places, going up a water route interrupted by many portages or walking on uncharted paths, carrying everything on one’s back.
Chance listened to the tales, to the bragging, to the exorbitant claims, all tied together with hope... the hope of striking it rich someday. Of course the place was rife with plans for exploration, and people haggled to put together some deal or a crew. Companies were formed or dissolved, all with just a handshake, looking for financial backing. Shares were sold for nonexistent or “dry” mines, con men tried to drum up interest in some special project 100 percent guaranteed. The place was a hotbed of scheming, planning and dreaming. Of course, the miners had their heroes, people who’d made it, washing a fortune out of some unknown creek and now enjoying the good life in an affluent neighborhood.
Hawthorn was ecstatic. “Man, they took 200 ounces a week out of some of these places. And one large nugget can make you rich and famous overnight. But if you’re smart, you keep it quiet, not to invite claim jumpers or worse, a mining consortium. People come from the world over, invest and expect great returns. Some do succeed and it fuels the dreams of the rest.”
Chance was stuck in Vancouver because it was too late in the season to risk the storms off Alaska, and he decided to put it off until the coming year. He had enough money from his share of the Osprey and what he’d earned along the way, and he lived frugally enough to stretch it out for a couple of years. But as he sat among these miners, their hopes and plans slowly infected him. Why not go and see what it was all about and taste the experience?
The other option was to visit the Orient, the far, far East and explore its mysteries. He’d heard intriguing tales of rituals and customs, fabulous cities, and tropical jungles full of strange birds and animals. The waterfront Crown and Anchor resounded with such yarns, as sailors from all corner of the world traded stories.
In the end Hawthorn got to him. “When I really don’t know what to do and I’m just bouncing between the facts but can’t make up my mind, then I let the cards decide.”
“How?” Chance asked.
“Very simple. Draw a card from the deck; if it’s a face card the answer is yes, if a number then it’s no and I look for a different plan. But if you’re still not entirely sure, you make it best out of three.”
“You’re joking...”
“No, I’m not. The cards sent me on some of the best times I ever had.”
Chance dismissed such foolishness. However, that night in his small bedroom, he took out a pack and shuffled it, just curious what the cards would recommend. He turned up a jack, informing him it was a go. Then he drew again, finding a queen; still a yes. For final confirmation, he drew a king. The cards held no doubt, he ought to go. Bemused, he put the cards away.
Sleep, however, didn’t come. The fact was that he had nowhere to go, no place to aim himself. Again he was drifting and it made him uncertain, questioning everything. Why was it that he had no anchor in life? Because he never knew his parents, or ever got bonded to anybody? He’d almost succeeded in making a life in Fayette. Had a home, a wife and children. But war intervened to cast him adrift again. Maybe that was why he held onto the memory of Emily; their lives had intersected now three times. Of course the first time didn’t count; he’d inserted himself into her life and abducted her. The second time, he’d rescued her from a jail in Tunis, but she’d been married. And then, she’d come to him when he was sick and delirious but after just disappeared. If there was going to be a fourth time, he’d hold onto her and never let her go. On an impulse he took out the cards and asked them again. Three face cards turned up in a row.
“How about that?” He was impressed in spite of his skepticism. “But then your name is Chance, maybe it’s time to take a few...”
The next day, Chance said yes to Hawthorn. Chance had always had an instinctive feel for people; he knew who to trust and who not to. Jeremiah was a good sort, a little verbose but true of heart―full of qualities that cemented a successful partnership.
Winter came. In the city it was hardly felt. It was more wet and moody than cold. However Chance could see how in the mountains the peaks were etched more sharply by the sunlight glinting off the accumulation of snow and the white skirt reached farther down the sides till it disappeared under the trees.
Chance and Hawthorn spent many days in the Mine Registry office, studying the history of the known gold fields and claims, trying to identify a likely place to start their endeavors.
“Everyone is looking for the mother lode, a concentrated vein of gold somewhere that gives birth to a scattering of nuggets and dust washed free by the rush of water. The best would be to find the mother, though it is easier to find the children. So, I propose we look for old riverbeds, often displaced by slides and earthquakes.” As Jeremiah spoke, he unrolled a large map that took up all of the table. He pointed to a certain spot, richly marked in red. “They took millions from here. See how the river has shifted more east, but if you look closer at the contour of the land, you can see how it once flowed right smack dab through the middle of that high yield field.”
“And you figure there’s still gold there?”
“Nah. That site was turned inside out, not once, but four times.” Jeremiah unrolled another map. “But this here is promising. There is the river, and here the old river bed. They have been finding color all the way down stream, but in this ridge someplace I know there is something rich. I can feel it, smell it, taste it...” The partners spent many hours in such discussions, compiling four likely locations. Chance became quite adept at reading maps, judging slopes and elevations, and tracking water flows.
“There are many blank places,” Chance complained.
“Haven’t been surveyed yet. But you can bet the miners have been through it. The governor has sent out four teams of surveyors and cartographers to chart the area. It won’t be long before not one untouched spot is left.”
Despite the weather, Hawthorn dragged Chance around on walking tours, each day covering many miles. “We got to toughen you up for the interior. Your only transportation is your legs, and your home is on your back.” And he piled Chance with loads to take along their daily route.
Similarly, Jeremiah insisted that Chance not burn so much wood. “Even in summer it can be cold where we’re going, so best get used to it. Keep the heat low enough to see your breath.”
Finally Jeremiah pronounced that they were ready to start soon. “But there’s still snow in the mountains and the passes are closed,” Chance protested.
“They won’t be by the time we get to them. The mining season is short, my friend; you can’t mine in the winter.”
“Why not?”
“Water freezes and we need a riverful of water to pan for gold.”
There followed weeks of preparation. Hawthorn bought what they needed, equipment and supplies, mostly with Chance’s money. Then they spent days packing and repacking, Jeremiah fighting to trim every ounce. “Think of it, over a hundred miles an ounce can become very heavy, and a pound can crush you.”
Jeremiah finally judged it time to start heading for their jump off point. “The Big Bend on the Columbia has been prospected to death, but north of it the Omineca River is still yielding finds. There are countless creeks that show traces of gold, not enough to ignite the gold rush of the 50’s and 60’s, but steady enough to still make it worthwhile. I think there’s a mother lode hiding there somewhere.” Chance had to smile: all miners said that.
They started off in late April and reached Fort George going part way by water, walking the rest on rough roads. Then over the wilderness by Indian and animal tracks, lugging their packs, camping along the way. They reached the Bear Claw trading post on the Omineca in mid June, spending two days in the prospector’s camp gathering the latest intelligence.
“The way I hear it, the upper Omineca is pretty well fished out, but the middle is still producing reasonable yields, so that’s where we’ll start on one of the creeks. We’ll pan until we find some color, and then maybe build a sluice run to wash out the gold.” Sounded simple enough, too simple in fact.
“Of course there’s competition. Simple partnerships like ours, two, three men working together. But there’s still plenty of room to stake out a claim. We all pan or use a sluice box, or a rocker box, scratching only the surface mostly. The yields are modest, but don’t require much equipment. There are a couple of mines being dug, looking for a solid vein. The real competition is from mining consortiums using hydraulic mining techniques. They use water pressure to wash the gold-bearing gravel through giant sluices. That requires a large scale operation using enormous quantities of water.”
Hawthorn and Chance set out again, tracking along waterways. Of course, the most promising places were already occupied and they received suspicious and even hostile looks from the prospectors there. So they moved on.
Ranging farther upstream they found some creeks that nobody was working. They tested as they went, to see if the pan would find some gold, but nothing turned up. However on the fifth or sixth creek there was a glint of color and Hawthorn immediately became excited.
“This is it! I know it. This creek will lead us to the mother lode.” But it didn’t and after two weeks of effort they moved on. Three days later they found traces again, then further up a more substantial yield. Again Hawthorn was jubilant. They tracked up and down the length of the creek, finding where the trace ended. Finally, they staked out their claim, and set up their tents in the middle of it. Hawthorn called the unnamed creek the Lost Creek after a place where he’d been successful.
*****
The rain had let up a little but continued throughout the night. By the next morning everything was soaking wet. The tent had not held the weather out; the moisture-laden air had turned everything damp that wasn’t already.
Chance sneezed as he extricated himself from his moist covers. He winced as he pulled on his cold boots. Crawling out, of course, he found the fire dead and had trouble starting it even using lamp oil, but finally flames came to life. He put on a pot of rainwater that had accumulated overnight and stirred in a handful of oatmeal.
