Moving to the Yuba River to Snipe for Gold, Winter 1978-’79
Published January 16, 2008 by Jason
Jason Quinten Kincade’s Gold Fever Diary, Page 1—Outline:
I become estrangement from my wife and hit the road. After traveling around the west, taking a job here and there and not finding my niche, I decide to give my lifelong passion for prospecting for gold a go.
I set up my first scanty camp on the Yuba River in the California Sierra Nevada Mountains during the winter of 1978-’79. My life as a prospector and miner begins.
I was a novice without much equipment or camping and mining knowledge and the prospect of a severe winter loomed large. My biggest assets were my avid interest in prospecting and a strong will to succeed. The grim certainty of having to return to my former and painfully dull ‘work a day life’, if I failed—spurred me on.
In Jan. of ’77 my wife of ten years and I split up in Canon City, Colorado. I drove to Reno, Nevada (divorce on my mind) and worked briefly at Dell Webb’s Primadona Club before moving on to Las Vegas were I hired on at Rocky’s Welding. I got along well with Rocky and his wife and was quickly promoted to foreman.
I quit after a few months to take a break for some fun. I had bet a friend that I could ride a 10-speed bicycle to Reno (about 500 mi), skirting Death Valley in mid-summer when temperatures were in excess of 110 degrees Fahrenheit.
It sounded like an exciting challenge and lots of fun; it was! And, I won the bet too. My prize—a slap on the back and a case of beer! But the best reward was the experience itself.
I went back to work (briefly) for Rocky before joining the U-Haul Corporation to manage their North Las Vegas Moving Center. After a year on the job, I left to knock around the country, ending-up in Wyoming where I snagged a job welding for Mountain States Derrick Service, based in Casper. I was there only a few weeks before a ludicrous, wild, rowdy weekend (harmless in nature) with possible consequence to follow convinced me that I needed to see the ‘Big Skies’ of Montana—immediately!
What beautiful country that Northwestern Montana was! (Still is! )
Mountains in Columbia Falls Montana (Photo by Chromaticlight )
In Montana I rented an apartment and drove cab. The business was owned and operated by a cordial young family (Mom, Pop and Rug Rats ) who ran it out of their home in a little town, not far from the Canadian border, named Columbia Falls. It was touted as the ‘Gateway to Glacier National Park.’ The prime impetus behind the cab company’s existence came from the Montana Veterans Home located on the outskirts of town.
We shuttled the Vets back and forth between the Home and their destinations in Columbia Falls and surrounding communities. The most popular runs were to the area’s few bars. (Who could ever have guessed? )
A number of the old boys were WW1 Vets and real characters too. In fact, some of them acted as if they were frisky young recruits turned out on their first three-day pass. I can remember being called by an exasperated bartender, more than once, to “come pick ‘em up—and hurry !” I always arrived as fast as I could. When the vets were highly agitated and causing a real disturbance, such as, cursing loudly and threatening to bonk one another over the head with their canes, I had to calm them down (not easy to do) before I could finesse them into the cab and whisk them away.
One leather faced codger, he must have been in his 80s and always dressed in plain, wrinkled Khakis, had one of the staff call me every morning to pick him up outside the medical wing of the Home. I soon learned that his beloved time in town was sadly limited—so I always came A.S.A.P.
He was of medium height, rail thin, had a hawkish, heavily furrowed face, never smiled and never removed the cigarette from his mouth long enough for idle conversation. There was one and only one thing on his mind—getting to the bar—fast!
I always dropped him off out front and watched as he slowly climbed the curb and fought his way across the sidewalk, stooped and coughing, to fade into the smoke filled darkness of the saloon.
In under two hours I’d get a call from the bartender (it became a regular routine) to “come and get em.” I would rush to the bar to find him bent over his stool, coughing and gasping for breath and using his handkerchief to swab froth from around his mouth. The fact that he was turning blue and each labored breath sounded like someone sucking the last drops of a milkshake through a straw, added a sense of urgency to the situation. I always helped him out to the cab, his cherished cigarette left smoldering in the ashtray next to his unfinished drink.
I would rush back to the medical wing of the Veterans Home were they would work on him (I assume). Maybe though he just crawled to his room and sucked down a bottle of oxygen.
Although it was just everyday routine to the old man—to me it always felt like an emergency, and probably was!
Every afternoon I’d get another call from a staffer and rush to take him, newly revived, back to the bar for a repeat performance. This went on everyday!
Most of the vets conducted themselves well and seemed to be respected and liked within the community, and, from what I could see, they received excellent treatment and care at the Montana Veterans Home. I thought they were a terrific, ‘highly spirited’ gang of troopers!
An aluminum reduction plant was located just out of town. They were hiring skilled labor to tweak their plant with Sumitomo process technology, a Japanese innovation that dramatically cut pollution and operation costs. I got a gig welding for them and continued as a Taxi Jockey, on days off.
It wasn’t long though, before my wild, off duty antics resurfaced to brand me with a reputation that didn’t match my preferred self-image. That’s about the time I developed a craving for the ‘Blue Skies’ over Seattle.
In Seattle, I resolved to tone things down and hired out of the boilermakers union, as a welder for Marine Power and Equipment Co, building ferryboats for the State of Washington. Except for a couple of minor lapses, I stayed out of the bars and managed to save a little money.
Ever bored and restless, I quit my job a little shy of New Years ‘79 to travel south to California’s Mother lode country for a change of pace and to test my luck at digging gold in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
My sights were set on Indian Valley Campground, perched on the north bank of the North Fork of the Yuba River, in Sierra County about 12 or so miles down river from Downieville , a quaint community, largely dependent on tourism with a population this side of 200. The town traces its origin to the Gold Rush era and is situated in a deep, narrow canyon where it straddles the river’s banks.
Indian Valley is a pay campground, run by the forest service; I had camped there once before on vacation with my family in ‘76. Although I have spent several years camping in National Forests since then, that was the one and only time I have ever paid a fee.
When I arrived on the river in late December, I was pleased to see that the Campground was empty. I learned from a bulletin posted by the Forest Service that they did not maintain campgrounds during the winter season, that is to say, they did not provide drinking water, collect garbage, pump restrooms, or collect fees—great! A sign posted at the campground declared a two-week camping limit throughout the forest—not great! I setup camp anyway and hoped not to be run off.
North Fork Yuba River about ‘79
I found a semi-secluded spot on the rivers bank and in a drizzling rain pitched my tent. Knowing that I was likely see plenty more rain and even snow over the winter, I opted to use my tent as storage thereby freeing-up my weathertight Datsun Station Wagon to sleep in.
As soon as I got camp organized, I placed my Coleman gasoline stove on the campsite’s picnic table, fired it up, and brewed a pot of coffee.
It was late in the afternoon, chilly and starting to get dark. A fluffy white pillow of fog floated serenely just feet above the riverbed and the air was agreeably laced with scents of Cedar and Pine. The rain had stopped, but everything was still wet, dripping and fragrant.
With steaming cup in hand, I sauntered down to the swollen river. It was bucking and rolling by in a whoosh, and there at waters edge, being pelted with spray—it really hit me.
“I’m free,” I bragged allowed to the river and the forest. “No more schedules, no more traffic jams and honking horns, no more alarm clocks, phone calls or milling crowds, and best of all–no more bosses”
“Yeeeeee Haaaaw!”
Crawling into my sleeping bag that night, I felt like the luckiest man alive.
Next: My Winter on the Yuba, 1978-’79—First Gold!
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