It’s Lookin’ Good in Da Hood!

Published March 25, 2008 by Jason

Jason Quinten Kincade’s Gold Fever Diary, Page 8—Outline:

While prospecting for gold in Plumas County California, I become concerned for the safety of my new camp and venture out to scout my surroundings. During the reconnaissance, I visit some ghost towns and old-timer’s gold mining sites. I’m spotted by the Forest Service.

On the way back I’m invited into a stranger’s camp, blitzed a voracious swarm of mosquitoes, and accosted by a wary German shepherd—6 photos included.

I was Jubilant over my sniping success on Slate Creek and the new heft to my gold poke had abated my financial concerns—for the near term at least. In fact, I was probably the happiest camper in Plumas County.

This is one of my recent Sierra prospecting camps. It’s typical of them (yubalee is center stage).

I arose early after a comfortable nights sleep on my new cot while shielded from mosquitoes inside my new tent. What an improvement it was after sleeping all winter on the hard, cramped surface of my little Datsun station wagon—what luxury. I felt like I had won a promotion.

Things were going well indeed!

After a breakfast of cold cereal, I positioned my chair to allow me to bask in the sun’s bloom. I drank several leisurely cups of coffee while reading an autobiography written by a 49er. Why not? I didn’t have a time clock to punch.

Not a single vehicle passed by. Good!

But still, the possibility of others camped nearby had me a little concerned. So, since I wasn’t facing an immediate money crisis any longer, instead of jumping right back into the creek to snipe for gold, I opted to look around the neighborhood.

Three days previous, when I had driven in along the Howland Flat Road, I hadn’t noticed any other campers along the way. It was time to look deeper into the woods.

Being concerned about theft and about to leave my camp untended, how ironic would it be if while gone, my belongings were carted off by camp robbers? It gave me pause. So, as a precaution, I tossed my rifle and all important mining gear into the car.

The road to Slate Creek was steep; about half way to the bottom of the canyon, I met a light green Forest Service pickup truck crawling up the hill, tailed by a cloud of dust. An older man, in a Forest Service Uniform was driving; he smiled and waved as we passed. As I waved back I wondered…if he would spot my camp on his way out? Was I legal? I guessed I’d soon find out. (I met him later, his name was Dick O’Rourke; his family had lived in the area since the Gold Rush days).

I had hoped the Forest Service wouldn’t zero in on my camp, for a while at least. I wasn’t sure if I was setup in an area open to camping, and there was a two-week limit, at least in established campgrounds. I didn’t know if that applied to me though, a prospector camping in the bush. I had heard that the ‘rule’ was only loosely and selectively enforced and those with messy camps were usually the first to be ousted. But that was hearsay and didn’t relieve my apprehension.

I was pretty sure (but not positive ) that a prospector or miner had a right to camp in the woods as long as he was actively engaged in his ‘craft,’ but must he have a valid claim ? I didn’t know; I was new to the game and ignorant of the rules. I almost waved him down to ask but thought better about it. Why risk drawing attention to myself? I didn’t want to be informed that I had to be out in two weeks, at least not on the record. Better to lay low and claim ignorance.

Not far down the road, I arrived at a narrow concrete bridge spanning Slate Creek. The bridge dated at least as far back as the depression era; it’s since been supplanted by a new structure (see photo). Fortunately, however, it was blocked off and left standing as a historical monument.

The St. Louis Bridge Spanning Slate Creek Photo: Dale Edmondson

On the left side of the bridge, down by the creek, was a tree shaded flat with several campers in residence. I recognized a couple of the pickup trucks as those that had driven past my camp the first day. They were parked next to travel trailers.

In addition to the trailers, there was one other camper on the flat; he had pitched a tent under a Ponderosa tree, away from the others. An older couple was lounging on chairs in front of a vintage trailer. The rig looked well maintained and had a wisp of smoke rising lazily from a stack on its roof. The couple waved and their German Shepard bounded up the hill toward me, barking, as I passed by. I made a mental note to stop and introduce myself on my way out.

After crossing the bridge, the road climbed steeply toward the abandoned gold rush townsite of Saint Louis, located high on the bluff above Slate Creek. A little creek snaked through Cedar Grove Ravine on my right. During the Gold Rush, it had been used to drain off some of the lighter tailings, predominantly soils mixed with smaller sized gravels, from the massive Saint Louis Hydraulic Diggings and into Slate Creek and the main river channels beyond.

The build-up of tailings deposits from the mines choked rivers and resulted in major flooding in the valleys. Rich delta farmlands were inundated with debris and threatened with ruin. A farmer’s rebellion led to federal legislation that essentially shut down hydraulic mining throughout the mountains in 1884.

I found this amongst my photos. It looks like Cedar Grove Ravine.

Following the discovery of rich placer claims in 1852, the town of St. Louis germinated and grew to become a home and supply center for the miners and later their families too; the community thrived. Hydraulic monitors were employed to disintegrate mountains of gold bearing soil and gravels throughout the diggings.

Today, all that is left to mark those frenzied, freewheeling days are acres upon acres of tailings piles, heaped like haystacks upon mostly bare rock that had been stripped of earth to get at the gold. Wherever enough soil has been left, often in scattered patches, islands of trees and bushes have returned.

At the town site and to a lesser degree throughout the diggings, one can find shards of glass and earthenware and rusty tin cans that were sealed with lead and opened with knives long before can openers were invented. And there are tons of square nails scattered about, left behind when the buildings, corrals, sluice boxes and such rotted away. Sections of rusty, hand riveted hydraulic pipe (used to transport water under pressure throughout the mines) are still encountered in the area as well as lumps and bits of iron along with the odd collectible relic of the times.

It should be noted that the American Antiquities Act of 1906, bolstered by subsequent addenda, makes it illegal to remove any artifact from federal property without government sanction.

Gold Rush footprints are still visible today at many locations; there are hundreds of forgotten mines and town sites throughout the Mother Lode Country. In fact, just within a few miles of St. Louis the hillsides are peppered with them.

I view the sites as fascinating windows into our pioneer past and wonderful places to visit and learn from. After all, they’re already there and we can’t change that, so why not make the best of it?

(A few militant groups though, who have elected themselves spokespersons for us all (aren’t we lucky ), point to the damage wrought during the Gold Rush as an example of man’s innate destructive nature. Some of them advocate shutting down mining and timber cutting entirely.

It makes sense to be concerned for our environment, but I strongly disagree with the nearsighted, inflexible and illogical premise of some of their arguments.

I am convinced that mining is essential to our welfare. We can’t continue to prosper or even survive as a civilization without it. And yes, trees are beautiful—but not sacrosanct. In the scheme of nature, where human emotions don’t count, a 350 ft. tall, 2000 year old Sequoia Redwood or 5,000 year old Bristlecone Pine tree doesn’t even outrank a clump of crabgrass for the right to exist.

Trees are a renewable resource and should be managed like any crop, similar to corn or wheat, and harvested for the betterment of humankind. With proper management, we can enjoy the benefits of both the timber harvest and the beautiful, forested habitats as well.

Some will disagree–strongly too. There is a comments input form at the bottom of this page…I invite them to use it.

If anyone would like to express their argument in more detail… they should write an article. Gorpstew welcomes guest authors. If it is written well enough to be understood, is pertinent and not offensive, it’ll be published on GorpStew, no matter what side of the issue it supports.)

Please pardon the detour. Now, let’s get back on the main road!

(Hydraulic mining pit) Water blasting from monitors like this washed away whole mountains!

I drove along, getting a feel for things, passing signs of old-timer’s workings here and there but no campers and no traffic. A few miles further on, tailings piles began to appear on both sides of the road. There were just a few scattered stacks at first, but the further I went the more extensive they became, until I had no doubt I was in the middle of a major old-timer’s diggings. I felt the town site had to be nearby, and as conformation, my dust covered Datsun rolled into Howland Flat minutes later.

During the Rush, the community had prospered as rich placer and hardrock mines were discovered and worked throughout the area. The community Sprang to life in 1853. At its pinnacle, the boomtown boasted some 1500 industrious inhabitants. (Among them, as there are among us today, were the usual spattering of flimflammers, drunks and miscreants—of course !)

The region was comprised of a heterogeneous population of Americans and foreigners. Conspicuous among them and widely maligned were a minority of Chinese immigrants. During the Rush, throngs of the eager Orientals disembarked at the port in San Francisco with but piteously scant resources. They came to work and better themselves, and they did, stoically, while enduring a continues barrage of abuse.

Howland Flat was named after powerful winds that frequently whistled through the camps and hammered the ridge tops. Most winters were harsh and the land was often buried in snow. The town proffered a Post Office, Wells Fargo Office, General Store, bakery, Livery Stable, Barber Shop, Physician, Law Firm, Hotel, Bars and Gambling dens among its amenities.

Booms and busts cycled throughout the years of production and the mines produced millions in revenues, beginning with discovery and extending all the way into the early 20th century.

Once it was a vibrant community. But, when I arrived for my first visit, back in ’79, all that remained to represent the once bustling Gold Rush Town were several ramshackle buildings (a couple were being used as summer cabins) and a bedraggled graveyard where howling winds slapped spindly weeds against aging tombstones.

( Each time I stumble upon a deserted, forgotten diggings, I feel a kinship with those that lived and died there. There are questions that wish to be asked and questions that want to be answered, but there is no hope. Their unique stories will never be told; they’re lost in time. I always walk away a little frustrated, maybe even a bit sad too, it’s haunting—sorta.)

The boom to ghost town evolution was endemic to dozens and dozens of communities born of the Gold Rush. Many such locations have been reclaimed by woodlands and all evidence of others paved over by modern towns and cities; little if anything remains to mark their passing.

To travel much beyond Howland Flat, one needs a 4-wheel drive, a bit of luck, and sometimes a tow truck too! So, after a short look around, I pointed my car back at camp; I turned off though, to ‘Port Wine’ just before descending into Slate Creek.

Port Wine (the origin of its colorful name is widely disputed) was another whirlwind village that sprouted up around rich diggings and has long since vanished. I poked around and tried to visualize the mines during their heyday when hydraulic nozzles blasted powerful jets of water against forested hillsides. Whole mountains were washed away in a muddy slurry so as to get at the gold on bedrock—quickly.

Some other mining villages in the vicinity were named Chandlerville, Pine Grove, Whisky Diggings, Potosi, Queen City, cedar Grove, Onion Valley and Gibsonville. There is little left to see but the history, and not much of that.

I arrived back at Slate Creek late in the afternoon about the time the mosquitoes come out to feed in mass. I parked along the road above the flat where the camps were. As soon as I got out of the car, I was attacked by a swarm of starving ‘skeeters.’ Before I could slap at the feasting flock, the huge German Shepard from the camp arrived at my side, barking and showing off his pearly canines, not in a friendly way—he definitely wasn’t smiling! Just before he could find out how I tasted, his master called him off and invited me into camp. Thank providence for obedient dogs!

I walked down the path to their trailer, parked in a grove of trees, just above creek level. The whole while, I was swatting mosquitoes and keeping a wary eye on my lock-stepping escort, whose back hair was standing at attention and whose curled lip, menacing stare, and low growl, were just a bit disconcerting.

A middle-aged man, with a kind face, introduced himself as Matt and his dog as Shep. Shep seemed to relax a little as I sat in a chair next to the campfire.

The camp was shaded by tall Cedars and Pines and Slate Creek was gurgling past mere feet away.

Slate Creek—Photo: The American Fauxtographer

“ I know it’s a little early for a fire,” he said casually as he added green pine limbs to the rock ringed fire-pit. The pine needles smoldered, crackled, and puffed out thick, white clouds of smoke before raging into flame.

“but I do it about this time everyday to keep back the damn mosquitoes. A few still come around though, but not near so many. As long as I keep a good hot bed of coals going, the green stuff’ll smoke em off.”

It seemed to do the job, because the ’skeeters’ weren’t bad. The smoke was a nuisance, but not near so much as the mosquitoes.

“Coffee, Jason?”

“Sure Matt that sounds mighty good.”

“Gloria,” He yelled, and a minute later the door to the old trailer popped open. A Short, plump, gray haired women looked out. She had a sweet smile on her face.

“What Honey,” She asked Matt while acknowledging me with a friendly glance.

“This is Jason, Babes,” he said, pointing at me. “He needs a cup of coffee…me too. Oh! And Jason—that’s my wife, Gloria.”

Gloria and I exchanged a nod and a grin.

“I just made a fresh pot guys. Do you take cream or sugar Jason?”

“Both please, if you got ‘em,” I replied as I reached for my tobacco to roll a smoke.

“Oh, I might run out of other stuff…once in awhile, but never coffee, cream, or sugar. If I ever did, God forbid, Matt wouldn’t be fit to live with!”

Gloria joined us at the fire where we drank coffee and talked for an hour. After only a few minutes, they had me feeling like a family member, and in less time than that, the dog that had acted as though he would tear into me at the slightest provocation, was all licks and nuzzles. He kept bringing me sticks to throw, and if I didn’t pay attention, he bulldozed his head under my legs and lifted them. If that failed, he whined and tried to jump into my lap. Shep was a stick dog , he was obsessed with the throw and fetch routine, and he used to pester Matt to near insanity.

Matt and Shep at their Slate Creek Camp (Shep has a stick in his mouth—of course!)

I drove back to camp pleased with my ‘recon’ trip. I had familiarized myself with the surrounding country and determined that it offered good potential for prospecting and sniping. There were dozens of gold bearing streams in the area where placer could still be taken and there was potential for hardrock gold too.

Much to my relief, the territory wasn’t overrun with campers, prospectors and miners, and the country for miles around was in a near wilderness state. The safety of my camp during my absences was still a concern (and always would be), but I’d done all I could to protect it. So I purged it from my mind and quit worrying about it.

The best part of the day was meeting Matt, Gloria, and Shep. Over the following weeks, I would get to know them better. Matt and I would hike into a steep canyon looking for gold and even dredge together before I left to raft the Wild and Scenic Middle Fork of the Feather River (alone) on a three-week sniping expedition.

Next: Jason Behind You in the Water–Rattlesnake!

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