RIVERS OF GOLD: chapter one

Tales from the Hermitage

Photograph by starchy                                            all rights reserved 

Caught in shafts of sunlight, diamond beads of water arched off my glistening fly line. Helpless and compliant as a caboose on a train, the fly traveled back and forth in long lazy loops over the stream. With a quick flick of the wrist, I directed the fast floating line up and across the babbling creek. The lure landed softly and submerged in the fast current, just off the far bank. Instantly the snaking line began to straighten, about two meters above where I sensed a fish was lurking. 

A disapproving kingfisher lectured me from high in his leafy pulpit, the sermon went on and on, in scolding tones of condemnation.  Ignoring his tirade, I fell back in tune with my fly, that at this moment was floating enticingly under the nose of a plump rainbow trout. 

I had tossed and turned most of the previous night, and finally in the wee hours I simply gave up and got dressed. I was beside myself, after reading the forth of the old mans journals In disbelief I would toss his notes down then pick them up again, truly astounded at what I was reading. In language that bordered on the scientific and penned in the sometimes confusing hand of a geologist.  He had carefully chronicaled the workings of a gold mine, or in his terms, "epithermal pits."

  Pacing the floor flipping from page to page, from hope to doubt, to hope again. I had to find out for myself, and could hardly wait for first light.  He had discovered the placer deposits while exploring and prospecting the area, and had built the cabin as an after thought, so he could work his claim. 

 He had carefully chronicled details of his working the claim, and directions to it. I had learned to trust his writings as they had never mislead in the past. His trust in his decision to find the right person to take over amazed me, yet left me feeling guilty, appreciative but unworthy. The anxious anticipation of seeing the gold kept me wide awake, like a child on Christmas morning.  His findings listed in the journal were remarkable, and no doubt accurate.  He was by all accounts a very wealthy man.  According to these records, and projected earnings, it looked as if I would be as well.

  I had spent the entire night preparing for the trek to the mine, and provisioned enough supplies to last a good three or four days in the bush.  Zibby knew something was up, and annoyingly followed on my heels.  As I went about collecting articles for the hike.  Like me, she couldn't wait to go, and thought we were leaving at even the slightest of my movements. There was nothing I could do to dissuade her from this annoying habit. 

 I allowed the fly to swing in the lazy current, and drift to where I sensed a fish may be laying. The fly couldn't have been presented better, and landed exactly where I wanted it. I tried to force myself into believing that there wasn't a more satisfying feeling as a well placed fly, but I couldn't  I could only think of the gold.  I could just see the end of the pink floating line bobbing by and I knew that my fly was following along nicely. However my mind was not on fishing, and it took all my will power not drop the rod in the creek, and go fondle the leather poke again.  

As the streamer drifted just under the grassy hummocks. I mended my line and watched as the bend began to straighten out down in the current. If the fish was following, it would strike as the fly changed direction at the end of the line and moved across stream. In my peripheral vision I caught a flash on the bank above my line and saw the unmistakable bobbing of an American Dipper. The drab little fellow ran out to the end of a sun bleached length of driftwood, curtsied, and let go with the most wonderful little ditty imaginable. He sang "zeet, zeet , you got gold, I know you do, I know you do." 

 Momentarily distracted by his sudden appearance at the most crucial moment in river fishing, I almost missed the soft tug, reverberating up my line. I lifted the rod tip high and immediately felt the heavy tug and pull of a fine fish. Then nothing, thinking I had lost it, for I had become sloppy in my knot tying lately, I began to reel in. I hadn’t made but a few turns when the line snagged hard on something. Mumbling under my breath I stepped into the current and began moving toward the snag, alternating my rod tip, trying to dislodge the hook. Secretly enjoying the wonderful tug of the river grasping my waders, I picked my way toward the snag. Immediately my actions spooked a fine trout that had been playing possum on the bottom. It broke free of the surface and back-flipped and somersaulted in the air, and belly flopped back into the rushing stream. I let him run and play and when it began to tire, I reeled in a nice pan sized glistening rainbow. 

I should have been content with my catch but I wasn't.  I just couldn't keep my mind off my good fortune. I was weak, again I returned to camp to look at my gold. I flopped the fish down in the grass and scrummaging through my pack, I greedily fondled the soft deerskin pouch full of gold. I had the gold sickness and I knew it. The Doc spoke of his fight with it, and now I had it. Loving the weight of it, I dumped the gold tailings onto my sleeping bag and fanned the wonderful pile out between my fingers. While the trappings of wealth flooded my mind. I was awestruck by one large quarter sized dimpled nugget, that I kept exploring with my finger tips.

 Almost a year had passed since the old man gave me the map to his cabin. It was still hard to believe that I would probably never see him again. And even harder to believe, that he would have left the cabin and all this wealth to a total stranger? But here I was camped right beside a real gold mine, that was now all mine.  

I would have to invest in better tools, re-stake the claim and purchase new picks and shovels. As there wouldn't be any way to drag in modern pumps and sluicing machines until winter, which was still six months off. The tools the Doc had left buried in ground wrapped in canvas, were broken and rusted. The pick handle was so badly damaged and taped at the headstock that I was fearful of using it.  My hands after only one afternoon's work, were blister ripped and bleeding. Even wrapped in bandages from an old t-shirt, I was still unable to swing a pick or heft a shovel anymore today. I was forced to stop, but I had the fever and wanted more.  

starchy [:)

 

Comments

[Term papers]

Don't have anything special to say. Just wanted to tell you I really enjoy the stories you find. There's something very special about stories like that!

[Bill]

Hello,

Thanks for the comments, I really appreciate them, and actually look forward to them.
However, I don’t publish other peoples stories. All the artwork and stories on this site are drawn, carved (lino & woodcuts) and written entirely by me.
I do not have an editor so I ask that you please bear with the many grammatical errors sprinkled about the paragraphs.