The Ghosts of Lake Tahoe

by Patrick Betson

  He braced himself against the rock. The snow pushed with tremendous pressure as it filled nearly every conceivable crevice. Jung Lo had trouble keeping it out of his mouth, nostrils, and ears. He tried to form a barrier with his upper body to save a breathing space beneath his chin. Still, the snow pushed violently at his back and flowed through his legs with such force that it would have swept a smaller boulder off the mountain. Suddenly, the roar of the snow came to an end and the temperature dropped dramatically. The torrent of snow was over, and as it hardened, more oxygen filled the gaps. But now it was cold, dark, and silent. He was trapped beneath tons of snow. He had survived a quick death by drowning, only to face a slow death by hypothermia.

  One of his knees was jammed beneath the rock, and his torso was wedged so tight that he had managed to stop the snow from filling a sixteen-square-inch gap below his chest. The rest of him was held motionless by a body armor of packed snow; it pressed against his spine and cradled the back of his head like a tight-fitting skull cap. Still, with the space he had managed to save, he was able to slide a little further beneath the rock. In the confined space he was just able to maneuver his arm. He slid his hand down to a small pack attached to his belt and extracted a spare drill bit. With his hand tight against his waist he started to scrape the tightly packed snow at his side. He worked the drill bit further up his body, trying to carve enough room to free both arms and to give him extra breathing space. He kept calm and labored inch by inch. After more than hour, he had managed a hole big enough to move his head. His legs were turned awkwardly and he couldn’t move either of them.

  In the darkness, he was uncomfortable but he was alive. He continued scraping, working a little lower so he could free the rest of his body. After a time he had enough freedom around his hips to shift his torso, but his legs were still trapped. Because his fingers were numbingly cold, the drill bit became increasingly difficult to hold, while the rest of his body was hot. He worked to free his knees, and then maybe he could reach down to his feet. It was a good while before he managed enough room around his knees to bend them slightly. He slid his upper body down enough so he could attack the snow around his feet. It could have been another hour before he was able to move his whole body. Exhausted, and struggling against the urge to sleep. He shook his hands and kicked his feet, to make warmer blood flow to his extremities. He continued on to create enough space so he could sit upright.

  Had the crew on the other side of the summit known of the avalanche, they might have attempted a search for survivors. What they would have found would have been a totally different landscape than the one that has existed before. All evidence that there had been an encampment of two hundred men was gone. Half of those who were still breathing after the avalanche would die of their injuries. Bodies buried in the avalanche wouldn’t be found again until early summer.

  From being able to sit, he had gone to a kneeling position. He chipped away at the snow above his head. His progress was slow but eventually he was able to stand. The chipped snow fell, but didn’t melt. He was going to tunnel his way straight up and chisel small steps as he went. He cut two small steps and climbed off the ground. A little further up and the bit hit something hard. It surprised him so much that he dropped the bit. His worst fear of losing his tool was now a real possibility. He dropped to the ground beneath him and blindly felt the area with his hands. It was a desperate ten minutes before he found it again.

  He climbed back up the hole. He chipped a little more gingerly this time. It was solid. Jung Lo sensed it must be wood, which he guessed must be a tree that had been swept down with the force of the avalanche. Keeping a firm grip on the bit, he managed to work out where above his head the tree lay. He worked around it. Squeezing through the branches, he made further progress upwards until he hit another tree. Cautiously he worked around each tree, as well as a few boulders. On occasion, the chipped steps would not hold his weight and he would slip a few feet down. At times Jung Lo made use of the trees he passed to rest. It was tiring work, and despite being surrounded by snow he was hot as he struggled ever upward. At last he could see some evidence of light above him, he guessed that morning had turned to afternoon and he was not sure how much daylight might be left.

  As Jung Lo broke through to the surface, a cold fresh wind hit his face. The sun was still above the mountains, but it would only last for another hour or so. His surroundings were unrecognizable. Nothing remained that was familiar to him. The odd broken tree stuck out from a vast expanse of snow. What was left of a torn tent had wrapped itself around a limb and flapped in the wind. Pieces of a broken powder barrel lay smashed as if it had been pushed off a hundred-foot cliff. The avalanche had destroyed everything in its path. Jung Lo was awestruck by the completeness of the destruction. Could he be the only one alive?

  He estimated the avalanche must have happened more than five hours earlier, yet there was not a single human to be seen. Had the avalanche killed everyone? Were there others beneath the snow still alive? Should he look or go for help? Could he walk over the snow? How far could he get before night fell? The obvious direction was to walk downhill to the trail, which led back over the summit, but there was no chance he could get to the western camp before dark. He would try to get as far as he could, and maybe he could find some kind of shelter against the coming night and its subzero temperatures.

  As he walked, slipped, and slid his way downhill, he thought he could see something ahead which was different from the debris of rocks and bits of tree on the snow’s surface. He made his awkward way down toward it. As he came closer he could see it was a man’s jacket. Although the jacket was moving in the wind, it was somehow fixed to the snow. As he got closer he could see the jacket was draped over something that held it in place. Jung Lo knelt and flipped the jacket over to reveal the head and a shoulder of a man protruding above the snow.

  The man’s eyes were closed and there was no visible sign that he was still alive. The head was tilted forward, and at first Jung Lo had no idea who it was. He gently moved the man’s head back. Jung Lo recognized the frozen features of his foreman Mike Sullivan. Using his drill bit, Jung Lo feverishly dug a space around the Irishman’s shoulders. He worked with inspired vigor to free the big man. After a short time he had enough space to put his arm under the Irishman’s one good arm. With super human strength, the small framed Chinaman hauled the big Irishman out.

  Jung Lo dragged the Irishman on his back by his ankles down the hill. He didn’t know whether the foreman was alive or not, but he thought if he could at least start a fire there was more chance of reviving him. Having gotten down the hill, Jung Lo dragged the Irishman along to the edge of the path of destruction to where the trees still stood. There were fallen pine cones and pine needles in abundance, which he collected by the armload. He pried loose bark from every available tree. Here and there were fallen branches and other pieces of wood. Leaving the unconscious Irishman, Jung Lo ran back to the tent and the smashed barrel he had seen before. He unraveled the tent from the fallen tree. From among the broken parts of the barrel he found a handful of powder. He stuffed the powder in his pockets and carried the remnants of the barrel and tent in his arms.

  Jung Lo searched through Sullivan’s pockets and found his flint lighter, which he knew the foreman always carried. Jung Lo ripped the sleeve off Sullivan’s jacket, the unused sleeve that Sullivan usually tucked in his trousers. Jung Lo tore at the fibers and pushed them under a pile of pine cones, sprinkled some of the powder on top of the fibers, and struck the flint. The powder flashed and the fibers burst into flame. The cones needed some coaxing, but they, too, caught fire. Jung Lo carefully added needles and stacked bark on top to create a chimney effect. Once all was ablaze, Jung Lo put the bigger pieces of wood on. The fire took on a life of its own and started to give off some real heat. Up to now Jung Lo had been robotically doing everything, but now he started to thaw physically and mentally. He started to cry and shake as the heat brought feeling back to his body.<
br />
  He turned his attention to Sullivan. It was as if the big man was frozen solid. He moved the Irishman as close to the fire as possible, but even then he knew it would not be enough. The daylight was now failing fast, and in the murkiness of an ending day, Jung Lo scampered high and low for every conceivable piece of timber, wet or dry. He piled hundreds of cones and smaller branches on top of the tent and dragged them to the fire. He found the stump of an old tree trunk, which he managed to loosen and, with difficulty, push, roll and drag to the fire. He had the idea to build a second fire on the other side of Sullivan. He had no powder left, but, using a couple of burning branches from the original fire, he was able to set fire to another pile of pinecones. Shortly there were two fires burning twenty feet apart, giving warmth to both sides of the unconscious Irishman.

  Half a mile away, Ralph McPherson put another log into the Franklin stove; he was alone in the hut on the summit. His colleague had to go down to Sacramento on compassionate leave, due to an ailing father. It was the last unused log inside the cabin. Once he had finished his coffee, he would have to grab an armful of new logs from the stack underneath the tarpaulin outside. As he stepped outside into the coolness of night, he stood and gazed skyward. He never lost his wonder for the mountain sky on a clear, moonless night; the stars were so numerous and so close he felt he could almost touch them. It was like looking at heaven. There was something overpowering and intimidating about the sight of a million stars. How could so much existence exist? He was almost paralyzed to the spot, momentarily forgetting his purpose in coming outside. His eyes followed the greatest band of stars which stretched directly over his head. As his eyes got to the eastern sky, he noticed an orange glow nearer to the horizon. It was not a natural light. McPherson ran through the snow to a higher vantage point, and the light became brighter and redder. Something was on fire!

  Jung Lo felt he had done all he could do, and whether Sullivan survived or not was now out of his hands. He sat there transfixed by the flames. He sat on his haunches, and once his front became warm he turned around and gave his back some warmth. As he sat with his back to the fire he stared at a tree that stood by itself. The avalanche had probably run out of power by the time it reached this huge Douglas fir. Or maybe it had just refused to go down. It was a good sixty feet away from the rest of the forest. He looked up to see how close the branches spread to its nearest neighbor, and he knew it was a safe enough distance. The fir was close to a hundred feet high. It was bound to make a spectacular fire. If he could set it alight, just maybe someone somewhere would see it from afar.

  Charles Crocker left Sacramento the day after word came down about the avalanche and a terrible loss of life on the eastern side of the summit. On seeing the devastation for himself, Crocker immediately announced that operations on the eastern side would be halted until late spring, when all the snow had melted and the dead had been recovered. Apparently, there had been a dozen Chinese survivors who were now being treated for their injuries. Only one person had walked away with no injury at all. Crocker met the small, plucky Jung Lo, and through an interpreter learned that he had set a Douglas fir ablaze. The blaze had been seen by the telegraph operator on top of Donner Summit. A handful of survivors had also made their way to the blazing tree and joined Jung Lo.

  Crocker thanked Jung Lo for his efforts and was just about to leave when one of the foremen from the western side of the summit came to Crocker. The foreman told Crocker that Jung Lo had been responsible for rescuing an unconscious Mike Sullivan from certain death. Crocker turned to Jung Lo again and thanked him more enthusiastically. He told the interpreter that Jung Lo’s act of compassion would be well remembered. Jung Lo asked through the interpreter after Mister Sullivan’s health. Crocker assured him that, as soon as he knew, he would make it a point that Jung Lo was told. Charles Crocker took his leave of the young hero but continued in conversation with the foreman.

  Sullivan awoke in bed to an unfamiliar room and fought to collect his thoughts. He was bandaged, his body ached, and his head throbbed. He saw a nurse come into the room. As she bent over to look into his eyes, her voice was soft and reassuring. “Well, Mr. Sullivan, you are a marvel. You have been unconscious for more than a week! You owe your life to a small Chinaman who dragged you off the mountain. I think he will be very happy to hear you are still with us. More than two hundred others were not so lucky.”

  It was three weeks later when Sullivan returned to Donner Summit. He had not seen Jung Lo while in hospital. He had wanted to thank him personally for saving his life. Upon arrival at the western camp, he went to visit some of the Chinese, but no one knew where Jung Lo was. After an afternoon of fruitless search, it was obvious to Sullivan that Jung Lo had gone. Eventually, Sullivan spoke to the foreman who had spoken to Charles Crocker four weeks earlier.

  Only Mr. Crocker and the foreman had known the intentions of the young Chinaman.

  Jung Lo walked along the trail underneath the tall bamboo which creaked in the wind. He had been given three months off with pay until the operations were to restart in the late spring. He walked the trail between the rice fields on either side, and only stopped when he came to the old stone bridge of his village.

  October 1869

  Silver mining operations at the Savage Mine in Virginia City had been halted for a period of six months over the previous winter, due to uncontrollable underground flooding. The water pumps, brought over from England, had been ineffective during that time. Then suddenly last April they had rendered even the lowest shaft dry. Through May and June mining had been very productive. Then in early July the shafts flooded once more and operations were brought to a halt. By the end of July renewed pumping made the water recede a second time. August and September saw another rewarding period of mining. But now in October the shafts were flooded again.

  Like many, Jack Jameson, one of the Savage Mine foremen, was puzzled. Why should the pumps be so successful at one time and so utterly useless at other times? As Jameson was lost in his thoughts, his pit boss called him.

  “What do you make of that, Jameson?”

  “Damned if I know, boss, there’s got to be a logical explanation. Seismic shift of some sort? Maybe we need to call in a geologist.”

  “What are you talking about? I mean that. What do you make of THAT?” The boss was pointing down to a bulky object which floated aimlessly around the flooded lower level.

  Jameson strained his eyes by the light of the lamp to see, refusing to believe them. The bulky object was a body.

  “Whatever, or whoever it is, get it out of there Jameson.”

  With the help of four men, Jameson managed to lift the body from its watery grave. The back of the victim’s head was badly gashed, though the water had washed the wound clean of any blood. It was a middle-aged man, the gash perhaps due to hitting his head after a fall. However, the main question on Jameson’s mind was, who was he?” Nobody seemed to know. He was not an employee. The guards checked everyone in and out of the mine. They had no clue to the man’s identity. The dead man was well dressed and obviously no miner. So where had he come from?

  April 1869

  William Meeker trimmed his cigar. He was delighted with Tahoe’s serenity and inspired by her size and beauty. It was a bright, sunny, spring morning. The sky was a glorious blue and the lake was as flat as a mill pond. While smoking his cigar, seated on the cabin’s porch, he decided to take the dinghy out for an hour or so before breakfast.

  Carnelian Bay, on Lake Tahoe’s northwest shore, was the site of a small lumber camp and half a dozen log cabins, one of which Meeker had rented for six months. He pulled the wooden dinghy over the pebbled beach and launched it into the clear water. He clambered on board, sat his stout frame down between the two oars, and started to row. His oars made lazy circles in the lake’s calm surface, and the rowing was virtually effortless. As he filled his lungs with a couple of deep breaths of Tahoe air, the dinghy glided easily on. All that was audible was the sound of the oars
going in and out of the water.

  He was some two hundred yards off shore. All seemed peaceful, until he discovered that despite his gentle and even rowing stroke, the dinghy was not going straight. He stopped, the dinghy started circling. As he observed in amazement, the circles became ever smaller. William Meeker realized that he must be floating over some kind of whirlpool. Amused at first, he then gave it a little more thought. Was there a hole draining water out of Lake Tahoe? He rowed the dinghy off the whirlpool, so he could see from a better vantage point. Through calmer waters he could vaguely see, maybe fifty feet beneath the water’s surface, the whirlpool tightening as it drained through a hole in the lake’s bottom. Meeker looked at his surroundings and made note of his proximity from shore, the point beyond the bay, and where it was in relation to the cabin. He fixed all of this to his memory, so if he needed to relocate the exact position, he would feel fairly confident in finding the whirlpool again.

  He rowed back to the cabin. Too excited to have breakfast, he thought more and more on his discovery. He was fixated by one thought, and he could only imagine where this thought might lead him. Meeker decided to cable his friend Colonel Clare, a stockbroker in San Francisco: “COME TO CARNELIAN BAY TAHOE URGENT W.M.” Colonel Clare arrived forty-eight hours later. They had known each other for some time and had mutual respect for each other’s integrity. So when Colonel Clare received William’s strange cable, he did not question it. Upon hearing about William’s experience on the lake, and the deduction he had come to, Colonel Clare was more than a little intrigued. It was too late to take the dinghy out that evening, but they agreed to rediscover the hole at first light.