Gold in Trib 1

by Douglas Anderson

  About a mile up the valley, a loop of Trib 2 came close and we were able to make our way to the stream bank. What a difference. The stream had none of the babbling vitality of Trib 1. It was a sad apology for a stream, more like a canal with slow-moving water the color of weak tea.

  We theorized it was related to the size of the catchment area. Trib 2 catchment was much smaller in area because it lacked the wide spread ridge as was found to the east of Trib 1. Consequently, the water drained from the hillsides into the swamp and then leached through the bog to form a stream.

  There wasn’t much of a choice but to follow the course of the stream northward. Fortunately, it was still reasonably dry underfoot on our side and there were no contentious willows. At one point we saw a small beaver dam, with a wide pond retained behind, on the east side of the stream. Actually, the stream was choked with grasses and reeds, but there were open canals visible, indicative of some activity.

  It took us about an hour and a half to work our way up to the head of the valley. Meanwhile, the stream became less and less defined. Soon it simply disappeared and we found ourselves in the middle of a bog. We made our way carefully to drier land, at the foot of the hillside, and found a place to rest and have a snack.

  It had turned into a perfect Alaska day, with a warm sun, over a spectacularly beautiful pristine valley. There were a few mosquitoes, but many brilliant blue dragonflies flitting around the tops of the marsh reeds. Bees hummed from flower to flower. Trib 2 Valley was not nearly as pretty as Trib 1 Valley, but it was a peaceful place. Given such restful circumstances, we were soon dozing off in noon siesta.

  The raucous sound of a Piper Super Cub jerked us from our snooze as it passed directly overhead. Many aircraft, at a distance, flew over during the hike in, but this was the first to come anywhere close. We watched, without moving, as it continued an unwavering course to the east. Only Canada lay that way. We figured it might be heading for Dawson or Whitehorse. It seemed strange however it would be traveling at such low altitudes for such a long flight. Perhaps there was some smaller settlement to the east where the versatile Super Cub could land.

  Well, here we were, at the head of a quiet, sunny valley, no way resembling gold country. Of course there may be gold, but where would we start looking? There was no stream to concentrate on and without flowing water we couldn’t rig even a basic sluice-box. It had been an enjoyable little hike but we scratched it off our list of prospecting places.

  We started to retrace our footsteps south down the valley and reached the beaver pond. Hagen whispered. “I think there must be a beaver.” He pointed. “Right there, see the ripples.”

  We stood quietly to watch. After a few minutes, to our surprise, it was not a beaver but a cow moose which came into sight. We stayed still and quiet and watched while she browsed on the swamp vegetation. Had we had a camera, with a zoom lens, she would have been the star in a beautifully natural picture.

  She moved into the bushes again and we set off quietly downstream lost in reverie. Seeing, and not disturbing, wildlife gave us a sense of belonging to this place, this moment, and this planet.

  It was four thirty by the time we got back to camp. Everything was as we had left it. We were always worried about bears picking up the scent of our food and cooking and coming to ravage our unattended camp. Not so this time. Our laundry was dry and we packed the clean things away. Then we started a fire and prepared our evening meal. Nothing like a mountain meal, a good cup of coffee, and hours to relax in total quiet splendor.

  I had been keeping track of events, in a little red note book, and registering various observations during our hike. I had in mind, to some day, write an article about our exploits in these valleys of Alaska. Frankly it seemed there was almost enough material to warrant turning it into a book instead of just an article.

  Hagen peeked up at me and commented, “You’ll probably make more money writing a book than we will gold panning.”

  “How would you know, having never written a book?” I bantered. “Besides, I may be successful at both, then a book would be even more exciting.”

  As the sun slid slowly into the west, it turned cool and prompted us to keep the fire well stoked. It was dramatically cooler than the previous evening and it reminded us that weather in Central Alaska was fickle and could change very quickly. It was not unusual for some areas to have snow flurries in July. Though it wouldn’t stay around very long, it could make things decidedly uncomfortable if we were without shelter. We hoped it would stay nice at least until the remainder of our adventure.

  It was about as dark as it would get for this time of the year. The evening was turning into one when we would be more comfortable in sleeping bags than huddling by the fire. Once we were in our sleeping bags we, as usual, found something to chat about. Somehow this evening we got around to the subject of ladies.

  We started talking about the gals we knew through dancing and aerobic classes. We began to speculate about meeting Mrs. Right. For sure, it would cramp our present liberal lifestyle. We expressed some emphatic reservations on that score. We knew a lot of women but, sweet as some of them were, running down the list, we couldn’t think of one with whom we really had a chance of a long term relationship. There were a few we fancied, but they had others in mind. Obviously, the chemistry just wasn’t there and Mrs. Right, just as well, hadn’t come on the scene for either of us yet.

  I mused, “Maybe we’ll be lucky enough to meet them out here in the wilds, two rugged, outdoors, suntanned beauties. Maybe they’ll be bent on hiking and gold prospecting like we are.”

  Hagen turned over and snorted. “They may turn out to be just as ugly as that moose we saw today, too.”

  “C’mon, Hagen. Maybe they’re camping over in Trib 3 Valley. Maybe we’ll meet’em tomorrow.”

  Hagen huffed. “Hey listen, there are gold diggers and then there are gold diggers, and most of the female prospectors, if there are any, are not likely to be raving beauties. You just stick to that little red note book and let me do my own prospecting.”

  We lapsed into silence with the certainty there would only be the two of us for breakfast the next morning at Hotel Trib 1.

  Chapter 15

  Glory Hole

  It turned out to be a very tough day. After breakfast we packed everything, and could see it would take two trips. Tools were too cumbersome. Tarps and canned goods added to the weight. In the end, it took two trips and most of a day to make the transfer. By evening, we were absolutely worn out. There had been no climbing involved but the terrain was difficult to walk on with heavy and awkward loads.

  Once everything was at Glory Hole, we secured a tarp between two trees as a shelter. We made our camp on the eastern side of the stream above the bedrock ledge. Then after all of the sweaty effort, we decided another bath was in order. Again we braved the icy cold water of the stream. It was tough all this hiking and prospecting and having to wash in cold water. We cursed and complained but we enjoyed ourselves.

  When we were dressed, we put together a tasty meal of beef stew with extra vegetables and sliced Spam. Dessert was a can of sliced peaches. Trib 1 water made excellent tea and I had many cups. We firmly believe every stream, depending on its origin, imparts its own particular flavor to tea and coffee. Some, were not so good. Trib 1 water rated pretty high on the list.

  “Say.” I said to Hagen. “When the gold plays out, we can always go into the bottled water business. Imagine super markets stocking gallon jugs of Genuine Trib 1 Water. We could make a fortune!”

  Hagen didn’t even look at me when he said, “Don’t bother writing that idea in your red note book.”

  Our chosen campsite, at the foot of the steep slope, was fenced by trees on the north and east side. We felt a bit uncomfortable about limited visibility. Our site was elevated a bit and we had a view over the crescent shaped claim area and rounded hillside to the west. Downstream of the camp, we could see the fallen tree bridge crossing Trib 1.

  It
was an attractive location because there were colorful wild flowers around the area. In open areas of the slope, sorted masses of red fireweed swayed in the breeze. We would loose the sunshine earlier in the evening due to the ridge—a real disadvantage. It was almost idyllic: cascading water two hundred yards upstream, babbling of the small stream as it made its way past the campsite, and sound of bees buzzing from flower to flower.

  Hagen said, “If we decide to work the claim, we’ll have to put up a better shelter.”

  I agreed, “Right here, where we are is as good a site as any.” As we suspected, our campsite lost its sunshine a bit early in the evening then quickly turned cool. After such a strenuous day however, we called it quits and crawled into our sleeping bags quite early.

  Despite our fatigue, neither Hagen nor I slept well. We spent the whole night hearing movements in nearby trees. At times, I found myself straining to hear every little rustle. I’m sure most noises were made by small rodents or by leaves or twigs falling from trees, but my mind converted each sound into sneaking bears. I was almost glad when morning finally arrived.

  Hagen was, if anything, more paranoid about bears and suggested we stoke up the fire at night as a deterrent. We weren’t sure it would make any difference, but there was some psychological advantage to the idea.

  Bleary eyed, we had an early breakfast. Lots of coffee brought our courage back and we soon felt a bit better. A slight breeze had taunted us most of the night. No mist in the valley this morning. We decided we would do some serious prospecting, and then, if it still looked promising, we’d measure out a twenty-acre claim area and encompass the Glory Hole.

  We marked a grid over a crescent shaped area simply by starting at a point on the northeast corner and then, over the prime claim area, mark five yard by five yard squares using rocks and stakes as markers. Then, we started sampling the gravel at each marker to a depth of two feet. With the pick and a full sized shovel this was an easy task. We sketched the grid on a sheet of paper and recorded our observations for each coordinate.

  It was time consuming, but we worked our way over the area recording the depth of the gravel, size, coarse, medium, fine and any obvious false bedrock. A false bedrock was a layer of impermeable clay. We never hit actual bedrock, but believed it was not far. At each site we panned small samples from different levels to see if there was any gold. At most locations we found a little color which further reinforced our positive feelings about the claim. We were convinced, when from one location close by the rock ledge, we found a grain-sized nugget along with fines in the bottom of the pan.

  By early evening, just in sampling efforts, we had collected about a quarter ounce of gold. It was marvelous. We had panned only a very small amount of material. If we had sluiced, say a cubic yard of this material, we may have obtained an ounce or so of gold, making this a better than average placer claim.

  It took us sometime, some crude triangulation, and much effort to measure out a twenty-acre claim. It covered an area four hundred and fifty yards downstream on the grid, three hundred and seventy-five yards upstream, and two hundred twenty-five yards wide. We drove four good stakes to mark the extremities of our claim and nailed a piece from our map, suitably marked and covered by a Ziplock bag, to the post at the north east corner. We also placed a notice at the Glory Hole showing the extremities of the claim. We then worked to tidy up the rest of the area. We didn’t want to leave more traces of our activity than were absolutely necessary. The laws would then be satisfied to the marking of a claim.

  Now we had a good idea of what lay underfoot, at least to a depth of about two feet. What we really needed, but didn’t have, was a long crowbar with which to probe to bedrock. By the time we finished, it was six PM, and we were hungry,

  It was a fine evening. We ate our dinner and surveyed our claim and we were satisfied with a good day’s work. We decided to really work on one spot. More gold would go into the vial tomorrow. We had to reward ourselves a little bit for all of the effort. We whooped and hollered and bragged to a silver moon. We had gold fever which needed to be satisfied.

  We banked up the fire, as Hagen suggested, placed some extra logs nearby and headed for our sleeping bags. It seemed a bit risky but at least we might sleep better. It turned out we never used the spare logs and the fire was cold coals the next morning.

  Chapter 16

  A Day of Panning

  A light breeze stirred the tops of tall spruce trees and bright sunshine filtered through the undergrowth. It was a wonderfully, beautiful morning—our sixth. We felt smug about our trip thus far. Our small fire, sufficient for boiling water, crackled and glowed as we launched into a day of serious placer mining.

  Research the previous day showed we could find gold nearly everywhere we looked. We decided to be scientific and find a more productive spot. The bedrock cliff acted like a sluice-box. Gold may have settled deep in back water clefts of the bedrock cliff. We selected a likely place and started digging. The little V-shaped cleft had an area of five square yards and was filled, just above the present stream level, with moderately fine gravel and sand. With care, we stayed out of the water, shoveled away two feet of the overburden, took material into our pans and washed it in the stream.

  We quickly found it uncomfortable work. Trying to keep our feet dry caused us to bend over the water, which was lower than the bank. It would have been more comfortable to wade into the stream to carry out the panning. Though our feet and legs got wet and cold, the lure of gold made us forget the discomfort. We worked our way downward in the cleft, an inch at a time it seemed. There was gold in almost every pan of material.

  After an hour or so it dawned on us that we were spending a lot of time washing the contents of our pan down to the point where only the gold was left. We realized we might also be losing fine gold flakes in the process. We started panning until we had a small quantity of heavy sand and gold flakes left in our pans. We saved these fines in a Ziplock bag. We’d have to pack it out or leave it here on the claim, either way, we could spend time later carefully separating the two. It made it difficult to estimate just how much gold we really had but we could tell there was a lot. Once we adopted this sensible practice, we moved more material in the time we had available.

  Throughout the day we rested but managed to put in a total of ten hours of digging and panning. At the end of the day we had two Ziplock bags of heavy black material and what looked like an ounce of gold. With aching backs and knees we finally called it quits. Not to attract attention, we filled the flooded hole and cleaned up the site. We spent a little time arranging items we wanted to stash on the site. Scouting around, we found a safe place. Hagen found a recess, almost a small cave, under a four-foot-thick slab of protruding bedrock uphill behind camp. We hadn’t noticed it before because it was well concealed from our campsite by a stand of squat spruce trees. It was ideal. It had plenty of room to house tools, tarps, and any left over supplies. We gathered logs to cover the entrance. The contents could remain there until next summer.

  Dusk arrived early. A mass of clouds had gathered in the west. The weather was about to change for the worse. Rain tonight would make our hike to Trib 3 the next day more difficult. We sat close to the fire and enjoyed the warmth creeping back into our legs. The coolness of the evening demanded jackets but we were glad to relax after such a back breaking day. We boiled a gallon of water and set it aside for the next day’s journey. We were under no illusions, it would be a tough day, starting with a long climb out of the valley and up to the main trail.

  Morning seemed to come all too soon. I was awakened by rattling cookware. Hagen was up and about and obviously hungry. I stretched and mumbled, “I just closed my eyes. Where did the night go?”

  There was a high streaky overcast, and no sun with high winds aloft and a little cool. The weather had changed, and not in our favor. At least it wasn’t raining—yet. Judging by the feeling in the air, it wasn’t going to start soon. It could turn out to be a good day for stren
uous activity, better to be a little cool than too sunny and hot.

  When breakfast was finished, we wrapped the tools and surplus canned rations in tarps and carried them fifty yards up hill to the small cave. Packing them as far into the cavity as possible, we wedged logs in front to provide further protection. It was a good, dry hiding place which, with a little work in the future, might be turned into spacious storage for more than just a few items. Once the winter arrived, and it arrived early in these parts, everything would be blanketed by snow and there would be no evidence of us having been here.

  Within fifteen minutes we had our backpacks ready—we decided to take the two Ziplock bags of heavy fines with us—and we took a last look around the area to make sure nothing was forgotten. Then, with rifles in hand, we set off.

  At first we made our way up stream through our claim. We stayed as close to the course of the stream as the thickets of willow and alder allowed. A half mile of gentle incline gave us chance to warm up to the idea of hiking with a full load again. The terrain steepened. We weren’t ready. At the same time the stream we were following split in two. We followed the right branch which led us toward the main ridge.

  As we ascended, the land was better drained. Foliage changed dramatically. Arctic spruce, silver birch, and aspens yielded to large Sitka spruce and there was considerably less tangled undergrowth to negotiate. To ease the grade we made long zigzags across the slope. We wanted to see if this was a more feasible way to access Trib 1, so we paused occasionally to take note of position and prominent features. So far, it was good. We didn’t see any features which would prohibit the use of some kind of all-terrain vehicle.