The men who came out ignored the dogs, saying they would work it out and invited us in for coffee.  Mike, Joe, and Jody De Faria, shared this old cabin, which had once been the boarding house for a gold mine called the Cosmos Mine. The men were working on reopening the Hansen Mine, a hardrock mine that had been abandoned since Mike and Joe had last worked it in the early 1950’s.  They had recently salvaged the old crushing mill from the Cosmos, which had been abandoned and forgotten down over a steep bank for at least fifty years.  They were currently working on salvaging old 6” iron water pipe and welding pieces together to form a reservoir of water up the hill from the mill, but it seemed there was plenty of time for coffee and shooting the bull. 

            Mike and Joe were funny, explaining their heritage was Portagee, saying their family was from the Azores, not Portugal.  The told Portagee jokes, and made fun of Joe’s son Jody, who they called Zap, due to his penchant for drugs and rock and roll.  Zap was only fifteen, but had dropped out of school and seemed to feel being young and cute, smoking dope and chasing girls, were all a guy needed in life.  The talk of dope was so light hearted amidst the friendly conversation we asked if anyone wanted to smoke some?  Zap immediately said “Hell yes”, and Jesse congratulated us for being prudent for not offering it to him as a stranger on our first meeting.  Jesse asked if Mike and Joe had any objections.  They said no, they were curious about it and would like to try some.  So we rolled a couple of joints and sat around smoking and talking as if these were guys we had known our entire lives.  Mike and Joe were not smokers, but snoose chewers, and had difficulty getting the hang of the pot smoking ritual of taking the smoke deep and holding it in, with much coughing, sputtering and laughter ensuing. 

By then we were getting “onto the munchies” as Zap put it, and Joe went to a back room and brought back some meat.  He said with a wink that it was goat, but as he fried the steaks and the aroma pervaded the dimly lit cabin, we did not care what it was; it smelled good and we were hungry.

As we ate and talked, Jesse asked about Henry Thiel’s place up the creek.  As far as Mike and Joe knew, Henry had not been there for quite a few years, and was living with a family down on the river.  Jesse suggested it would be a good place for Kelly and I to stay for awhile, and Mike and Joe agreed.  Jesse suddenly said “get your packs boys, its time to go.”  After farewells with Mike, Joe, and Zap, we followed Jesse on foot this time, once again clueless about our destination.  We followed a trail along an old ditch that had once carried water but was now dry.  Jesse explained the ditch had brought water several miles from Granite Creek to power the Cosmos mill that Mike and Joe were now rebuilding.

We walked for about two miles through the big timber, full of questions from our budding interest in nature lore and the tales of the area that Jesse seemed to know so well.  The ditch trail was on an almost flat grade, but the terrain was steep with the trail clinging to the side of the hill, held in place by the thickness of the big trees.  In places where there were ravines, there were remains of old flumes, boards and timbers knocked down by falling trees and heavy snows, that had once carried the water across the gulches.  We reached a place where there was an old blaze on the trunk of a big tan oak tree, and Jesse said “I think this is it.”  Kelly and I both said “what?” as we could see nothing but steep hill and trees on all sides.  Jesse said “the trail,” but I could see no trail.  Without further explanation, he headed down over the bank, quickly disappearing into the woods.  Kelly and I darted looks at each other and once again followed Jesse into the unknown. 

            Jesse was probably in his early fifties at the time, but even though we were young and athletic, he hiked with a rapid efficiency and we had trouble keeping up.  As he dodged down the hill through the brush the going became increasingly steep so that at times we were sliding more than walking.  It seemed a long way down as we followed him, seemingly sniffing out the best route, as there was still no visible trail.  After avoiding a steep gulch and a slide area, we could here the sound of the creek at the bottom of the canyon we had entered.  We got to where we could see the creek but from the hillside we were on, the last fifty feet just pitched off, ending on a small gravel bar next to the creek.  We looked for a better place to approach from but finally slid on our butts and packs down the steep bank.  Jesse said “perfect.”

Back to Short Stories                         <Back  Next>                                 Page  1  2    4  5