The Great Gold Mine Adventure

The mountains of Northern California are honeycombed with gold mines.
Mostly abandoned these days.

At an age of 12, my friend Mike and I hiked down one of the nearby canyons in search of a new fishing creek.
Along the way, we came upon a new (to us) abandoned mine site.
It had a mine shack, a defunct old truck with a rotted canvas belt attached to a wheel,
a rickety sluice box extending over the slope, and an ominously dark shaft entrance.

There were narrow rail tracks leading in, beckoning us onward.

This was an irresistible temptation for pre-teen boys.
There just had to be great secrets in that hole including the holy grail for mine explorers, a skeleton.

We got about 30 yards or so into the shaft when we ran into water.
We couldn't tell how deep it was or how much further into the shaft it extended so we backed out
and went on with our fishing adventure.

We didn't forget the mine though.

After a couple of days, temptation overcame us and we headed back down with
flashlights, some inner tubes and boards. We waded and floated across the water.
It turned out to be only a few feet deep and extended a dozen yards or so.

On the other side, further on by another twenty yards or so, we discovered treasure galore.
We found carbide lamp helmets, a mine cart still on the track but sadly, no skull.

However, best of all...

we found a box of half-sticks.
Yes, half-sticks of dynamite.

Now, we're mountain kids. We knew about the dangers of old dynamite.

In fact, we counted on it.

We packed up that box and headed back out to the entrance.
We parked ourselves on the end of the sluice box and did rock-paper-scissors for who would go first.

I lost.

Mike picked one of the sticks and gave it a toss on to the tailing rocks below.
It landed with a thud and nothing more.
Very unsatisfying.

I picked a particularly sticky stick and gave it a heave as far as I was able.

...

I never heard the explosion.
The next thing I knew rocks were pelting me and Mike was on his back in the sluice box.
I hopped down there and grabbed him and tried to find out if he was OK.
I couldn't hear myself, and he couldn't hear me.

After a few moments of us grabbing the other's shoulders and shaking each other and shouting our hearing began to return.
When we were satisfied that neither of was was dead or mortally wounded we started to laugh.

Then we realized that adults for miles must have heard the boom and would surely investigate.
We high-tailed it out of the canyon and made it home with no trouble.

We swore each other to lifelong secrecy about the event.
That lasted less than a week.
Mike told his sister who, of course, told everyone.

My Dad summoned us together and demanded the whole story so of course we confessed.

He bundled us into his truck and told us to navigate back to the mine site.
It wasn't far off the fire road, but we still had to hike a quarter mile or so.

Dad was silent the whole trip. That scared me, it wasn't like him.
I knew he had to be more angry than I'd ever seen him and I was worried that I might actually have to talk to the Sheriff.

We got to the site and found that the box for the dynamite was still on the end of the sluice box but the remaining sticks were no where to be found.
Raccoons are the most likely culprits, nitroglycerin is sweet.

Dad said the first words he had spoken the entire day.

"Gawd, it is a wonder you boys ain't dead."
"I wish I'd been here."
"I'll bet that was one hell of a bang."

"Now, let's see if we can get that mine cart out of that hole."

I had always loved my Dad but, at that moment, he became my friend.

The mine cart sat in front of his home until the home was destroyed in the Camp Fire.
The cart survived of course but I don't know what became of it after the fire.

Mike still has the dynamite box. It holds sea shells now.