Chapter 2

We occupy a small cabin half a mile from the diggings. A foot path takes us behind the store, where we climb the steep hillside until it finally levels out for a bit. Here we stop to catch our breath and enjoy having no rain falling. It’s near dark now, so we linger just a few minutes before resuming our climb. After a good while, we come to our home, such as it is.

Built on a rocky outcropping, it was left to us by Bill Sims, a lawyer in New York before gold fever claimed him. Well-heeled at the time, he left all behind, came west by ship, and made his way to Whiskey Slide, where he enjoyed the ups and down of all miners, telling us that early on he had more of the ups. He took time building his cabin, so it’s sturdy in construction. The one large room has a fireplace for heat and cooking, a table and chairs, and good space for laying out bedding. Being solidly built, it does well against bad weather, and as we now enter, it is a most welcoming place. Bill left us all his possessions as well—cooking implements, mining tools, food. Were it not for him, I doubt we’d have survived. Bill was a sad case, though.

When I first reached Whiskey Slide, things were bad all around. Food was in very short supply because the freight wagons that carry supplies in from big towns, where they are brought by ships from San Francisco, were having trouble getting through. Roads are no more than wagon ruts made too deep by bad weather and continuous use, and many a freight full of supplies has tumbled down the mountain or gotten twisted or stuck to where the load had to be left. Sometimes they don’t attempt the journey at all. Anyway, we all had such a rough patch that gold meant little anymore because it could buy us nothing. Bill, being much older, didn’t fare well during this period, weakening, then dying. We tended him at the last, noting a can of gold dust on a shelf, useless to him at the time. We lived on that gold for a good spell, but it finally ran out and we were back to hard times.

Food comes in somewhat regular now, though we’re never sure what it will be. Today was a good haul, and soon as we’ve stripped off wet clothes and hung them to dry, Dieter has got up a good fire and is making coffee while Chet, who was a cook on the cattle trail back in Texas and therefore knows how to make a meal out of nothing, starts on supper. Soon, the cabin is filled with the smell of pork, potatoes, and onion cooking in a big iron skillet, the smell of coffee in accompaniment

Though it’s cold, I’m content in just underdrawers, top and bottom. Boots are so wet they never dry out, and we attempt to dry socks while wearing our other pair. Having two pair is a luxury and I worry on how much a pair will cost someday. As it is, our clothes are wearing thin. I’ve patched my pants half a dozen times as mining is hard on clothes. I try not to dwell on this, happy to be inside and warming. Then Chet calls us to supper and all is well.

For a time there’s no sound but the chewing and grateful moaning of men filling their bellies. We get to laughing at our moaning, Chet offering a “thank you” as he takes this as a compliment, which I guess it is. Once we’ve polished off all but the melon, which will be breakfast, we sit back to enjoy our coffee. It occurs to me only then to ask Dieter what Germany was like.

“I don’t recall much,” he says. I like hearing him speak because of his accent, which I’d never heard before meeting him. “I was six when the family left to come to America.” He turns this around on me. “Are your people of German descent?”

“No idea. Why do you ask?”

“Your golden hair. There’s lots of that in my country,” he offers, raking a hand through his yellow hair, which is a whitish blond while mine is more wheat-colored. “Where are your people from?”

“Missouri. Before that, I don’t know. Nobody ever said.”

“Aren’t you curious?” asks Dieter.

“Never thought much about it.”

“How about you?” he asks Chet.

“English, I think. There was talk of an earl in the old country.”

“How old are you, Jesse?” asks Dieter.

“Twenty,” I reply. “How about you?”

“Twenty six. And you Chet?”

“Twenty two.”

“So many young men,” notes Dieter.