“There are strange things done in the midday son by the maids who moil for gold.”---Robert W. Service
On December 5, 1848, President James K. Polk enthusiastically confirmed the avid reports of gold at Sutter’s Fort in California. “The accounts of the abundance of gold are of such an extraordinary character as would scarcely command belief were they not corroborated by the authentic reports of officers in the public service arena,” he glowed. What had been a steady trickle of gold seekers now became a stampede. One newspaper claimed the discovery had “set the public mind almost on the highway to insanity.”
Gold will do that to you. Perfectly sensible people like scientist/businesswoman Siobhan P. Ellison of Fairfield, Florida come all atwitter at the possibility of unearthing a pocket of the shiny stuff, otherwise how to explain an early morning trip through the wilds of Idaho to the ancient Eagle City Gold Mine, where esoteric reports hinted at the possibility of a new strike?
Eagle City Park is a 35-acre privately owned recreational gold panning/mining park and campground located in the Coeur d’Alene National Forest at the old townsite of Eagle City in northern Idaho, just down the road from lively Kingston. If you arrive very early on a weekday, chances are you’ll be the first one at the gate when the place opens and be greeted by lifetime gold hunter and number one employee David Bartholomae, a bearded repository of knowledge on the subject.
For an extremely modest fee, David will load you up with equipment and lead you to the panning panorama along the banks of the wandering Coeur d’Alene River, dispensing advice, recalling his own early experiences, pumping up hopes for success in the neophyte gold panner. Bartholomae has managed to make a modest living churning up a nugget here, another there for many years now and a day rarely passes when he doesn’t spend a couple hours at his digs down by the river. David Bartholomae caught the fever at an early age and it never really left him. Hope springs eternal in the heart of the gold hunter.
Siobhan staked out a recommended area by the riverbank and went about her business. Gold panning is actually a simple process in which alluvial deposits are scooped into a pan, then agitated in water. The gold, if there is any, sinks to the bottom of the pan, which then must be inspected very closely lest untold riches slip through the cracks. Siobhan got a few flakes but fell a couple of nuggets short of financing a new yacht. Nonetheless, she was the appreciative receptor of scads of valuable information for future expeditions from the gold-erudite Bartholomae, so a good time was had by all. We said a fond goodbye to our new friends, David and his wife Barbara, and rattled off down the road. It’s a long way to Tipperary and almost as far to Cambridge, Idaho, gateway to the secret world of Hell’s Canyon. “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer….”
 |
| (1) Gold mine honcho David Bartholomae welcomes a new prospector, (2) On the road to Mandalay, (3) Down and dirty, (4) Rookie at work, (5) Hopeful gold hunters at the Trough of Truth. |
The Long And Winding Road
For those who disdain the colorless monotony of interstate driving, you’ll just love Idaho, where multi-lane highways are only a silly rumor. If it makes you smile and clap your hands with glee to travel the twisting back roads of a rural paradise, here’s your cup of tea. Needless to say, you can’t be in a hurry while traversing the length and breadth of the Gem State. Northern through central Idaho is a mountainous, often heavily forested region with rolling hills of grasslands and extensive grain fields, miles of open space between the tiny urban backwaters, a vast and scenic land of untold possibilities and little internet connection. Oh, and if it wasn’t slow going already, we have the ubiquitous Idaho Transportation Department, which is mending byways everywhere.
The roads in Idaho are mostly good, if not expansive. Maybe it’s because they don’t suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous traffic, perhaps it’s because they are constantly being repaired. We ran across eight or nine road crews on the otherwise five-hour drive between Coeur d’Alene and Cambridge, an extraordinary number considering the likely highway usage. Maybe it’s the frigid road-buckling winters, could be the road department coffers are full and need occasional emptying. Or, a more amusing possibility, perhaps these roadbuilders are not repair people at all, merely a merry band of jokesters yukking it up at the motorists’ expense. On two occasions, we were led to the promised land by pilot cars through territory in which there were no road workers. Could be that Idahoans just have a diabolical sense of humor, a peculiar schadenfreude beneath that thin veneer of hominess and hail-fellow-well-met. We blame it on those long, depressing militia meetings.
 |
| (1) Northwestern Idaho, (2) Where your canola oil comes from. |
Welcome To Cambridge
The welcoming sign at the Frontier Motel in Cambridge claims “We have served 1689 happy guests and 4 grouches.” Siobhan, never one to gild the lily, advised the desk crew they’d have to add one more grouch to the total, but they let her stay anyway. When we asked where the best place to eat was, they pointed out the only place to eat. Needless to say, there were no rodeos, no concerts on the green, not so much as a lonely saloon in Cambridge. On a cheery note, however, there were the Mundo Hot Springs on the periphery of town, a fine place to restore your aching back, to revitalize your ailing body, to soak in the glory of the land, and all for a paltry $7. Siobhan abstained since they didn’t have a mud pit so Bill had the place all to himself, emerging much the better for it.
Dinner was acceptable, though we deplored the absence of a floor show. What served for entertainment was Siobhan’s conversation with a local agricultural expert, who assured us that the brilliant yellow crops we passed along the way were “some kind of mustard.” They weren’t though. They turned out to be canola, according to a a true expert, a botanist we later met in Stanley. Never ask for advice in Cambridge.
 |
| (1) The motel for cheerful people only; Siobhan got in anyway. (2) Bill at the Mundo Hot Springs. Try it, you'll like it. |
To Hell And Back
The average nomad is not going to fall upon Hell’s Canyon by accident. The travel brochures will tell you “most of the area is inaccessible by road,” and they’re not kidding. Aside from a couple of scary dirt-and-gravel one-lane cowpaths, there is only the lonely route 71, which slithers through the mountains with an abundance of sharp turns and deep drops, crossing three dams in the process. It’s about a two-hour trip from Cambridge but you get an hour back crossing the Snake River into Oregon, which is on Pacific time. The Hell’s Canyon Tours boat docks are just past the Hell’s Canyon Dam, about 2000 stair steps beneath the parking lot. You’ll have some special words for those steps when you return from your river journey later in the day.
Hell’s Canyon is a 10-mile-wide hole in the ground located along the borders of eastern Oregon, eastern Washington and western Idaho. It is part of the Hell’s Canyon National Recreation Area and is North America’s deepest river gorge at 7,993 feet. The canyon was carved out by the lively waters of the Snake River, which flows more than one mile below the canyon’s west rim on the Oregon side and 7,400 feet below the peaks of Idaho’s Seven Devils Mountain range to the east. The earliest known settlers in the area were the Nez Perce Indian tribe. In 1806, three members of the Lewis & Clark Expedition entered Hell’s Canyon along the Salmon River, muttered “Oh, shit!” and turned back. In 1811, the Wilson Price Expedition explored the area while seeking a shortcut to the Columbia River. Hunger and cold forced them to give up, a plight experienced by many explorers who were defeated by the canyon’s inaccessibility. Even today, getting to the place is no picnic and you will not be overwhelmed by vast clusters of tourists. Some of us think this is a good thing.
 |
| (1) The Stairs to Oblivion, (2) Jet Boats hungrily await their prey, (3) Candidates for destruction, (4) Captain's Mate barks out instructions, (5) The smiling rapids await. |
Rapid City
The yellow-topped jet boats of the tour company cost about $400,000 a pop, just the kind of investment you’d like to sail through a couple of Grade-4 rapids….but hey, that’s part of the charm for tourists. The crew assures you that you will get wet—how wet, is up to you. For the customers in the open section at the back of the boat, you might as well be swimming. For passengers on each side, make sure you have a change of clothes in the car. The driest section features six rows of seats in the center of the boat, which saves you from the worst of it. We moved around from the sides to the center but stuck to relatively dry ground when the worst rapids came into view. The first of these was a revelation to the optimistic customers in vulnerable areas, who were almost washed off their seats. Once you’re totally soaked, of course, nobody gives a further damn. None of the 19 passengers were lost at sea.
The ride was about 3 1/2 hours with stops for swimming opportunities, lunch and rest-room visits. The trip varied between reasonable periods of relative calm, the turbulence of lesser rapids and the big boomers. On the return trip, driving straight into the face of the worst rapids, the boat captain had a narrow path to travel to avoid splatting into some serious rocks while simultaneously negotiating the roiling waters. This is when it’s best kept in mind that your conveyance costs $400,000 to replace. We skimmed through by about 8 inches, but who’s counting? Judging from the giddy countenances of the customers, a good time was had by all. Still, several were miffed to see an escalator to the parking lot had not been installed during our voyage.
I turned back for one last look at the river as it continued to bounce joyfully through the sturdy canyon. My faithful partner was organizing her gear for the three-hour road excursion to distant McCall. “Well,” I asked her, “give me your considered evaluation of this one.”
She put down her things, looked at the winding canyon and pondered. “All things considered,” she decided, “it’s a whole lot better than visiting Philadelphia.”
 |
| Crossing the Hell's Canyon Dam from Oregon to Idaho. |
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
