Meandering river of gold

Ivan Summers

“Well, they used to mine zinc around here, but we don’t do that

anymore. We’re lookin’ for the lost river of gold!”

“You mean placer gold?”

“Uh, I dunno, but there’s $100 billion in gold right under here.”

So says Larry, one of six denizens of this forlorn little

collection of shacks, camper shells and ancient rusting machinery

neatly tucked under the lee side of a slightly tilted desert knob,

rising above a high desert plain of Joshua trees, called Mt.

Kokoweef.

There are enough defunct road graders, rusted engines and battered

old trucks to rate as a Smithsonian West -- if they collected that

sort of stuff. It has the look and aroma of a classic retreat for

dreamers, deadbeats and those simply looking for easier identities.

It’s about six crooked miles of narrow dirt road off of Interstate

15, south of some sort of mining operation called Mt. Pass, 55 miles

on the L.A. side of Las Vegas. Twenty million people motor by here

every year, and odds are strong that not more than 15 or 20 have ever

heard of the place, much less been here.

It’s a given that everybody has got to be somewhere, but what am I

doing here? I’m not dead sure, but I’m reasonably certain it’s one

place Huell Howser hasn’t been.

Mr. California has been everywhere else in our state. I can hear

him now: “Let me get this straight, you mean that that old house over

there was actually taken apart and brought over here from Boulder Dam

in the 1930s? Wow! That’s really something! Now where did that old

road grader come from? There’s not much road to grade around here --

heh, heh.”

Anybody seeking relief from tired sitcoms and venturing into the

higher numbered cable channels are bound to run across Howser. His

schedule can’t be too tight. He’s obviously found time to bulk up;

the guy’s built like a government garage. Mr. America and Mr.

California. Envy is a terrible thing. The guy’s got my job.

Larry was one of two souls I happened to see. The other was

glaring at me from his rooftop and didn’t return a wave. Can’t much

blame him. He’s no doubt here to avoid people like me.

Larry was chatty enough -- downright nice. He had the appearance

of having been dealt a few bad hands, but a vague glimmer suggested

that all would be well once that “river” had been tapped.

I was getting pieces of a life story that included an affectionate

telling of how his lady, who’d been in this remote camp for 11 years,

had had a stroke, but was “getting along pretty good now.”

“I bin here six years, and we’re gonna find it.”

“The lost river of gold?”

“Yeah, it runs right through under here,” he said, pointing

downward. “We busted a diamond drill bit at 800 feet last week, and

them suckers are $350 apiece.”

I peered about to see several huge mobile drilling rigs, not the

kind for backyard postholes. Serious machinery. Somebody had or has

some serious intent.

I stifled some obvious queries. How do you lose a river, much less

a whole river of gold? What does a river of gold look like? Would you

know one if you fell into it? Is it nuggets tumbling along in rushing

water? Or is it a grand riparian ditch paved with the stuff? We may

never know. Larry had to go, and I had to find a campsite.

I parked in a small, clear space surrounded by the thickest forest

of Joshua trees I had ever seen. Years before, I’d heard a tale of

how this desert hardy came by its name. Jedediah Smith, leading his

followers into the California desert around 1829, came upon a large

grouping of the trees and exclaimed that they appeared as Joshua, the

biblical ancestor of Moses, who when reaching the promised land,

raised his arms in thanks to the almighty. The tree has many arms all

extended heavenward.

Late that night, with bright moonlight illuminating the thorny

up-thrust branches and the dancing light from my campfire, I was

moved to think this was as close to religious as I was going to get.

Come the a.m., I thought it wise to have another chat with my new

pal. My interest was high. It’s not every day that you’re standing in

close proximity to a lost river -- never mind the gold part. Larry

wasn’t home. I’d seen a car or two pass by my campsite early on,

about a mile from the tiny city. One of them must have been Larry.

“No, he’s gone to town,” stated the lady standing in what passed

for a doorway.

Town would be Baker or Vegas. Neither one a short jaunt. She was

friendly enough after a few minutes, and the dogs had stopped

yapping. They were docile and friendly old pooches. Just doing their

job. You always know about the people from how go the dogs. I was in

luck.

She leaned against the doorframe, still in nightclothes in the

early morning light, looking like Larry had tenderly described -- a

youngish, middle-aged woman favoring one side as in recovering from a

stroke.

“Well, yes, I do like it here. I must; bin here 11 years -- or

maybe 13.”

Probing a bit, I asked, “What’s been mined here in the past?”

“Lead in World War II, I think.”

“Zinc maybe too,” I said.

“Yes, it might have been; then or maybe earlier.”

“Back in the ‘20s or ‘30s?”

“Yes, maybe so, but they’re looking for the lost river of gold

now.”

She sounded vaguely triumphant. Hope, in some form, will rescue us

all.

I was getting a lot of nice here but not much hard information.

I wound my way down the twisty dirt road to I-15 and rolled up to

the gate of something called Molycorp at Mt. Pass.

“I oughta have ya shot for parkin’ in fronta my door,” thundered

the crusty barnacle behind the Pinkerton Badge. “Ya better move that

thing before I have it towed with you in it!”

I reparked in a proper slot. Not sure if there was some humor

here, but remembering that Columbus had taken a chance, I pushed open

the office door and prepared to move into unchartered waters.

“Would you know where the name Kokoweef comes from?” I meekly

inquired.

“Ha! That’s them river o’ gold people. I don’t know nuthin about

THAT side of the road. What I do know is that when I leave here, I

gotta fight them gol’ darn tourists comin’ and goin’ from Vegas.

They’ll about put ya to the wall! Why don’tcha go ask that woman that

works at the post office?”

He gestured to a building about 100 yards away.

Pushing the envelope a bit further, I inquired as to what was

mined at this huge complex.

“Expensive dirt that’s used in everything yer ever gonna need.”

I’d pressed my luck far enough and made a hasty retreat.

“I have no idea where the name came from,” the comely 40-ish

postmistress replied. “But you know they’re looking for the lost

river of gold.”

“Yes, I know.”

Obviously, the lost river of gold has local credence, but just

when and how did somebody decide there was such a thing? Could the

term have geologic merit? Old time desert dwellers are long on faith

-- in gold.

Huell would love it!

* IVAN SUMMERS is a resident of Corona del Mar.