Stevens Trail, and the North Fork American River Underwater

I've taken other videos of Stevens Trail, from the Colfax trailhead to the North Fork American River, a distance of 4.5 miles, but today I took my GoPro for wide angle views of the canyon and underwater shots of the river. The day was cool, a welcome change from the heat of the previous week, when the temperature was over one hundred degrees. Clouds hugged the top of the hills. Few others were on the trail, and I walked mostly in solitude. Near the adit of the abandoned mine, a pile of black bear scat but a few hours old was on the trail. In the river, a few hundred feet below me, were some half dozen miners working the gravels for gold. The river is very low from the drought, and with the slow current moss grows on the boulders. An El Nino is predicted this winter. If it comes, heavy rains will swell the river, tossing the boulders around and refreshing the gravels with small bits of gold washed from the steep hillsides.

Hurricane Katrina

Ten years ago today I watched on television as Hurricane Katrina made landfall. Several weeks later I was working Katrina insurance claims, from Biloxi to Pass Christian. Much of the debris had been cleared by the time I arrived, but there was still plenty of devastation to see.

The storm surge had approached twenty feet. In many neighborhoods close to the shoreline, only slab foundations remained.

These were common sights.

This family left a message that they were alive.

This was a casino built atop a barge docked by the shore. The storm surge lifted it across the highway and set it on land.

The surge of water lifted the house from the foundation on the right, and set it atop the vehicle.

The surge of water damaged many crypts, sweeping the caskets away to who knows where.

While at a Waffle House one morning for breakfast, I asked the waitress taking my order why half of the seating area was roped off. She replied that the restaurant had limited workers and could not handle all seating. She explained with disgust that several employees were relaxing at home thanks to their government Hurricane Katrina assistance money. 

The Empire Mine

Beneath Grass Valley is a single network of mine passageways totaling 367 miles in length.

The Empire Mine opened in 1850, and over the years it acquired the North Star Mine and other mines, incorporating them into its network. The Empire was renowned for its important inventions and improvements in mining and milling equipment, and it had a respectable safety record, with only 26 deaths in its history. Engineers from other mines came to The Empire to study its operations. The mine closed in 1956 not because the gold ran out, but because it was no longer profitable to extract. The pumps were turned off and water filled the passageways.

The gold taken would have filled a seven foot cube. An average of one-half ounce of gold was taken from each ton of ore extracted. The Empire produced $130 million in gold, making it the richest of all California mines. (Next-richest was nearby Idaho-Maryland Group in Grass Valley, with $70 million.) The years 1929 to 1940 were very productive for The Empire, with 1,074,284 ounces of gold taken. Operations were suspended during World War II when gold mining was deemed unessential to the war effort.

The state acquired the property in 1975 and turned it into a park. Although the owners had sold off much equipment following the closure of the mine, some equipment and many of the buildings remained, giving the public a good understanding of California's mining operations. As for those 367 miles of passageways, everything below 150 feet is flooded, and it is unlikely anyone will go down there again.

Travel Tip: If you're in Grass Valley and in need of lunch, I recommend Christopher's Old World Deli at 206 Main Street. The food is great, the prices are reasonable, and the staff is very friendly. When the cashier told me when I purchased the $4 pint of 'Ol Republic porter beer that there would be one free refill. I turned to my wife and informed her she would be driving.

Thunderstorm at the Summit

Thunderstorm approaching, view towards I-80 with Donner Lake to the right

Today I took a leisurely hike on the Pacific Crest Trail at Donner Pass, until an approaching thunderstorm made me decide to turn around, and then I took a very brisk hike back to my truck. Had I turned around ten minutes earlier, I would have driven home dry. I rate this hike as Interesting.

I hiked part of the Pacific Crest Trail between Old Highway 40 and Interstate 80. This entire section is 2.6 miles long. The Highway 40 trailhead altitude is 7110 feet. The high point on the trail is 7331 feet and the low point is 6842 feet. Donner Pass gets a lot of recreational activity. There were many people about.

Donner Pass is named after the Donner Party. The emigrants were slow on their westward trek, and upon reaching the Sierra the snows were too deep to cross. They spent the winter in camp at the base of the mountains. Some resorted to cannibalism to survive.

This was my first hike on this section of the trail. Many times I've hiked the section of trail south from Donner Pass, some hikes all the way to Tinker Knob. Having hiked both sections, I found the south route to be more scenic, and the north route less strenuous.

I parked my truck in the large lot across from the trailhead, and in minutes I was on my way. I saw several climbers on the granite faces. Some were children with adults giving instruction. I had a grand view of the train snow sheds on the rail route carved out by Chinese laborers in the 1860s. This historic section was abandoned in 1993, after it was decided to run all trains through Tunnel 41, which was built in 1925. Now hikers and bicyclists go through the snow sheds and tunnels.

I shot this video of the snow sheds.

The trail wound up the mountainside. I met a man in his fifties hiking the length of the Pacific Crest Trail, from the border of Mexico to the border of Canada. He said the remainder of his hike should take two months. Over the years I've talked with several hikers going the full trail, and never once have I asked them what they do for a living that allows them to take months off for the hike.

I reached the high point of the trail. I saw thunderclouds to the east and wondered whether I should turn around. No, keep going.

The trail went downhill, and I had good views of Interstate 80 in the distance. I passed a group of teenagers with some adults in charge. I think these were city kids getting a lesson on the outdoors. The coming thunderstorm would give them a real lesson.

I got to less than one-half mile of Interstate 80 when the sound of the thunder made me realize I needed to get back to my truck. I turned around. Soon I passed the group of teenagers. The clouds blotted out the sunshine and the thunder got louder. I reached the high point of the trail. This was exposed granite and all I could think of was a lightning strike. The wind was kicking up. I wound down the mountainside. The clouds now covered the peaks to the south.

Approaching thunderstorm at Donner Pass

I reached a small grove of pine trees just as the rain and hail began to fall. A group of teenagers (not the one I passed earlier) was taking shelter nearby under a tarp strung to the trees. I removed my nylon rain jacket from my Jansport pack and put it on. It would keep my upper body dry. The rest of me would get soaked. Up on the mountainside the group I passed earlier was coming down the trail. Lightning was hitting perhaps a mile away judging by the sound, and I thought about their safety in that exposed location. I looked about for shelter from the rain and hail. A downed tree some three feet in diameter lay atop another downed tree. I crawled under the trunk and curled into a ball, my back to the tree. That worked well. Other than being struck by lightning, I was most concerned about keeping my video camera dry. Now the hail was coming down heavy. The hail was BB size, too small for any damage. The group coming down the mountainside reached the grove of trees. They paused on the trail for a few minutes near me. All had a poncho or other rain clothing. They looked miserable. I thought they would seek shelter in the grove, but they continued on. We were about ten minutes from the parking lot.

I stayed under the tree trunk ten or fifteen minutes, the better part of the hail storm. When things let up a bit I decided to make my way to the truck. The hail had largely stopped but the rain could last for hours. Many parts of the trail were filled with ankle-deep water with hail floating on the top. My boots were soaked. My pants were soaked. The main thing on my mind was the lightning, but there were no strikes close enough to give me a scare.

I reached the group of teenagers with the adults in charge. The youths shuffled zombie-like in single file along the narrow trail. Not a smile on any young face. Nature isn't what you see on Dora the Explorer, kids. I passed them and a few minutes later I was at my truck. Small piles of hail covered the parking lot.

Two women hikers asked me for a ride to nearby Soda Springs. They were in their early twenties, one from San Diego and the other from Vail, Colorado. Both were hiking the entire length of the Pacific Crest Trail. One started in late April and the other in early May. After a few weeks of solo hiking they met up and agreed to stay together. Miserable from the hike in the rain and hail, they had reached the parking lot just as I was leaving. One had a package of hiking supplies waiting at the post office in Soda Springs, and they both wanted a good meal there, so they asked me for the ride. We had a nice talk on the drive of some five minutes to Soda Springs. I dropped them off and wished them a good hike.

Driving away, I thought, dang it, I didn't ask them what they did for a living that allowed them to take months off to hike the Pacific Crest Trail.

Heavy rain on Interstate 80 slowed westbound traffic to 40 mph. The skies cleared near the Highway 20 exit and traffic sped up. I was back in a parched land.

Ham Radio License Upgrade

Just want to brag note that on the morning of Independence Day, I passed the test for the Amateur Extra Class license, the highest-level Federal Communications Commission license in the amateur radio service. There was a lot of study involved. I now have full operating privileges across the complete spectrum of all ham radio bands.

The Current Confederate Flag Controversy and a Memory of Beauvoir

Following the horrific Charleston church shooting of June 17, many are calling for the removal of the Battle Flag of the Army of Northern Virginia (commonly referred to as the Confederate Flag) from display at the South Carolina state capitol.

I live in California and my Southern ancestors fought for the Union (they were from the Missouri Ozarks, a region of divided loyalties, with neighbor against neighbor), so with no attachment to that flag or the Confederate cause, I'll leave the decision of the flag placement to the citizens of South Carolina. I hope they choose wisely. I note only two things. First, any argument supporting the Southern cause must square itself with the evil institution of slavery, and I'll let the Confederacy apologists twist themselves into a pretzel over that one. Second, South Carolina fired the first shot of the War of the Rebellion, making it responsible for what followed, something General Sherman did not forget when he turned his army north from Savannah.

The flag issue made me think of an October 8, 2005 afternoon in Biloxi, Mississippi. I was there on business following Hurricane Katrina. I stopped outside Beauvoir, the post-war home of Jefferson Davis, former President of the Confederate States of America, to see the hurricane damage to the house. I had seen the house undamaged, on March 2, 1986, when I walked over on a late Sunday morning from Keesler AFB, where I was attending an Air Force school. But now Army troops on guard duty kept the public from the grounds. I don't know if they were active duty, Reserve, or National Guard troops. I spoke with two of them. One was a white man in his thirties, the other a black woman in her early twenties. Both were in battle dress uniform and were unarmed. I had a short and pleasant chat with them. As I drove away, I wondered if the woman had any thoughts about guarding the house and grounds of the man who had led the nation that intended to keep her ancestors as slaves. Hopefully she took the guard duty with the same smile she gave as we talked.

Beauvoir, March 2, 1986

Beauvoir, October 8, 2005

Beauvoir, October 8, 2005

My concern here is, where does it end? There are already calls to remove the Confederate flag from license plates. Amazon has announced it will not sell items bearing the Confederate flag. At what point does this become cultural cleansing? Will the statues of Jefferson Davis and Confederate generals be torn down? It will not likely end with symbols of the Confederacy. There are nascent calls to replace the California state flag, for some find the Bear Flag of the California Republic offensive. Let's talk about this, folks. I'm reminded of Martin Niemoller's words, "First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out..." I fear the masses are embarking on a very dangerous path in their desire to correct past wrongs.

Placer Big Trees Grove

As if there aren't wonders enough in Placer County, we even have our own grove of Giant Sequoia trees. This northernmost grove was discovered by a prospector in 1855. Six Giant Sequoias are standing. One is named after a state senator from Placer County (Lardner). Three are named after Allied commanders from the Great War (Haig, Joffre, and Pershing). Two remain unnamed. While the Joffre Tree is the tallest (250 ft), the Pershing Tree (225 ft) is the largest by volume, its trunk 12 feet in diameter at breast height. These Giant Sequoia are small compared to their southern cousins.

I visited the grove on June 4th. It had been many years since my last visit.

In Foresthill I stopped by Worton's Market to consult the map, and to take in the wonder of the vast canyon of the Middle Fork American River. Nearby were about a half-dozen Forest Service workers who had stopped for supplies. With their trucks and trailers and all terrain vehicles, plus their shovels and ropes and assorted other gear, they were clearly heading out to the wilderness for some hard work. They were in their late twenties and early thirties, all men except for the one woman. From my queries I learned their job was to seal the entrances of abandoned mines. What a dream job to have.

A short distance beyond, I turned onto Mosquito Ridge Road, which follows the Middle Fork. I stopped in places to examine walls of slate twisted in crazy angles from subduction. Long ago there had been a mile or two of slate above these points, but those rocks eroded away and now fill the level Sacramento Valley.

I crossed the bridge over the North Fork of the Middle Fork of the American River. With easy access to the river, many people try their hand at finding gold around here. I've worked gravels upriver myself, but found little color. At the side of the road was a pile of camping and prospecting gear. I stopped and got out and looked out from atop the bridge. I saw the owners of the gear off in the distance, carrying more items up trail. I wondered how their luck went finding gold.

I continued up Mosquito Ridge Road. The views of the canyon were magnificent, but I had to pay attention to the road to keep from driving off it.

I left warm and sunny conditions in the Valley. The weather can change quickly in the mountains. Around Milepost 23 (I think at 4500 feet) the temperature had cooled by some fifteen degrees, and there was briefly a light rain.

I took the turnoff to the Placer Big Trees Grove, and soon reached the parking lot. Only one other vehicle was there, and the occupants (two young men with two dogs) were departing the trailhead as I got out of my truck. So with them a good way ahead of me, I essentially was alone on this half-mile trail. I took an interpretive booklet and commenced my walk. The cloud cover gave good diffused light for photography.

This grove is so far from the others that there has been no cross-pollination from outside Giant Sequoias, leading scientists to wonder if these trees have evolved their own genetic code. In the past century, Giant Sequoia plantations have been established around this area. Potentially in a thousand years Giant Sequoias will tower here and there. But the plantation trees may impact the genetics of the descendants of these old timers, and nobody knows if this is a good thing or not.

This is a grove. One can find individual trees. I once saw a lone Giant Sequoia by a remote trail, near Dix Mine in Placer County.

On the return drive I had this view of the canyon. Magnificent.

And one more picture of those twisted slates.

Memorial Day in Roseville

A video I made of the Memorial Day ceremony in Roseville, CA.

Bike Ride Down Yankee Jim's Road

A morning mountain bike ride down historic Yankee Jim's Road, from the Colfax side to the 1930 bridge over the North Fork American River, with my new GoPro Hero4 Silver video camera mounted to my helmet - a 945-foot descent over 3.5 miles - a glorious day.

Yankee Jim's Road

"Have I been down this road before?"

The question came to mind while braking my Ford F150 pickup truck in low gear as I wound down the narrow primitive road named Yankee Jim's. The Colfax and Forest Hill Commercial Toll Road Company carved this route through the Sierra canyons in the early 1880s. Colfax was a railroad town and Foresthill was a mining community. Yankee Jim's was a mining town on the road, near Foresthill. The toll booth at the North Fork American River crossing closed in 1906 when Placer County bought the route. The current bridge dates to 1930 and is in poor shape.

Yankee Jim, by the way, was a gold prospector and horse thief. He left his eponymous town and continued his horse thieving ways in southern California, where he ended his days at the end of a rope.

My passenger Gary is a fellow member of the Sierra Foothills Amateur Radio club. Recently finding a shared interest in gold panning, we decided to do some prospecting together, starting with today's scouting trip. Gary had last been on Yankee Jim's Road many years ago and thought it was worth a try.

Four roads go over the North Fork. The crossing furthest downstream and the most traveled is Highway 49, which follows the Mother Lode. Next is Ponderosa Road, built by the Civilian Conservation Corps during the Great Depression. Then comes Yankee Jim's Road. The fourth, higher into the Sierra, is Iowa Hill Road, built during the Gold Rush on a precipitous route, the most exciting ride in the county. Beyond that, the canyon walls become too rugged for roads, with only foot paths reaching the river, and few even then.

I've driven the other roads but I couldn't remember if I'd ever been on Yankee Jim's. It seemed familiar but I wasn't sure. The road from Colfax to the river was in good enough shape. This section was once paved but now it's gravel over a slate base. Attention is needed with all the curves. Some drivers don't pay attention and over the side they go. Rare, but it does happen: a quick Google search provided a recent account (link here) of a tow truck pulling a Honda from the North Fork just below Yankee Jim's Bridge. Since I paid attention we easily reached the old bridge without incident.

The next turn-around after the bridge was a mile and a half away. We didn't know this, nor did we know that the most interesting section of road was just ahead.

The grade increased. Clearance on both sides narrowed to a few feet. The canyon dropped steeply to Shirttail Creek some one hundred fifty feet below. These factors by themselves meant only increased attention was needed for the ascent; but, with the dirt and gravel surface slick from the rain two days before, and the road getting more uneven, the prospects for continuing in my two-wheel drive truck were not good. Should we proceed, when the road could be even worse beyond the bend? I didn't want to get stuck - the tow would cost more than what my 18-year-old truck was worth. Sliding off the road was the worst scenario: I pictured my crumpled truck resting upside down at the bottom of the ravine, with Gary and me trapped inside as the waters of Shirttail Creek filled the cab. Backing the truck one-third mile to the bridge would be slow and difficult. Right now this rugged canyon country didn't look so charming.

We decided that Gary would walk the road ahead to check conditions. He had to squeeze out of the cab, for the canyon wall partially blocked the door. We programmed a simplex frequency into our two-meter handheld radios. Gary disappeared around the bend. Reports came that the road was improving. After some ten minutes he told me to proceed, that he had reached a road crew. I started the truck, put it in low gear, released the parking brake, and gave it the gas. My truck kept its traction on the area of concern.

I reached Gary and the road crew, two men with a grader and a truck, at a bend where my truck could pass. We spoke with the two for a few minutes, and then we continued. I drove slowly over the freshly-graded dirt to maintain traction. The travel was fine. We reached Mexican Gulch, at the turnoff to Shirttail Creek Road, and worked a few pans of gravel. After finding only a few small specks of gold, nothing of interest, we continued on to Yankee Jim's. In the early years of the Gold Rush this was one of the largest communities in Placer County. Now only a few people live here. The place seemed vaguely familiar. I asked myself again if I had been up Yankee Jim's Road before. I really couldn't tell. We drove to Foresthill and exited the historic toll road.

----

That journey was on Thursday, April 9. I wanted to get a better idea of the road, one that would come only from a walk, so I returned to Yankee Jim's Road by myself on Monday, April 13.

I approached Yankee Jim's Road from the Colfax side, and parked next to where the pavement ends and the primitive road begins. The bridge was 3.5 miles away. The elevation here is 1875 feet. I started the walk down Bunch Canyon a few minutes after nine o'clock.

Posted signs tell the traveler not to stray beyond the road. Such notices in these parts, where a frontier mentality persists, are best heeded.

Reaching a long section of fence, I peered between the slats and saw an old and decrepit house below. I'm not sure if anyone lived in it.

I reached the boundary of Auburn State Recreation Area, beyond which came beautiful scenery.

The twisted and tortured rocks I passed were formed by subduction. This is the Calaveras complex. The rocks get older towards the river. I began my walk along slates from the Jurassic, passed the Gillis Hill Fault, walked by ultramafic rocks from the Triassic, and finally reached metavolcanic rocks from the Permian. Alt and Hyndman's Roadside Geology of Northern and Central California (2000) states:

The best that can be said of the Calaveras complex rocks is that they are an unholy mess, difficult to decipher in the field and impossible to describe adequately on maps or in words. The rocks include a scrambled assortment of pieces of old oceanic crust and sediments that were deposited on them, all torn up along faults, jammed into tight folds, and recrystallized into metamorphic rocks in the heat of the deep trench. Even geologists experienced in working with such rocks find it hard to stop at an outcrop and understand what they see.

Within this unholy mess formed quartz veins with gold. I passed the adits of several abandoned mines, all sealed now for safety.

More beautiful scenery. Plus, the golden poppies were in bloom.

The North Fork American River came into view.

A small landslide, likely caused by the rainstorm the previous week, partially covered the road.

I approached the bridge. A female park ranger was removing fee payments from the collection box. I reached the bridge at 11:03, after a walk of two hours. The elevation was 930 feet, so I had descended 945 feet in 3.5 miles.

After crossing the bridge I met the same grading crew from the past Thursday. They had finished their grading to the bridge and were preparing for their return to Foresthill. They remembered my truck.

I walked one-third mile to the spot where we stopped on Thursday, for Gary to get out and scout the road ahead. The coordinates were 10N 681911 4323045, elevation 1092 feet. I took a photo of the spot and the drop to the creek below.

I turned around and walked back to the truck, reaching it shortly after one o'clock. The hike had lasted four hours. I covered 7.6 miles.

I had seen only nine other people: 1) A man in his fifties on a mountain bike, and his dog, coming up from the bridge; 2) A county worker in a truck headed to the bridge; 3) A female park ranger headed to the bridge; 4 and 5) The grading crew across the bridge, with truck and grader; 6) A male park ranger approaching the bridge from Foresthill; 7) A man in a privately-owned truck approaching the bridge from Foresthill; 8 and 9) A couple in an SUV headed to the bridge from Colfax.

There's history and scenery on Yankee Jim's Road. If the road conditions are bad, there's also an interesting ride. Avoid the road after a rain due to the slick conditions. With two-wheel drive, wait until after the road graders repair all wear from the winter. Keep a close eye on the road. Pray that you don't meet an oncoming vehicle, for there are long stretches where only one vehicle can fit.

I'm looking forward to my next drive down Yankee Jim's Road to the North Fork American River, this time with my gold panning gear.

Bok Kai Festival 2015

It was the weekend closest to the second day of the second month of the Lunar Chinese New Year. Time to head up to Marysville for the Bok Kai Festival! This was the 135th such festival, held in honor of Bok Kai Temple (built 1880) and its water god Bok Eye. The Chinese, of course, have held festivities in Marysville since their arrival in the early years of the Gold Rush. What number visit was this of mine - the fifth or sixth? I've lost count. I went inside the Taoist temple and watched the worshipers. I saw military volunteers from nearby Beale AFB carry the 175-foot dragon Hong Wan Lung along the parade route. Bok Kai Festival is at its core a religious event, but no ACLU types get into a snit about the troop involvement. After a big lunch at China Moon Restaurant, it was time to follow the lions about as they blessed the businesses. I departed Marysville to the sound of firecrackers in the distance. This was only Day One of the Festival - I've never been to Day Two, known as Bomb Day. But there's always next year.

The Hangman's Noose

On display in the Superior Court Historic Courthouse in Auburn is the hangman's noose that sent Stephen B. Richards to his Maker.

A plaque gives the details:

On January 11, 1884 this rope hung Steven Richards from a scaffold in the Placer County Jail Yard. At 1:15 PM Placer County Sheriff A. Huntley placed this rope around Richards' neck and carefully adjusted the noose. The trap door dropped and nineteen minutes later Steven Richards was pronounced dead. 150 people came to Auburn and witnessed the hanging, including Sheriffs Galt of El Dorado Co., Carter of Nevada Co., and Cunningham of San Joaquin Co. Richards had murdered Thomas Nichols, 27, a miner on Sunday morning, March 11, 1883, outside the American Hotel in Auburn.

A note by the noose states that Richards directed the building of the scaffold from the jail windows.

The first floor of the courthouse (completed 1898) contains museum exhibits, and court cases are still heard on the upper floors. The noose sits in an alarmed display case in the old sheriff's office in Room 103, which contains furniture and books and firearms from a century ago. The Placer County Jail Register rests on the counter-top, its pages turned in synch with the current date. On my February 25, 2015 visit the Register was opened to the bookings from February 8 to February 28, 1897. There had been two bookings on February 25, 1897, for R. Stanley and Fred Snye, both from Rocklin and both for unnamed misdemeanors. Other bookings over this time period were for drunkenness, vagrancy, disturbing the peace, petit larceny, and lodging.

Stephen Richards wasn't the first person hanged on this hilltop where the courthouse stands. People gathered here for bull and bear fights and public hangings before Placer County was formed in 1851. Unfortunately there is a dearth of information on early executions in Placer County. People were in too much a hurry to pick up all those gold nuggets sitting atop the ground to keep detailed notes on executions. The best source of information I've found on Placer County executions is from History of Placer County, California by Thompson & West, published in 1882. The executions I focused on were those from due process of law, thus excluding the several recorded lynchings and vigilante executions.

The book notes:

During the first few years of gold-mining, crime was remarkably rare. There was very little security for property but the knowledge that punishment would be quick and terrible, without any intervention of the tedious processes of the courts, or the technicalities of the law now so universally used to shield the criminal.

Here are the executions from due process of law:

March 31, 1854 - Robert Scott was hanged in Auburn for the murder of Andrew King. Scott shot King in Auburn on October 20, 1853, for King's refusal to loan him $3 for gambling. Two thousand people assembled to watch the hanging, which took place at noon.

June 6, 1856 - James Freeland was hanged in Auburn for the murder of "Greek George." Freeland shot "Greek George" in Oak Flat after accusing the latter of cheating at gambling.

September 18, 1857 - Joseph Bradley was hanged on the outskirts of Auburn for the 1856 murder of Jacob Bateman. The murder occurred at the cabin of Bateman in Auburn. About 500 people witnessed the execution.

June 11, 1858 - Martin Rodriguez was hanged for the murder of Andrew Hollenberg. The murder occured on December 20, 1857, when Hollenberg refused Rodriguez entrance to his house.

September 21, 1860 - Two hangings this date. Joseph N. Maes was hanged for the March 8, 1859 murder of Joseph Thomas, of Dutch Flat. Genero Quintano was hanged for the July 3, 1859 murder of Joseph Reynolds, at Michigan Bluff. Reynolds kept a disreputable house at Michigan Bluff and Quintano, a Mexican, killed Reynolds for not letting him help himself at the bar.

No executions from September 21, 1860 to the book's publication in 1882? I find that odd, as just two years later, in 1884, Stephen Richards goes to the gallows. Were there were hangings between Maes/Quintano and Richards?

Capital punishment at the county level in California ended in 1891. After that, executions were conducted at the state prisons of Folsom and San Quentin.

Sacramento Daily Union, January 12, 1884

More on J.W. Beardsley

Yesterday a reader sent additional information on my April 22, 2014 post regarding Joshua Beardsley, the unfortunate miner drowned in 1876 in the North Fork American River at Green Valley, leaving behind a wife and two children in Michigan. It explained why he was taking the small boat across the river - he was going to feed his dog.

My information to this point came from old California newspapers imaged to the California Digital Newspaper Collection, a project of the Center of Bibliographical Studies and Research at the University of California, Riverside. The search engine on this site greatly speeds research.

Many more historical California newspapers have yet to be digitized. They are found in libraries, either in original form or on microfilm. I've wanted to visit the Auburn Library with its microfilm collection of Placer County newspapers. Figuring J.W. Beardsley's death would be a good search topic, today I went for a visit.

Of course I had to search for his name the old-fashioned way: page by page, column by column. No fancy computer search engines when dealing with microfilm. The rolls were kept in the drawers of a metal cabinet. Newspapers from 1876 included the Dutch Flat Forum, Placer Herald, and Placer Weekly Argus. I started with the first issue following his death, to an issue or two following the discovery of his body.

Here's what I found:

Dutch Flat Forum, April 20, 1876: "News was brought here this morning from Green Valley by J. Harper, which strongly indicates that Joshua Beardsley was accidentally drowned in the American river at that place last Monday night. He was seen by several of his neighbors where he expressed a determination to return home to the opposite side of the river, which it is evident he attempted to do so in a rudely constructed ferry boat, which was discovered next morning capsized in the middle of the river. All efforts to discover his whereabouts up to the present time have proven futile." (There was much mining activity in Green Valley in 1876. Nobody lives there today.)

Placer Herald, Auburn, April 22, 1876: "During the storm of Monday morning snow fell in the mountains as low down as Blue Canon." (This article was unrelated to J.W. Beardsley, but the storm may have raised the river level.)

Dutch Flat Forum, May 11, 1876: (This contains numerous errors, corrections are in brackets) "FOUND - in our issue of April 20 we stated that Goshua [Joshua] Beardsley was supposed to be drowned in Bear River [American River]. The conclusions were correct, as the body was found at Sacramento [downriver of Sacramento] about ten days afterward [J.W. Beardsley drowned on April 17 and his body was recovered May 3]." 

Placer Herald, Auburn, May 13, 1876: "Early in the week a body was found in the Sacramento river, some distance below the city of Sacramento, which was identified by his brother, as that of J.W. Beardsley, who was drowned on the 17th of April, in the North Fork of the American river, at Green Valley, while attempting to cross in a boat. His body had been carried by the current at least 75 miles."

Historical newspapers contain valuable information, but for those not yet digitized, finding a particular subject absent specific dates can be daunting, the proverbial needle in the haystack.

Of Old Air Rifles and Ancient Stone Pestles

I took my niece and her son (age 9) target shooting on public land near Alta in Placer County. We used my Sheridan Blue Streak air rifle, my first firearm, acquired when I was about thirteen. With that rifle I had my luckiest shot ever, in Tehama County around age fifteen, the target being a California valley quail running up a small rise some twenty yards away. I took quick aim and fired. The 5mm lead pellet entered the bird's breast. But the quail had its revenge, for it fell amidst poison oak bushes. This was my first real exposure to poison oak. I got oil on my arms and face, and for days afterwards I suffered greatly.

I taped a paper target to a cardboard box, and atop the box I set aluminum soda cans. My niece was familiar with firearms - I'd taken her to Dillman Range in Lincoln three times before. But this was her son's first time handling a firearm, so I gave him a safety briefing: shooting firearms is not a game; a firearm is not a toy; always consider a firearm to be loaded; never point a firearm at what you don't intend to shoot; &tc &tc. And then, to drive the point home, I told him what I was told many, many years ago. Pointing to the barrel of the rifle, I said, "This is where Death lives." We then commenced target shooting.

What a magnificent spot to spend the day! Some 1800 feet below us was the North Fork American River. Before us was the expanse of the canyons, covered with pine trees and manzanita bushes, and to the west was Giant Gap. To the east and 26 miles away stood Tinker Knob at the crest of the Sierra, elevation 8901 feet. The December storms brought much-needed snow to the Sierra, but warmer weather followed, and now here and there the andesite rocks on the sun-exposed west slope of Tinker Knob could be seen, meaning a low snow level, not good for our drought situation.

And we had this place to ourselves, mostly. Two people in an old sedan bearing Washington state license plates drove up and parked nearby. We paused shooting until they disappeared on their day hike. This topography transported to a flatland state out east would be a national park crawling with people.

The sky had been overcast and the temperature chilly upon our arrival around eleven o'clock, but soon the sun poked through and warmed things up. The dead of winter in California.

A short distance from the practice site, on the return drive, I stopped to show the two a small slate bedrock with some five grinding mortars. A Nisenan village had stood here. It was a good spot to live. A spring with fresh water was close by. Deer and other game were in the surrounding forests. There were salmon runs in the river (no longer, due to dams). Over thousands of years, generations of Nisenan women had sat at this bedrock, grinding seeds and nuts into meal, making the mortar holes deeper and deeper.

I had been here several times before, but it was my niece who discovered the rock pestle buried halfway in the soil. It fit perfectly in the hand, the flat side to the palm, fingers easily grasping it, the rounded side matching the concavity of the mortar holes. When had a Nisenan woman last used it? Was it right up to the Gold Rush, when the Argonauts came in a ran off those Nisenan they did not kill outright? And when was it first used? 1000 years ago? 4000 years ago? One thing was for certain, the rock was not from the rough slate here. It was rounded and polished in a riverbed, and the nearest riverbed was some 2000 feet below us. We set the pestle back into the hole, made it appear undisturbed, and continued on our way.

New Year's Day

What finer way to bring in the new year than with a leisurely hike? And with the morning brisk and the skies clear, and me being the first one on Stevens Trail, the historic miner's toll path that connected Colfax and Iowa Hill, what could make this day even better?

Well, this is my first day of retirement.

(Postscript, January 4: I forgot to add, and I must add, that I left so many wonderful people, and took away many good memories. I thank everyone so much, especially my boss!)