Author Topic: Short Stories  (Read 40776 times)

wshawkins

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Short Stories
« on: May 19, 2014, 06:47:10 AM »
Though I would try something new, a collection of “Short Stories” I collected over the years.   I have a little of everything, including short stories on a lost gold mine, a great climber, old timers talking about the way it was, a scary camp fire story, an earthquake to remember, John Muir, an heroic WW2 Mule, Bodie bad men shooting it out, and so on just to name a few.  Most are old stories (some 100+ years), but all are from or about the Eastern Sierra that we all love.  I’ll start with Ah Wee, a china man from the Lundy/Tioga Hill area from the late 1800’s that wouldn’t die without a fight.  Not a fight per say but,,,,read it and you’ll see what I mean.  If well received, more will be posted.

All are welcome to post any short stories you might have.  I’m sure there are some very interesting one’s out there. 
   ;D




The Triple Deaths of Ah Wee,
The Laundryman of Bennettville





High in the Sierras, near the base of Tioga Hill, laundryman Ah Wee was sick and dying in his Bennettville shanty.  His friend, Jim Toy, a merchant and Chinese doctor from Lundy, hurried across the rugged mountains to his side.  Not long after he arrived, Ah Wee took his last breath.  Jim waited until the body was cold and rigid, and then went to a boarding house for supper.  After the meal, he and a group of men decided to go back to the laundryman’s and tend to the body.  Imagine their surprise, when they arrived and Ah Wee was up and walking around.  It took the strength of all of the men to get Ah Wee back to bed again.  Jim Toy nursed Ah Wee through the night.  Just before daybreak, however, Ah Wee breathed his last one more time.   

Mule Ride to Lundy

A strong box was built for the Chinese laundryman’s body, so it could be taken to Lundy for internment. Louis Amoit’s pack train would come for the body and the box around noon that day.  Meantime, Jim watched the corpse constantly for returned life.  Louis arrived and they packed the box with Ah Wee’s body in it on the back of a pack mule.  They trudged along slowly until reaching the level ridge of Mount Warren Divide.  As Louis hurried the mules, the one with Ah Wee’s corpse began to trot.  Suddenly, groaning noises were heard from the strong box.  First thoughts were that it was the mule groaning, but Louis decided it best to make sure.  As he stopped the mule, the groans from the box became louder.  Ah Wee was alive once again.  Reportedly, Louis Amoit’s “eyeballs crawled out on his cheeks, looked at his ears, and tried to climb under his hat” in fear.

Louis Amoit and his pack mules, with the once again alive and breathing, Ah Wee, headed on to Lundy.  In Lundy, Ah Wee rested comfortably in quiet quarters, appearing to be convalescing nicely. By 11:00 that Monday morning, an American physician checked on him to see how he was doing.  Ah Wee turned his face to the wall and breathed his last one more time. 

Peaceful and Penniless

The Homer Mining Index of   October 27, 1883, reported that on the Tuesday after his third last breath, Ah Wee was buried with “imposing ceremonies of the Chinese kind.”   When interviewed for the Index, Ah Wee’s friend Jim Toy said he had died of a cold.  Asked if it was a case of pneumonia, Jim Toy thought the reporter had said “no money”, and replied “No, no.  Him got no money - him allee time gamble - tlee week ago him losee two hundled dolla - him got no money.”  Regardless of what caused Ah Wee’s triple deaths, the third death was the charm, and he lay peacefully and penniless, to rest one last time.   

A Biography of Mr. Lee "Ah-wee" Chung

Lee Chung was born in 1838 to peasant Chinese shepherds in the Xiuxeng province of northern China.  The Xiuxneng province is characterized by its high elevation and cold, harsh winters.  As a boy, Lee developed a fondness for snow sports which was go grow into a life-long passion for tobogganing. By the time Lee left China for the western United States in 1878 he was well known throughout northern China as the most enthusiastic (if not-so-talented) Chinese tobogganier as well as a novice toboggan craftsman. While his enthusiasm for the snow-covered slopes could not be tempered, his lack of ability and substandard, home built equipment provided for a continuous series of greater and lesser tobogganing accidents, resulting in greater or lesser quantities of massive injuries. As a result, Lee's wits and reflexes were to grow ever slower over the course of his lifetime. Nonetheless, throughout Lee's worldly travels, he was never seen to travel without his most favorite trusty toboggan which he called "Rosebud".

Lee worked hard in the railroad camps, and later in the mining camps as he worked his way through the American west. Lee intentionally sought out camps in the harsher environs so he could be close to his beloved slopes. Lee performed any odd job he was offered; Laundromat technician, stable swamper, clerical secretary.  All jobs to Lee were merely an end to a means - to provide him with the sustenance he needed to support his increasingly-habitual toboggan use. Lee amassed a record of call-in "sick days" before or since unrivaled in industrialized nations.  Though everyone knew where Lee was on these "sick days" of course.  For his distinctive and gleeful cry of "ah-WEEEEEE!" as he launched himself from the mountain tops could be heard throughout the locality.

By the time Lee reached the mining camp of Bennettville in 1882 his coordination and mental faculties were clearly impaired. He was soon offered a job in one of the less-reputable bordellos in town, which he gratefully accepted before promptly phoning in sick.  The nickname "Ahwee" or "Ah Wee" was assigned to Lee as he took to the slopes and his familiar cry was heard throughout the town.  The name stuck as more and more camp regulars and visitors turned out to watch Lee's antics on the slopes. His cataclysmic crashes grew in frequency and spectacle as his agility continued to decline undeterred by his indefatigable passion for his "sport".  Such spectacles culminated in the "Tioga Glacier" incident in the deep winter of 1883. Crowds were stunned and delighted as Lee careened off the lip of the 95-foot face of the Tioga glacier, landing in a crumpled heap on the rocky shores of Lake Tioga. His lifeless (and frozen) body was recovered 2 days later and stored in the Bennettville Livery where he was miraculously revived by a birthing mare.

Lee soon took to the slopes again, and shortly thereafter his body was recovered from an abandoned ventilation shaft. The Bennettville townsfolk (in an expression of fondness for Lee) used his body as a makeshift cigar dispenser by propping him up in the frigid shelter in front of Smith's Apothecary, whereupon Lee was inexplicably revived days later by a startled passerby. As the winter season waned in the high Sierras, Lee was forced to seek out more dispersed and isolated patches of snow amongst the rugged crags surrounding Bennettville in order to support his toboggan mania. Such was to be his undoing in May, 1884. As Lee cried "Ah-WEEEE" and pushed off from the top of a rocky swale a lone photographer snapped the last image of Lee "Ah Wee" Chung.

Last known photograph of Lee "Ah Wee" Chung, 1884

 
Though Lee's body was never recovered, the townsfolk of Bennettville honored Lee by inscribing his moniker on a small granite obelisk which was then hurled off the same rocky crag which had claimed their beloved Ah Wee.






 

Bennettville and the Tioga Mining District by Alan Patera

Western Places  http://www.westernplaces.net

Ghost Mines of Yosemite
« Last Edit: May 19, 2014, 06:57:16 AM by wshawkins »
"It isn't the mountains ahead that wear you out, it's the grain of sand in your shoe."

John Harper

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #1 on: May 20, 2014, 09:47:41 AM »
Now, that's a great story.  Keep 'em coming.

John

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #2 on: May 20, 2014, 08:50:13 PM »
DITTO  THAT! :camping:

Trev Dog

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #3 on: May 20, 2014, 09:11:32 PM »
Very interesting! Can't wait to hear more short stories, and thank's again for the contributions you bring to this forum.  :clap:

wshawkins

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #4 on: May 21, 2014, 06:24:54 AM »
Thanks for the vote of confidence guys.  I'll see what I can drum up next.  :campfire:
"It isn't the mountains ahead that wear you out, it's the grain of sand in your shoe."

SN

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #5 on: May 21, 2014, 10:23:39 AM »
 :clap: :clap:

thank you for the short stories

TEX

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #6 on: May 21, 2014, 12:25:35 PM »
Thanks Hawk. Love the history. Keep it coming!
The E.S. is where I come to get back to sanity and to the real me.

charlie

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #7 on: May 21, 2014, 12:57:27 PM »
Great idea!  Very cool!  Thanks as always for your great stuff.

wshawkins

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #8 on: May 21, 2014, 05:02:49 PM »
Thanks everyone!  One ideal for a short story is a Kamikaze fishing trip, driving from Southern California to the Eastern Sierra (Rock Creek perhaps) for some fishing and back home the same day.  Now who would be crazy enough to do that?   :lol2:
"It isn't the mountains ahead that wear you out, it's the grain of sand in your shoe."

Trev Dog

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #9 on: May 21, 2014, 07:37:56 PM »
That's easy Hawk, TT and Salim.

wshawkins

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #10 on: May 22, 2014, 06:25:50 AM »
I know Trev Dog, just having a little fun with it.  I used to do it myself but was in my 20's.  Don't know where they get that energy from! ;D
"It isn't the mountains ahead that wear you out, it's the grain of sand in your shoe."

wshawkins

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Re: Short Stories - Mules in Wars
« Reply #11 on: May 23, 2014, 06:46:19 AM »
Mules in Wars



Mules have played an important role in military action throughout this nation’s history.  Pack mules provided unlimited mobility to cavalry, infantry, and artillery units. The mule is, of course, the symbol of the U.S. Army.

World War II was the first highly mechanized war, and the most vivid images of the war include tanks, long convoys of trucks and jeeps, masses of bombers flying over.  But there were still large numbers of mules employed as cavalry, field artillery draft animals, and in supply trains.  The United States was the most fully mechanized, but even the U.S. used animals throughout the war.



On February 15, 1957 the Army officially deactivated the last two operational mule units at Ft. Carson, Colorado.  That did not mean, however, that the military would never again call upon the mule for service.

Most recently, at the Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training Center northwest of Bridgeport, California, Marines are trained to use mules on combat missions in Afghanistan and other high altitude regions.  Mules are used in the Afghan method of packing animals as an alternative to using Humvees or helicopters in steep mountainous terrain.

Every Memorial Day weekend the town of Bishop comes alive with the annual presentation of “Mule Days”.  Mule people are determined to prove that anything a good horse can do, a good mule can do better.  From trail riding to show classes, mules can do it all with the grace unique to these animals. 

The following short story is about a mule, a man, a war and the hand of fate.  So in respect of Memorial Day, I give honor to the extraordinary men and women of the Armed Forces who have sacrificed so much to our nation.



The War Mule



                 Herb Mueller was born and raised on a farm in Idaho in the 1920’s and was used to working 16 hours a day to help his family make ends meet.  He was particularly skilled with horses and mules, which led him into a career as a mule packer.  He eventually gravitated to the Eastern Sierra in California, where he started a nice little business packing in rich hunters into the backcountry.  Suddenly, in 1943, the call came to go to war in Europe. It was an odd feeling for Herb to go fight against the same people that were his ancestors.  He felt no different than the Japanese Americans who enlisted to fight, or the blacks that were discriminated against.  They were Americans first, no matter what.

                The next thing Herb knew, he was parachuting into Germany and fighting his way toward Berlin.  Every day was hard, as the German soldiers didn’t want to give an inch to the Allies. Besides a horrendous array of military equipment, the German army used hundreds of thousands of horses and mules to transport food, supplies, weapons and munitions. They had a lot of experience with the animals in World War I and realized that in certain situations such as difficult terrain, including jungles and mud; mules were the only way to go.  They were preferred, because they didn’t spook like horses did and stayed calmer in battle.

                Herb soon regrouped with his company and continued to push hard toward Berlin.  After one nasty, exhausting encounter with the Germans, Herb and his buddies were preparing to get some sleep.  They heard a rustling sound in the bushes nearby, and jumped up to see what it was. “Don’t shoot boys, it’s only a dang mule,” said Herb.  “They must have lost him in that last fight.”  Out walked a large brown mule with a massive head and perfectly straight back.  He still had his pack, halter and lead rope on, just ready for Herb to grab onto.  “Now we’re talking business,” Herb told the boys.  “We’re going to use this mule to pack our machine gun, supplies, food and all kinds of stuff. Just you wait and see!”

                “What are you going to call him?” the boys asked. “I’m going to call him Old Todd,” Herb replied.  As he looked at Old Todd’s sad and lonesome face, Herb wished he could be back packing him in his beloved Eastern Sierra, rather than the hell they were in. Old Todd gave the boys a renewed feeling of confidence and kindled in them that strong bond between man and animal.  It gave them a little hope in time of war to know that Todd would give his life for them if need be.

                The boys from the city just marveled at how Herb could get Old Todd to make life so much easier for them.  Easier meant less fatigue, which kept the boys more alert.  One thing they had to learn early on with Todd was that he would only respond to commands in German.  As the American soldiers pressed on through the rural farmlands, towns and cities, the fighting intensified. They knew that this battle to save their way of life was a do or die situation, like none that ever happened before.  The Germans were now sending young boys and old men into the front lines in a desperate effort to defend Berlin and their Fuehrer.

                Before long the men found themselves caught in the crossfire of an ambush.  Herb and Old Todd got separated from the rest of the group amidst the thick smoke of the heavy artillery shelling and tank fire.  As he searched for cover, he felt a sharp pain in his gut and knew he was hit.  As the blood began to drain from his body, the pain grew unbearable.  He slipped in and out of consciousness and awoke to see his old partner, Old Todd, standing faithfully over him. For a brief moment he thought he had awakened from a nap on a pleasant summer’s day in the Eastern Sierra on the grassy bank of a crystal clear stream.  He looked up at Old Todd, and with a loud groan, took his last breath.

                The mangled, bloodied bodies of men, animals and war machines lay intertwined together on the battlefield, as the stench of death crept up slowly from the maggot-infested soil.  It was a sad day indeed when the boys found Herb dead, with Old Todd’s lead rope still in his hand.  The faithful mule stood over him for hours, as if to defend him. It was a scene that made even the most hardened combat veteran shed a tear.

                As the word got around among the American soldiers about what had happened to Herb, they decided to ask one of the generals if Old Todd could be sent back stateside.  The only hang up was that President Roosevelt had signed a law in 1938 stipulating that no government mules could be returned to civilian hands after a war. “Hell, I know what the regulations are and that’s why I’m going to send this mule back to the Eastern Sierra, where Sgt. Mueller came from,” the general said.  “Old Todd can work for the forest service and that’s how we’ll get around that phony rule.  We need to show some respect for a good soldier and his faithful mule.  And by God, don’t let anyone brand him, because I don’t want him to suffer any more than he already has.”

                Todd was shipped back to Bishop, California and spent the rest of his life packing in trail crews to the wilderness.  He was loved and cherished by all who packed him for the next 40 years.  The story of what had happened to Herb on the battlefield was passed down to all who came to work for the forest service. Through Old Todd a part of Herb remained with them all their lives.  It was a story they would share with their children and grandchildren.

                Old Todd never did learn to respond to commands in English.  When he died in 1980, they erected a little memorial to him and his beloved master, Herb, in the tack room.   It read, “There is no greater love than a man and his mule.”







From Windyscotty’s Blog
"It isn't the mountains ahead that wear you out, it's the grain of sand in your shoe."

bj

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #12 on: May 23, 2014, 08:43:46 AM »
Great story! Mules are fun. I certainly prefer a  saddle mule over a horse for the pack trips over rough terrain. Leavitt Meadows has a mule named Bo who's great for a 5-6 hour ride.
" Rock on..........Rock the Creek"
Hardrock

wshawkins

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #13 on: May 23, 2014, 02:38:29 PM »
I rode a horse named Willie.  There was also Egypt, Fainsworth and Spotty, who was a handful.  We had a couple of mules, one named whinny, for obvious reasons.  Was real impressed on how much weight they could handle on their backs with their packs.


Pack Mules kicking up a lot of dust
"It isn't the mountains ahead that wear you out, it's the grain of sand in your shoe."

Trev Dog

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #14 on: May 23, 2014, 05:41:50 PM »
Great story about two veterans to start our Holiday weekend! Thank's Hawk!  :clap:
Hope any members or lurkers living in South Orange County got a chance to see the moving wall saluting our lost soldiers from the Vietnam war that was displayed in Sea View Park in Dana Point last weekend.  :flag: And thanks to the Veterans of Foreign Wars  for moving this memorial throughout our country (40 differant states a year) so that our people can pay homage to these soldiers.  :clap:

bj

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #15 on: May 24, 2014, 08:11:06 AM »
I rode a horse named Willie.  There was also Egypt, Fainsworth and Spotty, who was a handful.  We had a couple of mules, one named whinny, for obvious reasons.  Was real impressed on how much weight they could handle on their backs with their packs.

Hawk

 Did you mean Farnsworth? What a monster!

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wshawkins

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #16 on: May 26, 2014, 06:36:17 AM »
Farnsworth sounds right.  I could never spell!
"It isn't the mountains ahead that wear you out, it's the grain of sand in your shoe."

wshawkins

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #17 on: May 28, 2014, 06:37:27 AM »

Perhaps the most popular story told is of lost gold mines or buried treasure.  Whether these tales of lost mines are fact or fiction, their legends are still alive today for hopeful prospectors.  This is a story of a miner who hit it big but fate had other plans for this prospector.  Or did it?  Read on!



A Lost Mine Story



A prospector came into Daggett.  He was covered with dust.  His beard was scraggly, unkempt, and his boots had lost the toes and heels.  Evidently the man had been away from civilization for months.  It was apparent that he had just come off the desert, for his face was bronzed to an Indian red.  Men eyed him suspiciously as he walked down the main street of the town, and a few made some effort to avoid him.  His appearance was not prepossessing even for a mining camp.

At the first saloon the man purchased a drink.  Then he invited those in the saloon to have a drink.  At this the barkeeper eyed him with suspicion.  The man in tatters caught the question.  He was not insulted, but produced a nugget from his torn pockets and pushed this over the bar.

"Pretty piece of rock.  Where'd you get it?"  Solemnly questioned the barkeeper when he had fingered the ore, touched it with his lips and permitted the gleam of the lamp to fall on the free gold which showed in blotches.  The man who had ordered the drinks gave his head a jerk in a backward direction and made a silent motion with his fingers to indicate the desert.

"Reckon it's good for the drinks?" he asked briefly.  The barkeeper looked at the rock once more, weighed it carefully in his hand and then laying it down back of the bar began to serve the gaping crowd that had lined up to the bar during the conversation.

That same day the prospector in tatters made many purchases in Daggett.  He secured a grubstake adequate for a dozen men for two months, purchased clothes for himself and for all aid with nuggets of the kind he had exhibited in the saloon.  Then he contracted with a teamster to take him back into the desert for a distance of 60 miles to bring back with him a load of ore.  On the following day the prospector left Daggett with his outfit of mules and provisions.  The teamster followed.  The man with the mules traveled faster than the teamster. 
At nightfall he was no longer in sight.  The teamster made his camp and early the next day proceeded in the direction in which the man had gone.  The way led northward toward the Avasatz Mountains.  At noon he came to the camp where the prospector had spent the night.  He hurried the team forward but was unable to overtake the man.  He began to be worried.  His knowledge of the waterholes was meager.  Also he feared to lose his way on the desert, but he kept the trail of the mules as best he could.  So it happened that on the third day he came upon the mules which the prospector had purchased.  They had wandered alone back over the trail. The packs were strapped fast to the saddles.  Evidently they had run away from the prospector.  The teamsters tied them to his wagon and urged his own horses forward believing that he would soon meet the prospector in pursuit of the mules.  At nightfall, however, the man had not materialized.  And here the teamster's courage left him.  In a strange desert, alone, without sufficient feed for all of the animals and not knowing about the watering places, he determined to trail back to Daggett and form there make another attempt with aid to find the lost prospector.

Such a party was fitted out and thoroughly scouted the desert into which the teamster had been led.  They succeeded in finding the various camping places of the prospector, but of the man no traced were ever had.  It was finally concluded that he had been murdered, possibly by someone who had followed him out of Daggett, and that his body was buried in the sand.  Nor has anyone ever been able to find the deposit of the ore from where he had taken the rich nuggets with which he had come to Daggett.  These nuggets were dark sunburnt gold, and had evidently come from a dry placer.  From the description given by the teamster it was believed that the placer was about 60 miles from Daggett which would bring it into the Avasatz country.

Even the man's name was not learned during his brief stay at Daggett, and while this sketch forms possibly the most recent tale of lost mines, the mine itself has not been given a name.  In Daggett, those who still remember the visit of the prospector refer to the mine as the lost prospect.  The specimen nuggets brought in by the prospector were so rich that a wagon load of them would make the finder a very wealthy man, and evidently the nuggets were very plentiful and easily found once their location was known.



This story was published in the Death Valley Chuckwalla in 1907, author is unknown.
"It isn't the mountains ahead that wear you out, it's the grain of sand in your shoe."

wshawkins

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #18 on: June 02, 2014, 06:16:51 AM »
In the late 1800’s, men and women in many parts of the world decided to leave their homes and immigrate to the United States. Fleeing crop failure, land and job shortages, rising taxes, and famine, many came to the U. S. because it was perceived as the land of opportunity.  With hope for a brighter future and prospect of digging for gold, many men followed the gold boom. 

This is a story of one man who left his home in Sweden for America and the land of opportunity.  He eventually lands a mining job in Lundy, Mono County, California.  But as fate would have it, it turned out to be his final resting place.



The Story of Patrik Strömblad
As told by Linnea Andersson of Helsingborg, Sweden. 


Patrik Strömblad



Linnea Andersson



For me it all started when I found a photo of a young man in an old box at my Aunt’s place.  On the back of the photo one of Patrik’s letters had written: “Patrik’s left for America and wasn’t been heard from since.  The last time was when he wrote to our father and asked him to send the last money he had left in Sweden”.  The photo and some letters, which I found in the same box, aroused my curiosity and I decided to find out what happened to Patrik.  Some older relatives knew that he went to America to dig for gold but they had no idea what happened to him.  So I had to start from the very beginning.

Patrik and his twin brother Oscar were born in Jonstorp, Sweden June 3 1869.  Their mother, Catharina Kullenberg, had been widowed by a sailor, and she also had a little daughter named Hilda from her first marriage.  After her husband’s death she married another sailor named Christian Strömblad and the twins were the couple’s first children.  Later, they also had three daughters: Betty, Ida and Hanna and one more son, Nils.  Little Ida died from scarlet fever at the age of four.

The father was out on the sea for long periods, working to earn a living for the growing family.  Catharina got a lot of help to take care of their children from her mother Bolla who lived near the family and was a dear and important person to her grandchildren.

Patrik’s twelfth Christmas became a horrible event.  His father, who had suffered from pneumonia for some time, passed away on Christmas Eve.  Some years later, in March 1887, his mother died from consumption and left six children, between 11 and 22 years old, without any parents.

Patrik was 17 years old at this time and had to make his own living.  His brother Oscar decided to follow in the footprints of their father and became a sailor.  But that didn’t tempt Patrik.  He had heard about the gold in America and decided to try his fortune.  A month after his mother’s death Patrik left his home district for good.   April 7, 1887 he got on a Danish ship and left for Portland, Oregon.

The first of the preserved letters, which I found in the box, written in Astoria, August 1887, was sent to his older sister Hilda.  Patrik says that he likes America and believes that he can get have a good life there.  But he also writes that there are a lot of temptations to give way to and that he doesn’t like the rainy Astoria.  He would rather like to go to Portland and work for an American because then he would learn English.  But he changed his mind and instead he stayed in Astoria for some months and then left for Douglas City, Alaska in the winter 1888-1889.  There he worked in a goldmine, first by cleaning the steam engine and then as a stoker.  Patrik finds the job okay but he is a bit frightened by the Indians and thinks that he has come to a real wilderness.  In August 1889 there is a strike in the mine and Patrik writes that if it continues much longer he will leave and try to find a job somewhere else.

It seems like the strike didn’t continue much longer because Patrik stays in Alaska until December 1890. Then he travelled around the country for four months before he settled down in De Lamar, Idaho.  He enjoys living in a more civilized place with a nicer climate and now works in a silver mine.  Hilda wants to know if he will ever come to Sweden again and he writes that it could be nice to see the place where he was born again but everything has changed and he doesn’t think that he could be satisfied living in Sweden anymore.  He also tells her that he has given up his civil rights in Sweden and instead taken the oath of alliance to America.

In all of his letters Patrik writes about the family and people in Jonstorp and he always sends his special greetings to his old grandmother.  He writes that he would really like to meet her one more time but that never happened because she died late 1891 at the age of 83.  Two years later his 18-year-old brother Nils, who was a sailor, died from typhoid in Savannah, Georgia.

In one of the letters, when Hilda has told Patrik about several deaths in their home neighborhood, he writes “Well, we will all come to that point.  There is no help from that, but we are seldom prepared for it, it always happens when we least expect it”.

When he wrote those lines he had no idea that his own death would come very suddenly.  He lived and worked in a mine in Lundy, Mono County, California.  In the winter of 1911 there fell very much snow which at midnight, March 7, came down from the mountains.  The big avalanche caught the concrete house in which Patrik and some of his companions slept and the house slid about 300 yards before it finally stopped.

It took almost three days for the first rescue workers to go from Bodie to Lundy in these bad conditions. When they got there Patrik and the other men were dead.  Their bodies were taken to a farm nearby, where they lay for a couple of weeks until the road was opened so it was possible to transport the coffins from Bodie.  The people who had tried to rescue the avalanche victims and later worked hard to open the road between Lundy and Bodie also gave Patrik and the other victims a dignified funeral ceremony and gravestones with their names on them. Patrik Strömblad died as a bachelor at the age of 41.

After a long time of wondering, the mystery about my dear Patrik’s disappearance was finally solved. Patrik will be missed terribly.  But he will not be forgotten!


Avalanche of 1911 Plaque





After reading this story, I went looking around the area of the avalanche to see if anything remained.  The pictures below are what I found.  I felt great sorrow when visiting the 8 graves.  But I was glad to see that someone is keeping the graves in a respectable condition.  You’ll need 4-wheel drive to get to the grave sites or you can walk the mile to them.


Grave Site




Patrik Strömblad Grave Site




Two Headstones.  The reason there’s two headstones is his family from Sweden came to pay their last respects and added the newer headstone on the right with the correct spelling.  They also added fencing around the grave site.




The old Power Plant.  The Power Plant had a station and the two concrete living quarters.  The original Jordan hydroelectric power plant was located at the base of Copper Mountain




The old Power Plant Building and where the Avalanche came from (Copper Mountain).




The Modern Jordan Power Plant





"It isn't the mountains ahead that wear you out, it's the grain of sand in your shoe."

wshawkins

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #19 on: June 06, 2014, 12:19:30 PM »
Big Jack Davis - Outlaw



Though Andrew Jackson "Big Jack” Davis started out as an honest miner, shortly after he moved from California to Nevada, the course of his career changed. A well-educated and intelligent man, "Jack” Davis had been mining in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, but when he didn’t find his fortune in gold, he moved on to the Comstock Lode in Nevada Territory in late 1859. This time; however, rather than working as a miner, he felt that his fortune might be made in providing services to the miners, rather than carrying on the back-breaking work of actual mining, and soon built the first stable in Gold Hill.


As he soon tired of shoveling hay, grain and manure, Davis then leased a small bullion mill in Six Mile Canyon east of Virginia City, Nevada. The mill, in addition to providing services to area miners, was also doing a bit of underhanded work.


By all appearances, Davis was a legitimate businesses man, but he was surreptitiously rounding up a gang of thieves that was soon be involved in robbing stage coaches, bullion wagons, and trains in Western Nevada. Using his mill to melt down the stolen gold, he was soon selling "legitimate” gold bars.


On November 4, 1870, Davis led the gang in holding up the Central Pacific Railroad between Verdi and Reno, Nevada. Along with gang members, John Squires, James Gilchrist, Tilton Cockerill, and R.A. Jones, the robbers boarded the train at Verdi and when it reached a deserted stretch of track paralleling the Truckee River, the robbers slipped the pin behind the express car, and the passenger coaches fell back. As they entered the Express car, the Wells-Fargo messenger gave the outlaws no trouble. They then ordered the engineer to pull to a stop at an abandoned stone quarry and the robbers rode off with nearly $40,000 in gold and silver coins.


Though the outlaws had done a "good” job robbing the train and getting the lead on their pursuers, they would be undone by R.A. Jones, when he began to spend his share of the loot foolishly. Unable to explain his newly found wealth, he was picked up for questioning in the robbery, soon confessed and named the others. Much of the stolen cache was said to have been returned to the company, but the rest was allegedly buried along the north bank of the Truckee River, between Reno and Laughton's Hot Springs west of town, near the site of the long-abandoned River Inn.


All five of the men were sentenced serve time in the Nevada State Prison. Davis was sentenced to serve ten years. In 1871, 29 prison inmates broke out in the largest prison escape in the West. The inmates included three of Verdi train robbers, but, though Davis could easily have left with the others, he refused. Later, he cooperated with prison officials on providing information on the escapees. The prison warden, P.C. Hyman later wrote to the Board of Pardons, explaining Davis’ assistance and requesting his release. He was let go on February 16, 1875.


Though Davis had been a model prisoner, it didn’t take him long to return to his old ways after his release. He was soon robbing stages again. He was very careful to rob only those stages that carried one shot-gun messenger, but his cautiousness in the end, would not be enough. On September 3, 1877, he went to rob a stagecoach at Warm Springs, Nevada. During the attempted robbery, he was shot and killed.   


Treasure hunters have long searched in Six-Mile Canyon and along the Truckee River, looking for the gold that Davis was said to have buried, without success.






Thanks to Legends of America
« Last Edit: June 06, 2014, 12:22:57 PM by wshawkins »
"It isn't the mountains ahead that wear you out, it's the grain of sand in your shoe."

wshawkins

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #20 on: June 16, 2014, 06:32:56 AM »
I’ve fallen twice now through a snow (ice) bridge, once while skiing and the other time while hiking in spring after a heavy snow year in the Eastern Sierra.  Both times nobody saw me fall through.  I tell you it’s scary and I now avoid them at all costs. 



The Snow Bridge



The raging, snowmelt-fueled current swept me downstream, and I grasped at the featureless white walls slipping past, desperate for hand- or footholds—anything that would keep the waist-deep creek from pushing me over the 10-foot waterfall downstream. By the time my chilled fingers caught a protruding branch, the current had swept me 60 feet down a tunnel of ice. I gripped my pathetic lifeline, a pencil-size twig, with all my strength and crawled out of the rushing water into a cave barely large enough to keep my curled frame out of the raging stream. I felt like a captive, but lucky to be alive.

At 11:15 a.m., two hours earlier, I’d set out on a high-altitude training hike in California’s Sequoia National Park in sunny, 70°F temps.  I had come to the park for a scenic workout, and to see how close I could get to the 10,500-foot passes atop the Great Western Divide. The Franklin Pass/Farewell Gap trailhead at 7,800 feet was snow free, and I climbed five miles and 1,000 vertical feet before the trail’s surface became snow-covered and treacherous enough that I had to turn around.

On my outbound hike, I’d noted the potential instability of the five-foot-deep snow bridge over Franklin Creek, but I’d prodded the surface with a hefty stick, and I’d knelt to examine it. There were no visible signs of weakness, and the surface was rock hard—I guessed it could support a truck. Though I didn’t have skis or snowshoes to distribute my weight, I crossed without incident.

Conditions past the creek stayed cool for the duration of my hike, but I expected the lower-elevation snow to soften as the day warmed. So when I approached the snow bridge again on my return trip, I examined it thoroughly. 

I poked at the surface again and knelt to scan the snow for cracks or depressions— telltale danger signs. From my vantage, however, I couldn’t see the bridge’s base, which was losing strength as the creek swelled with melt water that splashed the icy structure from below. Had I used a probe or pole to test deeper than the frozen surface, or had I been able to see its base, I might have noted that it had weakened.

I was two miles from the trailhead when the bridge collapsed beneath my feet. Plunging into the fast-moving, 40°F water, I struggled against the powerful current, trying to stay afloat and slow my passage through the tunnel. Thankfully, I was able to crawl into my tiny alcove before going over the falls or being pinned underwater. But the stream lapped my toes, and my hiking clothes offered little insulation. I craned my neck up- and downstream looking for a way out, but the tunnel extended as far as I could see. In an attempt to calm myself and think clearly, I lay back and stared at the cave’s ceiling. Sunlit teals and blues shone through, the palest spots hinting at the thinnest layers of ice.  Wise or not, my only choice was to punch through the roof of this icy tomb. I scratched at the ice with my bare fingers, which soon numbed with cold.  It was like defrosting a freezer barehanded, but as I clawed at the ceiling, it thinned and brightened. After two hours of digging, I’d tunneled through several feet of ice and snow, finally breaking the surface with a finger-size hole.

After another hour, I’d stretched the window’s width to six inches, but the tunnel was still too narrow to crawl through. Digging had helped keep me from succumbing to the cold, but I was exhausted, struggling to stay conscious, and getting hypothermic—physically incapable of further widening it. Knowing I had to draw attention to myself, I thrust my daypack through the vent and onto the surface, hoping it would be a beacon to passersby. The last-ditch tactic worked!  Just moments later, my legs frozen and my muscles seizing as I looked desperately through the hole, a pair of eyes popped into my field of vision and gazed back at me.  A hiker had come to investigate my blue pack, and within minutes he and his companions freed me from the icy vault. Ten days later, the snow bridge was gone, but my frostbite scars remain.


"It isn't the mountains ahead that wear you out, it's the grain of sand in your shoe."

wshawkins

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #21 on: June 20, 2014, 06:38:48 AM »
The Purple Gorilla!


When I was younger, I had an old pick-up that didn't run very well. I constantly needed to repair it, but I couldn't afford anything better.

One evening, I was driving home from a camping trip out in the mountains and it started sputtering which was a good sign it would soon stop running. Luckily, there was a farm up ahead so I pulled in and stopped.

I knocked on the door and asked the farmer if I could use his phone to call for help. Unfortunately, he didn't have a phone way out there. So, I asked him if I could spend the night in his barn and maybe use his tools to fix my truck in the morning. Now, you know how farmers are - always willing to help folks out and all - so he said that would be just fine. He even invited me to have dinner before turning in for the night.

We had a nice dinner of beef, potatoes, and beans and then he showed me to the barn so I could lay out my sleeping bag on the straw. It was a real nice barn and I was sure I'd get a good night's sleep. But, just as he was leaving, he said there was one thing he figured I should know about.

So, he took me over to a pile of straw and pushed it out of the way, revealing a trap door in the floor. He grabbed the iron ring on the door, and pulled it up - creeeeeeeeeeek. There I saw stairs heading down into the dark and I followed the farmer down the stairs - squeek, squeek, squeek, squeek.

At the bottom of the stairs there was a large oak door with an iron bolt. The farmer pushed the bolt across - clunk - and pulled the door open - creeeeeeeeeek - and walked through.

Down a narrow, dark tunnel we encountered a steel door with a solid crossbar holding it clossed. The farmer lifted the crossbar - groooooooan - and struggled to pull the door open - uuumph, grunt - and we walked on.

A few yards further on was a clear door made of bullet-proof glass 12 inches thick. It had a combination lock and I watched as the farmer opened it - 12-23-7 - click, click, click and then swung the door open - swooooosh.

Past this door was a huge cage made of 3-inch round titanium bars. But, that wasn't what caught my eye. What I saw was the huge monster inside the cage. It was gigantic! It was covered with purple fur! And, it was asleep.

The farmer said, 'This is what I needed to show you. This is my purple gorilla and you've got to promise me, I mean really promise me, that you will NOT touch him!'

Well, I thought that was about the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard. Of course, I'm not going to touch a gigantic purple gorilla! And, so I promised him. And, I thanked him for showing his secret.

Then, we made our way back to the surface. He closed the glass door - swooosh - and spun the lock - click, click, click. He closed the steel door - uumph, grunt - and lowered the crossbar - groooan. He closed the oak door - creeeeeek - and slid the bolt in place - clunk. We climbed the stairs - squeek, squeek, squeek, squeek and then dropped the trapdoor closed - ker-thump! Then, he spread straw back over the trapdoor to hide it.

Well, I was tired so I laid out my sleeping bag and 'hit the hay' (ha-ha) and the farmer went back to his house. But, I just couldn't stop thinking about that purple gorilla. What a magnificent creature! I wonder why the farmer didn't want me to touch it?  Hmmmm, it was asleep so what harm would there be?

Finally, my curiosity got the best of me and I couldn't fight it any longer. I jumped up and went over and brushed the straw from the trapdoor.

I grabbed the iron ring on the door, and pulled it up - creeeeeeeeeeek. I went down the stairs - squeek, squeek, squeek, squeek.

I pushed the bolt on the oak door open - clunk - and pulled the door open - creeeeeeeeeek - and walked through.

I raised the crossbar on the steel door - groooooooan - and struggled to pull the door open - uuumph, grunt - and walked on.

I came to the 12-inch thick bullet-proof glass door and opened the combination lock - 12-23-7 - click, click, and click and then swung the door open - swooooosh.

I walked up to the huge cage made of 3-inch round titanium bars and gazed at the purple gorilla that was still fast asleep. I reached out my hand. I softly touched his fur.

And, he immediately jumped up and let out a blood-curdling roar, turning and staring at me with huge, blood-red eyes!

Needless to say, I tore out of there as fast as I could! When I got to the glass door, I could hear the gorilla tearing at the bars of the cage. I turned around in time to see him ripping and bending the bars and forcing his way through.

I closed the glass door - swooosh - and spun the lock - click, click, click - and ran on. Just as I was closing the steel door - uumph, grunt - I heard the gorilla hit the glass door and it shattered into millions of shards of glass. I lowered the crossbar - groooan - and ran on. I slammed the oak door closed - creeeeeek - just as the steel door exploded off its hinges. I slid the bolt in place - clunk - and scurried up the stairs - squeek, squeek, squeek, squeek. Just as I was dropping the trapdoor - ker-thump - the oak door disintegrated into slivers no bigger than a toothpick.

I didn't bother spreading straw over the trap door - instead I ran to my truck hoping to escape. As I opened my truck's door, straw and wood flew out the door of the barn as the trapdoor was thrown from its hinges and the gorilla leapt out into the barnyard. He saw me as I jumped in the truck and tried to get it started.

I turned the key and could see the gorilla running across the yard toward me. The truck didn't start. I tried again, and this time the engine turned over and came to life.

Just as I was putting the truck in gear, the purple gorilla reached the door, grabbed the handle and ripped the door completely off the truck. I stomped on the gas, the engine raced, but nothing happened - the gorilla had lifted the truck off the ground and I was helpless.

As I sat there helplessly, that enormous purple gorilla reached into the cab, stretched out his giant hairy hand towards me, grabbed my arm, and said, 'Tag, you're it!'

"It isn't the mountains ahead that wear you out, it's the grain of sand in your shoe."

wshawkins

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #22 on: June 23, 2014, 06:32:01 AM »
You ever heard an indescribable scream/yell/growl from some animal like no sound you ever heard before while tent camping or backpacking in the Sierra?  The yell or scream that made your hair stand straight up? Read on……….



A Scream in the Night



It was on a fairly warm August evening but cooling down fast on day 3 of a 7 day backpacking trip in the Eastern Sierra.  I was just getting ready to climb into my tent and get in my sleeping bag for the evening.  It was just after 9 p.m.  Not too long before a party of three backpackers went by on the trail and I exchanged a few words with them about the local fishing and possible camping spots in the area that I seen.  After they left it was only moments later when a scream rang out in the night that could turn your hair white!  It sounded close, like no further than 100 feet away from me, but out of my line of sight due to some nearby trees and darkness.

I've never to this day heard anything even remotely like that sound.  Not human, animal or otherwise!

It was a deep BIG sound.  Despite the immediate trembling fear I felt, I got up and grabbed my flash light and put the light to the ground ahead of me.  I walked over to the trail in the direction of the sound.  The size of what I saw running off toward the creek almost makes me wish I'd never gone to look.  It paused for a second and it looked straight at me.   Two large evil eyes looked right back at me before it took off.   Did it sense my fear?  I was shaking, standing there hearing it thrash through the forest passing by small lode pole pines and brush and then down by the creek.  The only way I have of estimating its size is by the large boulders I remember seeing near the creek where I fished earlier today.  Even though I never saw it face-to-face, the split-second glimpse I got turned me into no better than a frightened three-year-old who'd just seen a monster.

Although I was shaking with fear, I picked up a good sized tree branch from the ground and walked down to the creek where I last saw it.  I expected it to jump out at me any moment as I shined my flashlight in the creek and nearby forest.  I was on pins and needles as I crept closer to the last sighting.  I’m sure I would have screamed like a little girl on an amusement ride if it came out of the bushed right then, but it didn’t.  Could not find any evidence anything came through this area so went back to my tent. 

A conservative estimate of its size would be seven-feet plus.  There's no way this was a black bear or a mountain lion.  I've spent hundreds of nights in the mountains and I know what I saw and heard.  And I've been looking and listening for it ever since - ever since I realized something was out there.  I think it might have been there all the time, but I never put it all together until this trip.

What I remember about that night, the prominent thing would be the size of the thing and the smell.  Initially I noticed nothing, but over the next few hours I smelled what I thought were rotting fruit.  At times it smelled very strong, like when you have a bag of fruit in your refrigerator and open it and find them green and moldy.  I'm sure it was around for a few hours.  I don't know how to describe it, but you could feel it.  I kept hearing things, first on one side, then on the other down below me in the creek.  I just sat there in my tent with my flashlight on, listening.  I kept trying to rationalize it away, but the experience was so shocking, very hard to deal with in your mind. 

Finally at about 1 a.m., I found myself drifting off to sleep.  I slept until first light.  I remember thinking the birds were a good sign that whatever it was moved on.  When I woke, I realize it wasn't just a bad dream.  All I could think about was getting as far away from there as I could as fast as possible. But first I spent about half an hour looking for tracks, still expecting it to jump out at me at any time, but all I could find were my tracks and some splashed areas near the creek and some small plants that had been pulled up and put down on a stump that weren't there the day before.  Or were they?

All I can say about a description is that it weighs a lot more than I do (I’m about 200 lbs.) and it appeared black, although it was dark and I never put my light directly on it.  It was gone from view in under ten seconds.  In retrospect I realize I should've stayed around longer the next day and looked for more physical evidence, but the only thing I could think of was getting out of there.

That morning the three backpacker’s who'd passed me the prior night, came by going the other way.  I asked them if they'd heard anything the night before what they thought it was.  After a short discussion about the sound, they speculated it was a bear but never looked out their tents to investigate.  They also said they never heard a bear, or any animal for that matter, make such a creepy sound.  They were going to stay in the area for another three days but said they were heading out.  The youngest of the three (maybe 18 yrs. old) had the look like a deer in headlights.

I headed out soon after too and when I got back down to the trailhead, a man with a backpack was filing a report to the forest service station office about how half of his food vanished from a tree in the middle of the night.  He said his food was seven feet off the ground or higher (this was before bear proof cans).  He was about six feet tall.  He tied two bags of food to one side of his bear-rope with a parachute cord and counter-balanced the other side with a piece of wood of equal weight.  When he got up, the plastic bag had been stretched apart and one bag of food was gone.  Nothing was ripped, chewed, shredded or torn and the other half was still in the tree.  I've yet to meet a bear that exhibited such traits.

   

"It isn't the mountains ahead that wear you out, it's the grain of sand in your shoe."

wshawkins

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #23 on: March 11, 2015, 07:22:18 AM »
Been a while since I posted on this thread but have some new (Old) material to share.  Enjoy!





Mrs. Townsend of Mammoth City





Grave Site




                         
Have you seen this grave site in Mammoth Lakes?  Have you ever wondered about who was buried here and why?  This very question came up during last year’s family trip to Mammoth lakes.  I was taking family on a hike to what’s left of the old mining camp of Mammoth City and Mill City.  My girls asked me if the grave was real and why it is there next to the road with a picket fence. 

If you take the original road up to the lakes (Old Mammoth Road), you can’t help but pass by this grave site near the old mining camp of Mammoth City.

Mammoth City was one of the highest cities in California at an elevation of 9000 feet during the late 1800’s.  Gold was the mainstay and was mined mainly from 1877 to 1882 and still being mined today.  At one time the population exceeded 2500 people in 1879. Today there are only sunken foundations remaining, a few buildings and a large flywheel.  Below the town of Mammoth City are the ruins of Mill City and just up the road by Lake Mary is Pine City.

From Mammoth City north on Highway 395 in Mono County in the High Sierra are the remains of numerous mining camps that started in the early 1860s.  In varying degrees of preservation, these towns offer the sightseer a glimpse of the difficulties of mining and surviving in the High Sierra.

But here lies the lonely grave of a woman who dared to brave the harsh Sierra winters in this old mining camp with her husband in 1881.  In the book, the author Gary Caldwell talks of Mary, of New York, who came to the goldfields of the west with her parents sometime before she was twenty years of age.  In the mid 1860's she lived in Virginia City, Nevada and by 1868, she met and married Bryant M. Townsend, a bookkeeper originally from St.  Louis.  While in Virginia City, Bryant and Mary Townsend had a comfortable life.  Mary Townsend gave birth to her three children, Minnie, Bryant and Persia, during their time in Virginia City.  By April of 1880, however, times were hard as the silver ore began to play out.  Bryant reportedly lost his job, and after two months of hard search for new work with no luck, they left for the Eastern Sierras and the new strikes in Mammoth City.  There Bryant Townsend found work.

In November of 1881, when most of Mammoth City was failing, and more than likely the Townsends were down on their luck as well but stayed on to work a stake in Mammoth City.


The story is from Gary Caldwell's book, “Mammoth Gold”.  A miner, simply known as Old Charley, claimed to be an eyewitness to the events that led up to Mrs. J. E. Townsends untimely death.  Old Charley told the following tragic story to pioneer Helen MacKnight in her autobiography “A Child Went Forth”, reprinted as Doctor Nellie.  The story was corroborated by family members of Mrs. Townsend:

"There was a fellow in camp that had been kind of pardner of  mine, off an on, up around Feather River and over in Nevada, in early days on the Comstock.  He'd got married an brought his wife up to the camp at Pine City.
       
We thought we had a lead in a tunnel that looked as though it might break into a pocket any time, an we decided to hole in for the winter an maybe do a little work if the snow wasn't too heavy, an' be here on the job when spring broke.
       
He'd ought to have sent his wife out, but she was a purty thing an they was terribly in love.  She was young an strong an'  was all for stayin' an spendin' the winter with us.  We had one of the biggest storms I ever saw in these  mountains an' before it stopped the snow as six feet 'n the level and drifted over the roofs of the cabins in lots of places.  The nearest settlement was a hundred miles away an there wasn't any way to get out except by snow-shoes.
         
One day my pardner and I thought we'd go out an kill some snow-shoe rabbits an have some fresh meat.  We were cleanin' our shot guns an somehow a shell got jammed in my pardners gun barrel, an' while he was tryin' to get it out the gun went off an shot his wife.

I've been through some bad times in rip-roarin' mining camps, but never anything like that.  My pardner was beside himself.  I was afraid to leave him alone a minute.  We couldn't bury his wife.  There was no place to dig a grave.  All we could do was to make a hole in the snow an keep her there till spring.
     
He wouldn't go away an leave her.  At first he raved like a maniac.  Then he took sick an I had to nurse him an keep drivin' new stakes in the snow that kept driftin', so as we could find her body in the spring before the coyotes did.
       
My pardner got well after a while an'  when the snow melted off on the flat down there we took his wife down and buried her.  She came back from back East an' she had always dreamed of havin' a house with a picket fence round it, so nothin'  would do but we must put a picket fence around her grave.  It took us quite a while to do it with the tools we had, but we did a good job.  I was noticin' the other day, that fence is just as strong and straight as t'was when we put it there.
       
My pardner an I moved into another cabin and started workin' the tunnel in the spring, but all the deserted cabins, with the dishes on the tables an maybe a baby's crib or a rag doll lyin' around, got on our nerves an we left to find new diggins.       

You know, I felt mighty bad at the time all this happened but I came to see that maybe it was for the best.  That little woman was taken when she was soft an warm an carefree an gay as a kitten, dreamin' of her little home with a picket fence.
         
There's nothin' more forlorn than a woman in a minin' camp longin' for back home.  The mountain peaks and the forests get to be walls holdin'  'em back an keepin' 'em from gettin' where they want to go.  They just can't see a view or a beautiful sunset for the Down East frame houses an picket fences that get in their way."


 
So there you have it.  Mrs. Townsend was killed in a tragic accident when her husband was cleaning his gun inside their home when it accidently discharged, killing his wife.  Mrs. Townsend died in late November but was buried in March when the ground thawed, yet her grave marker lists her date of death as March 14th, 1882.  Since the ground was covered with deep snow and the ground frozen when she died, her hand-made coffin was packed in snow until she could be buried the next March.  The story goes that this young mother of three dreamed of someday having a house with a picket fence.  Her grieving husband then gave her the only picket fence he could - around her grave.


Today visitors can visit her grave on their way to the Mammoth Lakes recreation area.  The white picket fence has survived the harsh Mammoth winters, but sadly not the modern day vandals.  Sturdy boards have been put up instead, as the white picket fence was vandalized again and again over the years.  The wood marker has also been preserved in concrete to prevent further decay and from vandals.  If you should come across this old cemetery, please show the respect it deserves and leave them to their final peace.

So there you have it, tragic story for sure, but my daughters thought this story paints a very romantic picture somehow.



Flywheel at Mill City


 

"It isn't the mountains ahead that wear you out, it's the grain of sand in your shoe."

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Re: Short Stories
« Reply #24 on: March 11, 2015, 06:15:22 PM »
Thanks for the story.

Now I can explain it to the youngsters in the family.