The Gold Rush Relics

Never in my advancing (57) years have I returned to a place after a sizeable absence and not exclaimed “Wow! This place has changed!” The singular exception is my broodingly beautiful old hometown; collectively referred to as “Scott Valley, California.” While I attended school in Fort Jones proper, it’s fair to say that the tiny hamlets of Fort Jones (Population 600ish forever) Etna (Same), and Greenview (Smaller), as well as Callahan (Smallest) all comprise “The Valley,” along with a few other little settlements.

Visiting the Valley, which I try to do once or twice a year, is the closest thing to time travel that is actually readily available for anyone interested in time travel. To the past, that is. It exists today as I left it in 1975; which was essentially the same as my grandfather would remember it from his birth there in 1905, and onward to his death there in 1975.

Scott Valley is steeped in rich history and was born of the California Gold Rush. Prior to 1836, when explorer and trapper Stephen Meeks first ventured into the lush, emerald green gem of a valley, it was occupied by the Scott Valley branch of the Shasta tribe of Native Americans; who had figured out that they were hidden in an unknown oasis just the other side of the parched, brown, tumbleweed covered...really rather ugly...(apologies to those of you who may inhabit that area) part of California that was and still is visible to the casual passerby. But...and I know this takes some nostalgic liberty, however it’s true....much like the hidden valley in the epic and iconic film “Last of the Dogmen,” that trip over Forest Mountain and down the other side is like being transported back to a time and place trapped somewhere between the gold rush and the moon-walk. (Not the Michael Jackson version, but rather the Apollo version.)

You simply cannot spend any time in Scott Valley without feeling the spirits of the gold miners swirling around you. Those who won, and those who lost, sometimes wretchedly. 1,773,000 ounces of gold were mined in Siskiyou County from 1880 through 1959. Imagine the dreams realized by those mud- crusted, grizzled and grinning young men during that stretch of time. And that’s not even counting the endless gold unearthed prior to 1880! Then there was Walter Smith. Such an unassuming name that he would be long forgotten if not for his unfortunate fate.

Walter Smith, tall, swarthy, and angularly handsome, left his New Jersey home when he heard the news of the gold rush out West. He was still in his mid 20‘s and primed for a great adventure. His journey took him three months, from New York to San Francisco, via Panama, on a ship. He survived a cholera outbreak along the way, that wiped out roughly 25% of his fellow shipmates. After that, it was canoes and mules through the jungles of Panama, complete with typhoid fever outbreaks and a second ship awaiting those who had survived.

Walter began his life as a miner near San Francisco, then migrated further North with his battered canvas knapsack, shovel and handy pickaxe; following news of bigger and better mines. He mined enough gold along the way to purchase a horse, and ample provisions. In 1859, he set up camp along the Mad River, in Trinity County, California and while he was unlucky in terms of finding gold, he was most lucky in finding the love of his (spoiler: it’s going to be brief...) life. this is where he met Sallie Ann; her auburn ringlets bouncing, as she walked daintily along the waters edge, watching gossamer winged dragon-flies flitting among the reeds.

After Walter and Sallie married, they moved further North to Callahan’s Ranch, California (Now known simply as “Callahan”) where he built a rustic cabin on a hillside in a beautiful copse of trees. He promised his bride that when he struck it rich, their tiny little cabin would be replaced with the best house around. But Sallie never complained.

In the chilly autumn of 1864, Walter dug into the swollen creek bank and saw a dazzling shine unlike any he had seen before. Right there on his own claim! By this point in time, there were literally thousands of miners from all over the world, packed into a very small creek bed, relatively speaking. So each miners claim was limited to 20 feet by 20 feet. Still, more than he needed to work on the huge pocket of gold he had just discovered. And so he toiled from dark to dark, chipping his fortune from the earth one nugget at a time. As the story goes, he was collecting so much gold that he had to build on to the end of the little cabin in order to store it all. Plans began for that big cabin with the wrap around porches and plenty of space for the growing family.

That is, until the morning of February 23, 1865. Walter showed up at his claim to find a couple of masked bandits standing in the frosty mist of early morning, right at the edge of his claim. Conversation has been lost to history but we do know that Walter suffered a blow to the head with a pickaxe and fell into the river, where a fellow miner retrieved his body and saw to a proper burial. The bandits took over the mine and nobody cast them a sideways glance, lest they suffer the same fate as Walter had.

His grieving widow moved into Etna where she was delivered of a son some months later. It is said that in time, he built his mother that big cabin, and exacted revenge upon those who stole his fathers gold claim, and his life. Walter is buried in the Callahan pioneer cemetery: his headstone with an engraved pickaxe and shovel at the top that reads, “WALTER SMITH--Killed in a Mining Claim--Feb.23, 1865-- Aged 36 years-- A native of Morris Co. N.J.”

So, the simpler life was not always simpler, but on the other hand, all that gold and greed also built community in due time. For better or for worse. Eventually the gold petered out and people started logging, and ranching, and building new churches and a hotel or two, and some fancy houses paid for with fist sized nuggets. My Uncle Frank used to pack a nugget around as a good luck charm, the size of a large walnut. I still remember playing with it as a child. One of those many relics of the not too distant past.

Scott Valley is a valley of seasons. Africa Hot in the Summer time (I don’t care what Wikipedia claims) but with dizzyingly brilliant stars at night, like diamonds on black velvet at your fingertips. The heady scent of fresh alfalfa fields, and the never ending irrigation pipes and giant sprinklers that hit your windshield (or the side of your head) as you drive by. Pure bliss on a hot day, really. Swimming is at its very best anywhere; camping, hiking, or night walks listening to the coyotes baying in the surrounding hills.

Autumn brings a painters palette to the valley, orange and crimson, yellow and muted purples, the deepness of greens just before they fade. The frost comes. The apple trees burst with fruit, the squirrels, deer, birds, and other wildlife empty the valley floor of its unused bounty. The first wisps of smoke curl up from the wood-stoves and fireplaces and the puddles freeze over for the children to jump on with their rubber boots and squeal in delight at the resounding “Crack” that follows. People tuck in. A lull comes and hangs over the valley until the Spring thaw.

Winter brings lots of sparkly, downy white snow, blanketing everything throughout the season; covering the landscape and its Creekside pilings in such a way as to bring equanimity to anything that may have come before, and providing never ending opportunities for snow enthusiasts of any kind.

Springtime is a bursting omnium gatherum of life on every level. From flocks of Magpies and red winged blackbirds, to insects never-ending; black bears out for snacks, shiny slippery trout jumping into the sunlight from creeks and streams, vast meadows of multicolored wildflowers, chipmunks and piglets, and buds on every tree. Even the air comes alive in the Springtime, with a sense of vibrancy and new life.

It little matters which season you show up in. The place possesses an almost unearthly sense of hush. While you might mentally vacillate between “Norman Rockwell” and “Stephen King” you will more than likely settle on the former. And it doesn’t matter if you choose one of the delightful Airbnb accommodations right in town, or if you opt for a cabin in the woods, the silence will be with you. It will envelop you. And in the silence, you may find yourself, or find the answer, or find that you prefer some noise. But don’t give in to it. Just go with it. There’s plenty of noise waiting for you wherever it is you came from before dropping into the valley of golden dreams.

Just HOW quiet is the little hamlet of Etna? St. Gregory Palamas Monastery is situated right at the edge of town, which should tell you something. Any place that a monastery chooses to set up camp is probably a stellar indication of quietude.

For those who may want to venture out, Scott Valley sits at the base of the magnificent Marble Mountain Wilderness area. The Marble Mountain Wilderness covers 241,744-acres of high divides, deep canyons and perennial mountain streams. There are 89 lakes and two major Wild and Scenic river systems: Wooley Creek and the North Fork Salmon River, as well as 32 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail. Elevations range from 400 to 8,299 feet. Whether you book a trip with a pack mule company, or go it alone, there are endless recreational opportunities here.

The people of Scott Valley are friendly and welcoming and everyone waves at everyone else as they drive down the road. There are the “old timers,” people born in the valley, and they love to tell stories of days passed. Just say “hello” and ask them if they have lived here all of their lives and you will have tales to pass on for years! You might even get some great gold finding tips, or be able to solve one of the many mysteries that that local pioneer cemeteries bring to mind.

While not much has changed here in the better part of a century or so, and the ghosts of Scott Valley past are likely to join you for lunch wherever you may go, there is one delightful addition to the valley that is worthy of mention. The Denny Bar Company has risen to regional fame as the best restaurant for many a mountain range; which is saying a lot in these parts.

If you are any kind of foodie at all, you’re going to need to hop on a plane, or in your car, or on your horse, and roll in to this gastronome/gastro-pub delight. Whether you choose the wood fired ribeye steak, the Coconut Vegetable Curry, the Roasted Golden Beet salad, the Creamy Shrimp Alfredo fries, one of their unique & and succulent burgers, or their famous brick oven pizza (Gluten free options available)...and the menu goes on...you will not only be enveloped in the joy of good food and good company, you will also be cozied up in the quaint and nostalgic brick building that was once the original “Denny Bar Co.”

The original Denny Bar Co. operated its own pack train, contracting for mail and freight to be transported over the mountains to the large gold mines located in the area. According to their web site: “The building still houses an operational, large walk-in safe that was used by Denny Bar Co. to safeguard gold purchased from the miners until transport could be arranged by Wells Fargo & Co to the nearest banks in Sacramento. It is recorded that the early Denny Bar Co. traded goods and services for over $1,000,000 when gold was less than $30 an ounce. It was the history of the building that helped inspire the partners to purchase it -- and honor the original visionaries & adventurers by naming their distillery “Denny Bar Company.”

To me, Scott Valley will forever be sweet childhood Summers that lasted lifetimes; skinned knees, lopsided snowmen, and Grandpa’s stories. I drop down into the valley on Highway 3 and enter a watercolor canvas painted with the brushstrokes of memory traces and the innocence of youth. I revisit my 8 year old self on the sidewalk at Callahan with an ice cream cone dripping down to my elbow and shiny zig zag heat waves dancing on the horizon of the roadway. I still tiptoe carefully through the grass, ever watchful for rattlesnakes. And nowadays, I think of Walter Smith, and the brevity of life, and the importance of not taking our days for granted. If ever there were a place to ponder these and other introspections, it is Scott Valley, California. Home of the Gold rush relics.