A LAND OF TRAGIC MEMORIES 235 



forded the river, and presently came upon the 

 little log cabin of Jack Davis, an old placer 

 miner who has lived here alone, washing 

 gravel, for more than twenty years. For 

 months at a time no human being passes this 

 way, and he was glad to see me. He lives 

 on fish and game mainly, supplemented, when 

 he has them — and that is not always by any 

 means — by bacon and flour, which he packs 

 fifty miles on his back. His claim has never 

 yielded him more than a scant living, but with 

 the miner's never-failing optimism he expects 

 some day to "strike it rich." 



All the gravel along the Snake, even high 

 up on the mountain sides, the length of the 

 canon, is filled with flake gold. One can find 

 "color" anywhere, but the flakes are too light 

 to separate from the gravel by any known proc- 

 ess. Now and again Jack finds a small nugget, 

 however, sufficient to keep his courage and 

 hope alive. And so he will continue digging 

 and working until life goes out. A chance 

 passer-by will some day find his poor old body 

 in the canon, where he and his hopes have died 

 together. He is now seventy-seven years of age. 



Old Jack was frying bacon when I dis- 

 mounted and stopped for a quarter hour's chat 

 with him. He urged me to join him at dinner. 



