18 
BACK IN THE GOLD MINE 
NORTH SHORE BREEZE 
CAMPS OF NEW MEXICO 
Little Stories of Life and Death in the Tough Towns of the 
Mountains—the Fever of Gold 
[By M. J. Brown, Editor Little Valley (N. Y.) Hud.) 
When you stop to think of it, it is 
interesting to note that the most of 
the wonders of our country and the 
most of the treasures of our country 
are crowded into the most forbid- 
ding places, museums hard to get to 
and riches hard to find. It would 
seem that nature purposely put up 
the bars to protect its curiosities and 
its gold. 
And when one has overcome these 
obstacles, gone through a heap of 
roughing it; lain out all night in a 
blanket; eaten rancid bacon and 
beans from the same spoon with an 
Indian, and finally pulled through to 
the place sought—well,there is a sat- 
isfaction that makes that place 
doubly interesting. 
It seems to me that about all of 
of the valuable gold and silver mines 
of the southwest, or of New Mexico, 
at least are back from the railroads, 
for the reason that the roads cannot 
build to them. The metal is found 
in many places where it would seem 
«a burro could not go. 
I went to one of the new strikes 
this week, and I found it well worth 
the time, the trouble and the dollars. 
We went over a mountain range 
and down to the Rio Grande, and 
that over and down kept me busy. 
The mountain roads are little better 
than trails, and so steep was the 
erade going up that I had to walk, 
and so steep going down that I had 
to pull back on the buggy. But the 
fare is the same, mind you, and 
these liverymen know how to make 
a tourist go out and count his money 
after every trip. 
3ut we crossed the range and 
‘ame down in the canyon of the 
Rio Grande, and the miles we drove 
up andsdown this river, and the 
beautiful scenery in every rod_ of 
those miles, was reward enough for 
the hard work to get there. 
One ean’t deseribe grand scenery, 
and a poor attempt is tedious. I'll 
cut it out—you must see it. I fol- 
lowed the Rio Grande for over a 
thousand miles, ahd every mile 
showed me some wonder and beauty 
of the southwest that I will never 
forget. 
I can’t recall the name of the 
‘‘new strike’’ as I lost my book of 
notes, but I will never forget it. 
When we struck the river the 
driver pointed to a trail across the 
- 
stream, a distance it seemed I could 
throw a stone to, and told me that 
we would have to drive sixteen miles 
to get to that stone’s throw, eight 
miles up the river and eight miles 
back. There was no way to cross— 
no possible way that offered any 
safety. 
Hight miles up we found a bridge 
and I paid a dollar each and fifty 
cents for the team to get over. At 
this crossing is a mine, or rather 
was once a mine.~ The mill yet 
stands, but it isn’t working. I don’t 
know why it is idle, unless the owner 
saw a richer mine and easier money 
in building a bridge and imposing a 
per capita tax of one dollar for 
crossing, 
We crossed and back-tracked eight 
miles to the place where we struck 
the river,-and then commenced a 
climb, the reeolleetion of which has 
brought me several night mares, and 
awakened me with that horrible 
sense of falling. 
The Rio Grande for scores of miles 
through New Mexico, is shut in a 
canyon, the walls of which rise al- 
most perpendicularly for from 2000 
to 4000 feet. There are places where 
nature and lava have left a foothold, 
and where miners and dynamite 
have broadened it to what is called 
a trail, and where a_ level-headed 
team and a level-headed driver may 
make the top. 
The trail ran parallel with the 
river, and the ascent we made was 
gradual, but the horror of it was in 
looking down. We simply followed 
a ledge, a ledge so narrow that the 
whiffletrees and buggy hubs extend- 
ed out over space. 
‘“‘Only the stumble of a_horse’s 
foot between us and hell,’’ was the 
way the driver summed up the situa- 
tion. Half way up I quit the rig 
and walked, preferring to take the 
chances on the safety of an over- 
worked heart to the slip of a horse’s 
foot. 
Climbing 2000 feet, with an eleva- 
tion already nearly of — 6000 feet, 
one’s heart pounds like an enegime, 
and the slightest exertion exhausts. 
It was a case of climb a few feet and 
rest a few minutes. 
Looking down on the river below, 
a distance of perhaps 1500 feet, 
there shone in the river an island 
clay bank, smooth, and apparently 
4 
as hard as glass. This island reached 
more than half way across the river, 
and I asked the driver why the 
stream could not have been forded 
at this point, and have saved _the 
sixteen miles. 
Ile handed me a rock that would 
weigh about ten pounds and told me 
to drop it over onto that island be- 
low. I landed it into the middle, and 
that island quivered and waved for 
a hundred feet in every direction. 
Then I realized what the dreaded 
quicksands of the southwest were 
hke, and that the man or animal who 
tried to cross that island would sure- ~ 
ly have been drawn down to death. 
But I am writing of gorges, and 
mountains, when I started out on a 
mining camp text. 
The new camp was a fresh one, 
the strike having been made only 
about six months. There were many 
tents and but a few wooden build- 
ings, because sawed lumber de- 
livered to that camp was worth its 
weight in food, and with restaurant 
sandwiches selling at twenty cents 
aplece, you can figure out about 
what a wooden dance hall or a store 
would cost—if you are up in this 
sort of proportion. 
This camp has been attracting un- 
usual attention, and the usual fol- 
lowing, because of its fickleness. One 
man will work for weeks without a 
sight of the yellow, while a Mexican 
will strike a sixty dollar nugget 
emptying a pail of slop back of the 
joint. One miner will make a for- 
tune in a week and his neighbor 
wko almost touches elbows with him 
in the next claim, can’t get a sight 
of the color. 
But the big strikes are what bring 
in the people, and some big ones 
have been made here, and the people 
have swarmed from all parts here. 
We stayed over night -and slept 
out, what little we slept. There were 
no accommodations but the floor of 
the dance hall and saloons, and 
these don’t close early enough to 
warrant a good night’s rest. 
It was during the afternoon we 
struck camp, and the place was as 
quiet as a morgue. ..There didn’t 
secm to be any one alive around 
there. I found one puny-looking fel- 
low lying on the ground, smoking 
cagarettes, who seemed willing to 
talk. He was as smooth-faced as a boy 
and with features and complexion of 
a woman, I sized him up as a ‘“‘lung- 
er’’ and finally asked him if he was 
here for his health. Te replied: 
‘‘No; I am here for the money. 
Il left Silver City for my health, but 
am much better here.’’ 
I didn’t know just what to make 
