In Search of the Tundra Daisy: True Tales and Misadventures of an Alaska Field Geologist

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Part One

The Early Years

1

Getting Tough

You have to do your own growing no matter

how tall your grandfather was.

Abraham Lincoln

I have to admit it. Growing up I was kind of a shrimp. I was skinny, wore my shirts buttoned at the collar and my pants belted up around my chest. My older sister didn’t want to be seen with me (which was just fine with me, too). My father, who had never been much of an outdoor type himself, just shrugged it off when the subject of his son came up. But my mother was determined that I grow up with a sense of self-sufficiency, a bit of toughness, and if necessary, maybe even a few wounds and scars. In her quest to achieve her goal, Mom enrolled me in Big Bill’s Tom Sawyer Boys’ Club.

Bill was a bear of a man, husky and strong, with hairy arms, and a bushy black mustache. And Bill loved kids. He never actually came out and said so but we all just seemed to know it. Every Tuesday after school, Bill picked me up, along with six or seven other boys, in one of his fleet of 1940s-vintage station wagons with wood benches in the back. Then we headed up to Arroyo Seco canyon, north of the Rose Bowl in the foothills above Pasadena. The canyon was a typical southern California dry wash, rocky and uninviting, dotted with scrub oaks and sagebrush. But to Bill and the rest of us, it was a huge, unfenced playground, where adventure waited around every corner.

The wimpy kid gets tough.

Sometimes, Bill brought a bat and ball and we scrambled around in the dirt fielding grounders, fanning at pitches, and trying to snag fly balls before they became hopelessly lost in the sagebrush and poison oak. This was no Little League practice. There were few rules or expectations, just an opportunity to have fun and get dirty. Other days, Bill took us to the stables where we went horseback riding. No saddles, just a bridle and reins because that’s how Bill had learned to ride. When we fell off, which was often, Bill waited patiently until we could climb back on again. Then there was the old gold mine, where we braved lurking snakes and scorpions around every dark corner, and John Brown’s grave that we hiked up to for the purpose of learning respect for the dead and to clean and rearrange the border of rocks. We collected frogs in the dry lake above the dam and even visited the old landfill—think: garbage dump—where we collected armloads of treasures.

But the biggest challenges we faced with Bill were not the physical—they were the mental ones, the ones that built strength of character. When you learned to be brave in the face of adversity—and realized you had been—you felt yourself grow in self-confidence.

And this was what a visit to the Death and Dagger was all about.

Before going, Bill pledged us all to secrecy. One word to the other kids or even our parents and we would be banished from his secret society. The Death and Dagger was a long concrete tunnel that extended out into the center of the dry wash. The entrance was almost impossible to locate and even harder to get into, requiring us to crawl flat on our bellies through the sand and rocks under an overhanging ledge. Inside, the only light came from the narrow entrance, and as we moved uphill, the light shrank to nothing more than a pinpoint and finally disappeared completely. At that moment, even though we knew we were physically together in the darkness, we felt alone—each one of us with our own personal dread of spiders, snakes, dragons, pirates—whatever—and certainly of death!

Surrounded by blackness and following Bill’s voice, we began to walk up the gentle slope of the tunnel, exploring the sides of the clammy concrete chamber with our hands. We moved with agonizing slowness, not really knowing what we were touching but not wanting to be left behind either. No candles, no matches, no light of any kind was Bill’s rule. To say we were scared out of our wits would be a gross understatement, but we trusted Bill and also each other. One of the boys behind me started to whimper quietly and Bill brought him forward to let him follow directly behind him, holding onto Bill’s belt. After a few moments, the whimpering stopped.

We followed the pitch-black passageway uphill for at least a half mile until another tiny speck of light appeared in the distance. Our destination now in sight, it became our turn to lead and Bill fell in behind us, chuckling as we charged ahead.

At the end of the tunnel, Bill finally lit a match, and for the first time we could see our surroundings. It became clear that we had been traveling in a storm drain overflow tunnel that led from the river channel above the dam to the floor of the dry wash below it; dark and wet, yes—but with no smelly sewage, rats, bats, spiders or snakes (or monsters or pirates)! As Bill had shown us, those things were only in our minds.

Arriving home that evening, I submitted to my mother’s regular Tuesday-after-a-day-with-Bill ritual. Walking along the side of the house, I passed through the gate and entered the back porch, where I stripped off all my clothes and pitched them into the washing machine. Then I marched stark naked into the kitchen where—admonished by my mother not to touch anything with my filthy hands—I was then steered directly into the waiting bathtub.

Sometimes, it took two baths to get all the dirt off me.

But on this particular evening I wasn’t thinking about the dirt, the scalding hot water in the tub, or even the great adventure I’d had that day with Bill and my friends. Instead, I was sensing a whole new feeling: one of achievement and of self-confidence. It was a feeling that from then on put a little swagger in my walk and a little cockiness in my attitude toward life. In later years, I would face many more physical and mental challenges, but even today I think back and remember the day I survived the Death and Dagger as one of the best of my life!

2

The Field Trip

Life is a great big canvas. Throw all the paint you can at it.

Danny Kaye

The idea of majoring in geology began stirring inside me sometime during my second year at the small liberal arts college I was attending. My father had always hoped I would become a musician or a teacher like my mother and he had been, although he never really tried to push me in that direction. By the end of my second year, I had managed to dabble in just about every possible subject, and although I’d taken a couple of geology courses, I had also enrolled in classes as wildly diverse as religion, pottery-making, psychology, English literature, ancient civilization, and speech therapy. Somewhere here was my calling. But just exactly where, I had no real clue.

A fringe benefit of my geology class was the occasional field trip, usually to some remote location in the desert where minerals, fossils, or the lure of lost mines and ghost towns tickled my imagination. The events that occurred during my first field trip should have been a sign from the heavens, a warning of things to come. But I guess I wasn‘t paying much attention.

The four of us along with O.D., our geology professor, left the small college town of Redlands, California, on a crisp Friday afternoon in the fall after our classes. The drive from school up and over Cajon Pass to the desert town of Barstow was uneventful. But once off the main highway, as we careened down the gravel back road that would lead to our first night’s campsite, our overloaded station wagon struck a rock with its oil pan, collapsing it into the flywheel and requiring several hours of prying and bending with our rock picks (about the only tools we carried) to get it free. Arriving well after dark, we set up our camp in the shelter of a protective earth berm, elevated about 10 feet above the windswept floor of the desert. Exhaustion soon overcame us and we rolled our sleeping bags directly onto the sandy ground and were quickly asleep.

At around midnight, we were all startled from our sleep by the sound of a thundering vibration. Our first impression was that we were experiencing a massive earthquake. Then, as the whole campsite became bathed in light as bright as day, we had the sense that a giant mechanical monster was bearing down upon us. It took us only a few seconds more to realize the monster was actually an approaching train. But exactly where was it going? Had we camped on the tracks? Was the car parked on the tracks? The questions screamed in our minds, but before we had time to do anything, the huge diesel engines were upon us—almost literally—since the berm by which we were camped turned out to be the raised roadbed of the railroad’s right-of-way. As the click-clack of freight car wheels rolled by us, a quick inspection revealed our car to be still intact and all our gear accounted for. Bleary-eyed, we dragged our sleeping bags a few yards farther away from the tracks and then, somewhat nervously, went back to sleep.

At least a half dozen more roaring monsters descended upon us that night, and by the time the first rays of sunshine were peeking over the rocky hills behind us, we were packed up and pointed back toward the highway. Still groggy from our lack of sleep, but emboldened by the promise of more adventure, we pushed onward into the vast desert.

We spent that morning in the foothills of the Old Woman Mountains, picking our way through an outcrop of thinly bedded shale. The shale pieces split open easily, often revealing the fossil fragments of trilobites: marine sea creatures that had lived and died about 450 million years ago, the impressions of their delicate bodies preserved in the hardened mud of the ocean floor. In the early afternoon, we motored back to the highway again and then headed north along another dusty back road to the Bristol Mountains. O.D. had identified an old mine on the map, the tailings from which he thought might contain some interesting mineralized rock samples, so we pushed on into the open desert.

By late afternoon we had arrived at the site of the old Bonanza King mine. The sun was sinking low in the sky and the shadows were beginning to lengthen. We decided we would probably have to camp there for our second night. While O.D. and Gene, one of the students, began unloading the camping gear from the back of the station wagon, my friend Bill and I scrambled up the face of the tailings pile below the abandoned wooden draw-works and mine shaft. Reaching the top, we heard the sharp crack of a rifle shot, followed by the dull thud of a bullet striking one of the wooden timbers just a few feet away from us. We froze in our tracks as several more rounds were fired and the ground around our feet came alive with ricocheting bullets. With a sickening feeling in our stomachs, Bill and I realized that there was no place to hide or take shelter and we had no way of knowing where the shots were coming from. Although it took a minute to register in our minds, we finally realized that if our assailant had really wanted to harm us, he probably could have done so easily.

But it was Bill who took the initiative. From his hiding place under a piece of metal roofing, he hollered at the top of his lungs, Hey man, I don’t know who you are, but just hold your fire and we’ll get outta here.

I echoed Bill’s sentiment with something like, Yeah, buddy, just cool it for a minute so we can get back to our car and leave!

In the moment of silence that followed, our feet grew wings. Both Bill and I bolted from our hiding place and almost literally flew down the face of the tailings pile, our feet hardly touching the ground. From the bottom of the hill, Gene and O.D. had been watching our little Wild West drama unfold and had reacted by throwing all our camping gear back into the station wagon and turning it around. Bill and I dove into the open rear doors of the car as O.D. gunned the motor and we spun back out onto the dirt road we’d come in on.

As the station wagon hurtled down the dusty roadway, we took stock of our situation. Nothing had really been wounded but our pride. Still, we agreed, that was a hell of a nasty reception, and we could have been seriously hurt if one of those rounds had ricocheted off a rock or piece of metal. We knew we should report the incident just as soon as we got back to civilization. But where was civilization? In the following moments after our hasty departure from the mine, the remaining daylight had disappeared and we were driving in total darkness. Moreover, we acknowledged we had no idea where we were or, of the many roads we had driven past, which one led back to the highway.

A hearty breakfast on the field trip: dry cereal and water.

O.D. was the first to admit it: Aw rats! We’re lost. Better stop. he growled. Maybe in the morning things will look a little more familiar and we can find our way back to the highway. With that, he turned the car up a dry riverbed that intersected with the dirt road we had been following and we established our camp for the night.

As we unpacked our gear, another reality dawned on us: we were short of food, having planned to reprovision earlier that day. Supper, therefore, consisted of one can of Dinty Moore beef stew (split four ways), a half can of peaches and a package of stale Oreos that Bill had brought. However, we had managed to build ourselves a roaring fire and the warmth and crackle from the flames raised our spirits considerably.

But it was Gene who sobered us. You know, guys, we aren’t more than a half mile from the mine, as the crow flies. What if that guy is wandering around tonight, sees our fire and starts shooting at us again? Maybe we should post some kind of a sentry up on that ridge. We could take shifts …

And so we began what may have been one of the most miserable nights any of us had ever spent. Armed with O.D.’s puny .22-caliber rifle, we each stood two-hour watches from the ridge above our campsite. As the night grew colder and our supply of firewood was exhausted, we all hunkered down in our sleeping bags and shivered. By the time the first rays of sunlight appeared on the horizon we had packed up our camp again, and after a hearty breakfast of cold cereal and water, headed back down the dusty road.

We had been driving less than 10 minutes when we spotted an old, overstuffed living-room chair, perched on the dirt shoulder by the side of the road. A narrow path ran from the chair about 100 feet back to a wooden shack with a weathered plywood front door and plastic sheeting flapping in the empty window frames. As we approached, the cabin door flew open and a grizzled old man appeared on the porch wearing nothing but tattered overalls and boots. A moment later we watched in fascinated horror as the man bounded down the path toward the road, an ancient rifle in his hands, and leaped into the chair, setting the rifle across his lap.

Oh my stars, what now? O.D. exclaimed, gripping the wheel. The rest of us just hunkered down in our seats as O.D. accelerated and our car flew by the old man, leaving him sitting in a cloud of dust. When the car was a safe distance down the road, we looked back and watched as the old man slowly rose from his chair and shuffled back to the cabin.

At the tiny settlement of Amboy back on the main highway, we phoned the county sheriff’s office to report the shooting incident at the mine that had occurred the previous afternoon. Over the phone, it wasn’t difficult to tell that the sheriff’s deputy was somewhat less than enthusiastic about the idea of driving all the way out from Barstow to take a report on an incident where nobody had been killed or even wounded. He came anyway, and an hour later we were relating our story to him along with the colorful details of our mad dash away from the mine site. On a map, we pointed out the approximate area where we’d been when the gunfire had erupted and watched as the deputy attempted to suppress a grin.

Y’know, fellas, he quipped, sounds like you ran into old Oscar out there. He has a place right out by the Silver Queen mine, which is just west of the old Bonanza King where you folks were. He probably thought you were getting a little too close for comfort. I really don’t think he’da hurt ya.

Well anyway, that was a hell of an unfriendly greeting, Bill retorted.

Ya gotta understand, the deputy continued. Most of these guys are pretty harmless, just a little loony, that’s all. I go out to check on ‘em every month or so. Last time I checked on Oscar was back in July. It was hotter’n hell. Drove up in my car with the sheriff’s star on the side big as life, and old Oscar just pops his head out his window and hollers: ‘Identify yourself!’ So I just sat there for a few minutes and finally the rifle goes away and Oscar motions me inside.

I glanced over at O.D. and knew he wasn’t sure where all this was heading, but the deputy continued.

Anyhow, I asked Oscar if he ever got lonely out there at his place all by himself, but he said ‘No, not since he met that gal—the one in the white dress.’ Claims she floated out of his mine shaft, one evening a few months back, and they’d been havin’ long conversations together ever since then.

So, you see, fellas, the deputy sighed, there’s really not much I can do for you, justice-wise. If we arrested all the crazies out there, the jail would be full in no time. Best we can do is just try to keep tabs on ‘em, and when they finally die from forgettin’ to eat or somethin’ like that, we haul their bodies back to town.

On the drive back to Barstow, we all agreed the sheriff’s deputy had made his point and decided there was no sense in making a fuss about it if no real harm had been done. At the same time, I had made a decision of my own. Despite all our misadventures that weekend, I’d had the time of my life. I was hooked! How could I ever think of sitting behind a dreary desk in an office all day long when there were adventures like this just waiting to happen?

I decided right then that I would become a geologist—an explorer! I would lead field trips into unknown places and discover untold riches for myself and whoever was wise enough to hire me. I would venture into the deepest parts of the ocean and visit the most untamed places on the continent.

And, like the dauntless stampeders I had read about who followed the gold rush trail of ‘98, I would maybe even go—someday—up to Alaska!

3

Mary Jane’s Place

Never play cards with a man called Doc, never eat at a place called Mom’s, and never sleep with a woman whose troubles are worse than your own.

Nelson Algen

Welcome to Winnemucca Nevada proclaimed the battered metal sign by the side of U.S. Highway 95. If I’d been driving any faster I might have missed the town entirely, but my level of fatigue was just about peaked, so I wheeled the old International Travelall into the open space by the lone gas pump at the Texaco station in the center of the town. Refreshed with a cold Nehi from the pop machine by the station’s door, I surveyed the prospects for the evening. Our choices included the Winnemucca Hotel, the Winnemucca Hotel, or we could just settle for a room at the Winnemucca Hotel. Doug’s eyes were red and caked with dust from the dirt road we had just come off. Anywhere! he croaked. Just get me to a cold beer and a bed!

Luxury accommodations at the Winnemucca Hotel.

Doug and I, along with three other grad students from the University of Nevada had been on the road for most of the day, traveling east along Highway 95 from Reno, stopping a few times at outcrops of interest near the highway. Our professor, Dr. Linder, was in the second Travelall with four other students from our paleontology class. From his shotgun position in the front passenger seat, The Doc led us to the outcrops where we would collect fossil specimens that—ultimately—we would identify using volumes of the Treatises of Paleontology in the university library. This class was the last one I had to take to wrap up the coursework for my Master’s Degree in geology and I hoped to do well in it.

Having found a parking spot near the front door of the hotel, Doug and I entered the aging structure. Decorated in dark mahogany wood and flocked red wallpaper, the lobby was reminiscent of an old Wild West saloon. After checking in, Doug and I took our key and climbed the battered wooden stairway to Room 201, which we would call home for the next three nights. The room was sparse with only a metal-frame bed and a dresser. A single light bulb hanging from a frayed wire was the room’s only illumination, except for the waning daylight that still flickered in through the grimy window pane. The bathroom, with its single shower for all the hotel’s guests, was down the hall, and after dropping our bags on the floor of our room, Doug and I headed there to get cleaned up.

With no hot water in the shower, our cleanup was a fast one but we still had to scramble to meet Doc and the rest of our field crew in the hotel restaurant at 6:30 p.m. sharp for dinner. The restaurant was Basque-style, in keeping with the traditions of the sheepherders who settled this part of the state in the early 1800s. Instead of small individual tables for two or four, the room held several long tiers of tables and benches that stretched from one end of the room to the