I am Prospector, Hear My Sluice Roar!

Balancing a teeming bag on one shoulder and two gold pans and a classifier in the other, I contemplated my path forward. My boyfriend’s boots seemed to glide across the river rocks, and while I hoped for the same result, I had a sneaking suspicion I would do more sliding than gliding.

Scurrying to catch up, I trudged after those brown cowboy boots. Eyes alight with what I would come to know as gold fever, my boyfriend’s excitement had grown that morning as we neared the river. Though we would stagger back up the path to the car a few hours later, his footsteps were quick as we made our way down to the bank. For a man who towered above me, he moved with a grace and ease I could only admire. Turning about in place, he looked at me expectantly.

“Here?”

Nodding, I hoped we had picked a good spot. Though we had visited the same creek bank only a week before, our efforts then weren’t very promising. This time, however, we were prepared. Scouting done, we were in it for real now.

As we unpacked our gear, my eyes darted around the surrounding landscape. Rough brush and untamed foliage ran rampant, but it was a stark backdrop against the busy highways just a few yards away. For every duck’s quack or goose’s honk, echoes of semi horns and burly exhaust notes drowned out their more natural competitors. The creek surely wasn’t the cleanest or clearest, but for our purposes, it would work.

My boyfriend unpacked the bucket of supplies he had carried in, removing a four-foot sluice that was six inches wide and flared at one end. Outdoor carpeting covered the last foot or so of the straight section, and was pinned down by a piece of steel grating. The diamond-shape openings nestled under a tray of horizontal bars that clamped everything in place. Next, he removed a tray-like contraption with a hose attached on top, as if the metal tray had a rather comical hat on. The hose would attach to a sump pump, which would bring water from the stream into the sluice.

After setting the sluice up and connecting the lawn mower batter, water began to rush down the sleek steel sluice, the horizontal bars creating manufactured riffles that would encourage gold to become trapped behind their sloping peaks. Now that we had everything set up, we just needed dirt.

A lot of it.

I had been instructed in the dynamics of the flowing river, and, not realizing physics played such a big role in prospecting, had soaked up as much of it as I could. As we toted the five-gallon bucket and mini shovel along, we picked out certain spots where the water flow dipped and slowed. Heavy gold pieces—flakes, really—would fall into the natural hollows and await our arrival. Theoretically, at least.

Bucket full, we picked our way across the rocks to where the sluice ran like a happy bubbly stream of its own. With a small green scoop, my boyfriend fed two handfuls’ worth of dirt into the sluice by dropping it on the center of the flared section. He watched intently as the dirt made its way through the sluice, smaller particles getting caught in the valleys of the riffles. With carefully measured changes—“caliper eyes,” as he boasted—my boyfriend adjusted the sluice until he achieved the right flow rate. Now all we had to do was feed it dirt.

As we scooped soil into the sluice, the anticipation grew. Would we find gold? Where was that big nugget, when would we strike rich? Eyes glued to the sluice’s length, my boyfriend carefully panned out the concentrates it produced.

Tiny pinpricks of gold in the stark green gold pan, the flakes winked at us like coy maidens. Though they weren’t the money-making golden nuggets we’d hoped for, it was still a sight to see. At one time, I had read stories about old-time miners, prospecting and searching for their fortunes. I had always pictured their beady eyes and scruffy beards peering into a pan like we were, but to experience the same thrill they probably had—that was more rewarding than any gold we could have found.

“One more pan?” My boyfriend’s pleading eyes tugged at my heartstrings. Smiling in spite of the fatigue in my leg muscles and the sun’s heat on my neck, I nodded and reached for the shovel. For me, it wasn’t the flakes we found or the money we made; it was the experience of searching for fortune, with the man I love, that truly made this a memorable experience. I had always admired his love for adventure and it was hard not to get caught up in his euphoria.

Panning done and concentrates in hand, we prospected for dinner next. Soon after, a soft bed invited our worn-out bodies to a restful night’s sleep. As I lay there on the pillow, I smiled to myself, dreams of returning and striking it rich lulling me to sleep.

 

 

Rebecca Henderson holds a Master’s in German and a Bachelor’s in Creative Writing. Best expressing herself through the written word, she enjoys the smell of burning rubber and can recite the ABC’s of the automotive world upon command. Rebecca hopes to shift your world perspective through her words, because looking out the same window every day hardly makes for an interesting life.