Yellow Dirt

The temperature was in the hot 100 degrees or better. The time of the year when a feller longs for that high altitude country. Can't remember where our family was living at that time but as customary Dad was occupied with his gyp experiments, and he needed iron oxide to color the stuff with. Not having much money in those economy depressed years, he sent me and my brother, Grant, to a prospect hole located in the West Mountains where yellow oxide showed in the dump of a mine shaft. The old miner had dug into an iron "blowout" hoping it would lead to valuable ore, but I guess it never did because he got discouraged and quit digging. But he did dig out a lot of nice yellow oxide dirt or "fines" as it is sometimes called. We screened the rocks out, then put about 50 pounds in each bag, ready to carry off the mountain.

We left Grandpa McCain's place in Bloomington early one morning with a little gray jenny, and my horse, Cheeko. Our grub and bed was tied on the jenny with Grant and me riding Cheeko double on his bare back. The gnats were a constant pester at this low elevation and about drove us berserk. After our endurance reached its end, we stopped to rest in the scanty shade of a black willow tree that grew in the dry wash which our course of travel followed. Late that afternoon we finally topped out on the east rim of a little valley that stretched to the southwest and is cradled by rough mountain ridges. There's about 200 acres of ground that is fertile enough to make a productive farm if sufficient water was available. Here native grass grew more abundant. At the lower end of the valley and about 350 yards from our point of overlook was a pond about half full of water. Near to it we made our camp under a large cedar tree. A short distance to the west a shoulder of the mountain reared upward at a steep incline. There, on its north east side, high above us, could be seen the yellow tailings of the mine shaft which was the object of our endeavor.

Early next morning Grant led the gray jenny up that rocky mountain side. Tied to her back was a bundle of small gunny sacks. I followed along behind with a shovel and our screening device, which consisted of a 2 ft. by 3 ft. frame, covered by a 1/4 inch wire mesh. The donkey climbed up the mountain side without any trouble and it didn't take very long to fill two bags of color.

We tied the tops of the bags together, then slung them over the donkey's back, anchored with a girth rope. The downhill grade was 30 to 40 percent. As she descended with lowered head to carefully pick her way, the bags swung forward along her neck and would crossover on the same side, then fall to the ground. We made many adjustments but due to lack of enough rope we just couldn't keep it on her back. By the time we reached the bottom we figured it would be easier to pack it on our own backs rather than to use the donkey. on the next trip, which was after dinner, we took Cheeko up with us.

He had more difficulty making the climb, but enjoyed cropping the grass when he got there. We screened out another two bags and slung them on him, but we tied them on more securely and with his more prominent withers, the bags stayed in place. From then on, he was the pack animal.

Two trips per day used most of the daylight time. We averaged from 150 to 200 pounds of good color per day. At noontime of the second day Grant wanted to make a cake. I says: "We ain't got the right stuff and besides you don't know how to make a cake."

"Yes, I do!" he says. "I'll mix up some flour, sugar, baking powder and water and cook it in the dutch oven, that'll taste good." About an hour later as I looks in the oven that stuff has solidified on top and I can smell something is burned on the bottom. When we pry out a chunk it's real chewy, but the sweet taste mellows that charred black on the bottom. Really, ain't too bad at all. (Hand me another piece).

We always hobbled our pack string out when we wasn't using them but on the morning of the third day, when I got out of bed, couldn't see Cheeko anywhere. The jenny was down the flat about a quarter mile but no sight of a horse. When I checked the back trail fresh tracks told me he was headed home. He'd never left me before on any of our escapades and now I'm real put out at him. Guess he didn't like being a pack animal. I take off down that trail on a high trot and had just passed the black willow shade tree when I spots him shuffling along. He knows he's done wrong. I can tell by the way he takes off toward camp at a high run. We take a breather spell a few times on the way back, but most of the time his gait is a high lope. He's puffing some when we pull up at camp and he takes a rest while we fix dinner, then up the mountain for a load of that yellow dirt.

The next day we haul down two loads. There's quite a pile of sacks accumulating there by our un-load tree, maybe 600 pounds, enough to color a lot of gyp slurry. Our pile of bags is not far from an old road that leads over to the Mohawk Copper Mine. No work's being done there now, but in past years it has produced a lot of high grade copper. The next morning we load our camp gear on the jenny. (The shovel and screen is left up by the old mine shaft). Then mount up on Cheeko. That ol' hoss and donkey is glad to be going home so we move right along. Besides, it's all downhill. But Dad never did find anyone to haul the color to town. As far as I know it's still a yellow mark by that old road.