EDITORIAL & OPINION — ODDS ‘N’ SODS — Sandy gold

Shortly after the First World War, a mining engineering student was taken to a copper showing at Indian Reserve 70, south of Lake Abitibi in Quebec, by an Indian guide who had discovered it.

“Not too many roads east of Matheson in those days,” the young fellow told me 40 years later, after we became friends. “Since most of the area is a big sandy plain, we drove my old Model T as far as we could. Then we walked for several hours until we came to a big rock monument at the southwestern corner of the reserve. A metal plaque from Queen Victoria declared the area an Indian reserve. The showing was about another 10- or 15-minute walk from there.”

The showing was not gold as he had hoped, but rather massive chalcopyrite, a rich copper ore. “There was quite a bit of it,” he recounted. “But back then, nobody wanted copper, especially that far away.”

He never told me (and I never asked why) he hadn’t told anyone about the showing — not even the major mining company he worked for, which is why he shall remain nameless.

“Just remember me if this pans out,” was all he said. “If you ever find it, don’t let me know or bring it into this office.” I had the feeling his company had treated him badly and there was no way he would even mention this thing to his superiors.

So I started looking every chance I had, especially on weekends. I would drive up there, sometimes alone, sometimes with my father or brother, even hiring people to help look for this lost treasure. It was only about an hour’s drive from Noranda, where I lived at the time, so it was handy,

At the end of a bush road, about a mile north of Highway 101, where I left the car, I was surprised to find an unlocked building in excellent shape. It was put up by Johns-Manville, who had discovered an asbestos deposit and it was just a few minutes walk to the south end of the reserve. They had been using it as a core shack and for living quarters — perfect for us, if we wanted to stay overnight in order to spend more time prospecting.

During the second summer of searching, in 1962, I found a shallow pit with some high-grade boulders covered by sand and moss. I nearly missed it the first time I walked by it. Judging by the size of the trees growing in it, the pit had to be 50 years old. But it was rich: one sample ran 31% copper. It was also full of water.

One of my friends, a diamond driller, offered me an old pump to dewater the pit. Being curious like most of us, he decided to come along, “in case you have trouble with the pump.” I knew my way around motors, so I knew he wanted to see this rich pit.

“I also do a bit of prospecting,” he said in pidgin English. “Fresh air do me good.” Two of my regular employees wanted to come along for the ride.

“No salary,” I told them. “But if we get lucky, I won’t forget any of you.” So the four of us joyfully drove to the property and lugged the pump and gas to the pit.

After we got the pump working, the three of them decided to look around to see if they could find anything more. I stayed at the pit to refuel the pump and do some stripping. It was a warm day and the bush was tinter dry. All of us were experienced bushmen, so we knew enough to be careful. After pumping for a few hours, I realized the water in the pit wasn’t going down. Probably an underground feed, I reasoned. So I decided to increase the speed of the pump and, before long, the water seemed to be going down.

The pump was close to, and tilted toward the pit. I still don’t know what happened, but it happened real fast. By revving the motor, the gas cap unscrewed itself and some gas hit the spark plug. The whole thing caught fire. Since I didn’t have a container with which to get water, I threw some sand on the pump.

Nothing doing. By this time, the dry leaves around me were burning. Between stomping the fire on the ground with my feet and throwing sand on the pump, I could see I was losing the battle, and fast.

In desperation, I threw the pump in the pit. What a mistake. The draining hose flipped the motor on its side, the gas ran out and now the water was on fire. Using my feet and hands, I pushed all the burning material into the pit, knowing that eventually, the gas would burn itself out.

I worked like a madman for what seemed an eternity; stomping, kicking and pushing until I was sure there was no more danger. Then I collapsed on the ground, spent. My hands were not too bad, but my eyebrows and hair were singed and my boots and the bottom of my pants were in bad shape.

What did I do then? I lit a cigarette, then pulled the pump up. After looking at it, the only thing missing was the gas cap. It would live to see another day.

When my friend, the driller, came back, he was astounded. “What the hell happened?”

I explained what happened, but his main concern was the pump, which he concluded looked good, despite the missing cap. When the others came back, they found the two of us laughing like mad. They joined in when we told them the story.

“We’re all lucky to be alive,” I said. “Let’s get out of here and go for a nice cool beer in Hbcourt. This place is giving me the jinks.”

I never tried to empty the pit after that, but I kept working the place for several more years. Without success.

— Paul Martin is a retired prospector from Quebec.