EDITORIAL & OPINION — ODDS ‘N’ SODS — Tough luck

Timing is everything, and mine wasn’t good. I decided to join the brokerage fraternity in Toronto at the worst possible time — in the mid-1960s, not long after the trading scandal involving Windfall Oils and Mines. The Toronto Stock Exchange and the Ontario Securities Commission were cleaning up house, but they went overboard, and trading of mining stock dried up like an African desert.

Being an optimist, I was sure the booms would eventually come back. I had plenty of experience dealing with promoters, stockbrokers and lawyers during my years in the exploration game, and I thought I could easily cross to the other side of the street. But things were rougher than I expected. Being on straight commission was no panacea then, so I kept my fingers in claim-staking and property deals — anything to make a buck. After all, I had a wife and three kids to support. I even drove a cab for a while.

When I heard that a major European company had made a discovery in northern Quebec, I decided to head north, hoping to stake some claims for myself. Since I had long ago sold my bush equipment, I had to call a mining recorder to find a staking contractor.

He was happy to oblige. “Here’s the phone number of a pretty reliable guy, and his rates are good,” he told me. “He’ll do a good job.”

After the arrangements had been made, I invited the recorder and the contractor to join me for a drink later that evening. The contractor declined, saying he would be too busy organizing his staking crews. But the recorder readily accepted, as I knew he would. We had been friends for years and loved reminiscing about the good old days (and there were some dandies).

Early on in the business, I had learned the value of befriending recorders in Quebec. They were amenable, and getting tags and maps after hours was no problem. A nice bill with the Queen’s picture worked wonders, and I don’t for one instant think I was the only one thus favoured.

We stakers weren’t above a few shenanigans too. In the old days they had a funny law prohibiting stakers from picking up more than five claims for himself, and ten by proxy in a year. If you needed to pick up several hundred claims, you went to the local cemetery. My favourite was Joe or Jos Legault, or Legaud, or Legaut, or Legau. I had him living in every parish, village or town in Quebec.

After we had a few drinks and a few laughs about the old days, I noticed my friend didn’t look too good.

“I don’t feel well,” he said. “I need several more operations and things are slow at the office. Could you lend me five hundred dollars? Just for a few weeks. A month at most?”

I wasn’t that flush myself, but thought, ‘what the hell, he’d helped me in the past.’ I wrote him a cheque.

He was very thankful. “Don’t worry. No more than a month.”

The next day, satisfied that everything was in order with the stakers, I went back to Toronto. A few days later, I called the recorder’s office to check on something. I nearly dropped the phone when his aide told me that my friend had committed suicide the night before.

“Was it that bad? I mean his health?”

“Yes,” he told me. “Plus he owed money all over town.”

After I hung up, I rushed to the bank, hoping against hope that I would get there in time. But it was too late, the cheque had cleared the previous day. Five bills gone with the wind, I thought philosophically. At least I had my claims near the big discovery.

But it soon became obvious my timing was off again. The “big discovery” didn’t pan out. My staking effort was for naught, and my bank balance was about the same.

To add insult to injury, I found out that while I was running around northern Quebec being Mr. Nice Guy and tying up worthless moose pasture, a big discovery — a real one — had been made in northern Ontario.

The news only got worse. One of the principals behind the Ontario discovery had been trying to get in touch with me. I could have got in on the ground floor.

— The author is a retired prospector and broker living in Quebec.