The Quebec Ministry of Mines used to, and perhaps still does, publish periodical lists of claims that are about to expire. These were closely studied by prospectors. One never knew when some hot property was going to come open. The list also gave prospectors a few weeks of advance notice to get ready and organize crews.
On one occasion, a few years after a significant discovery had triggered a staking boom in northwestern Quebec, claims owned by a major company appeared on the list. A fair bit of work had been done on them, but, for whatever reason, the taxes had not been paid in time. This happened often and, because the companies usually won their claims back after they had been re-staked, tended to created a pack of troubles for small independents like me.
I had been given the runaround a few times by the president of this particular firm and had it in for him. I wasn’t the only one; he wasn’t liked by most people on Bay Street, especially his employees. I had met some of them and they had told me horror stories.
I had made good money in the original staking boom and considered this area to be my personal kingdom. After all, I had staked thousands of claims in the camp and sold hundreds. While I was in the region staking, I tried to pick up a group adjoining the original discovery. However, I was too late, and so I kept a sharp eye every year and watched the lists.
The day before the expiry date, I checked with the mining recorder. “The claims will come open at 7:00 a.m. tomorrow,” he told me. “Expect some competition.”
I flew to the bush with three stakers. We contacted an air base by radio and, after they had checked with the recorder, learned that the claims were open. We were the only crew on site and started putting up posts. It was easy staking. Several planes flew in but turned back when they saw us. Our posts were highly visible from the shore. A few days later, with the staking completed, I took my recordings to have them filed.
“You’re too late,” the recorder said. “The taxes have been paid. I can’t accept your recordings.”
“But you told me they were open.”
“They were, and then they were not. Sorry. You can always complain to the ministry.” By this time he was sarcastic. “You know damn well this outfit is bigger than you are and they always win.”
“Like hell! On this one, I’m bigger than they are.”
With that, I stormed out of the office, mad as hell. We were out a thousand bucks.
Then things took a strange turn.
While living in Noranda, I had organized some grubstakes. Before new laws came into effect in the 1970s, a prospector and members of his grubstake didn’t have to pay taxes on any profit from the sale of a property. This made it attractive to investors. A grubstake was a loose agreement, based on trust and faith and usually done just as a staking rush was developing. Time was of the essence, so most of the partners gave their OK over the phone. While you were in the bush, they would deposit their predated cheques into your bank account. It was important to have everything “dated” before the first claim post was erected, as the date of the cheque and the deposit was their only proof as a grubstaker.
On a few occasions, I was unaware who some of the members were, as they participated through other members. Some were geologists of large mining companies, whereas others were doctors, lawyers, stockbrokers or friends. The first two grubstakes I put together were mildly successful, but the third was a bonanza, netting the equivalent of $10,000 today — all tax-free!
On several occasions, a geologist with a major company put up money for a “silent partner.” Every time this “ghost” was involved, I never made a deal, but he kept putting money in every so often. All I knew was that he was somebody important. When I told this particular geologist what happened, he told me to meet him in his office.
“Close the door,” he said with a wink. “Watch, but forget what you’re going to hear.”
He picked up the phone, told the long-distance operator to get him Quebec City, and asked to speak with someone at the ministry. I recognized the name. After a few minutes, he hung up, smiling. “I think we’ll own those claims.”
The next day, the recorder called me, apologizing profusely. He told me to send my recordings in and that they would be accepted.
A year later, we let the claims lapse. The boom was off. Once more, this silent partner blanked out. But I wasn’t worried for him, not with the salary he was making. I heard through the usual grapevine that the president of the company that had lost the claims was livid. I would have been happy to sell him back his property. At a high price! But he never called. I didn’t expect him to either. He could screw people, but he didn’t like being screwed!
— The author, a retired prospector, resides in Pierrefonds, Que.
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