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Published on 05/25/1998 All articles from this issue

Sonora gold fever

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By Mary Cristy

A View from the Hills

We were up to our knees in California gold - in Sonora's high country - in neighboring Tuttletown and in Jackass Hill where American humorist Mark Twain's decaying cabin stands, enshrined, and awaiting restoration, behind 6-foot-tall iron bars.

Here, Twain, lured like countless others, by visions of precious ore, struck it rich, instead, with "Roughing it," "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County," and other Gold Rush fables. Here, and in Red Hills' meadows and forests, land where rock-bordered mountain streams and rushing rivers sparkle, and feverish prospectors, fueled by the promise of wealth, once wandered, we found it.

And, recognizing it as a gift of Divine Providence, a treasure long-in-the-making, we felt our hearts quicken, as we stood in awe.

Of course it was our Sonora children, who've lived there for years, and knew where to look, who guided us - down around New Mellones Reservoir and along ancient creek beds; on trails cut through forest preserves, where red-tailed hawks, and silver-winged osprey lift off rugged peaks, or pinnacles of the forest's evergreen giants, to soar and glide above us.

Before setting forth on our quest, we'd breakfasted on golden waffles, drizzled with maple syrup, and topped with sliced ripe strawberries, from San Joaquin's fertile valley. Working in unison, the kids sliced berries and fried sausage, while Mike, their cairn terrier, anticipating treats, sniffed expectantly.

The morning air was crisp, with a bite not yet dispelled by the sun that would warm us as it climbed above the buttes; and we piled into the van behind our long-limbed children and gave ourselves up to adventure.

At a local market, we bought extra rolls of film. Spring, in the high country, runs rampant across meadows to frolic on hilltops, and spread with unstinting hands, her multi-hued palette. We know how elusive she is, and that, strive to capture her loveliness as we may, our photos will fall far short, fail to convey the special quality of her magic that may survive only in our memories of her perfume, and the zephyrs with which she cools our cheeks.

Mike knows where he's going and wants to romp across our laps, but our daughter-in-law calms him and confines him to her own, and Mike settles down patiently, to await the moment of release that will come when we reach our destination.

Our odyssey begins at New Mellones Reservoir, where we watch the hawk and osprey, and hike down to the water's edge. Wildflowers line the path, and hide among the taller grasses, and the diminutive scarlet pimpernel, half-hidden in a grassy bed, welcomes us.

But it is the gold we have come for. We leave the reservoir to seek it - and come upon it suddenly. Against a burnished red wall of rock it glows, rich orange, bright yellow, interspersed with white - California's brilliant, heart-stoppingly beautiful poppy.

Bounding ahead of us, our son makes his way across rocky paths to photograph the wild beauty of this reward for a long, wet winter. It is Nature's honorarium for dark days and dreary nights. The rain, which we have decried for months, has brought forth a flowering to rival, and surpass, anything we have seen before.

In Tuttletown, lupine vies with poppies for our attention, and every brilliant meadow is a mirror, reflecting yellow rays of sun.

In Red Hills our children call out to other gold seekers, neighbors, and friends, who've come, like us, to savor this show of shows, a panorama of spectacular beauty that we will carry with us after we have shared a parting hug, and thanked our children for a gift to cherish.

Mary Cristy is a Los Altos Hills-based free-lance writer and longtime contributor to the Town Crier.