The Gold Necklace: Life at the Lodge, #5

By Jim Carver

More laughter and drama unfold in The Gold Necklace, Book Five in the series Life at the Lodge.

Sarah is thrilled, heartbroken, and happy again with her gold necklace.  The dogs provide riotous joy and disincentives to poachers.  Winter golf on the frozen lake is hilarious.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Carver
• Release date: Mar 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781988284040

Jim Carver

Jim Carver is the author of 8 books, in a series called Life at the Lodge. These books are An Almost Perfect Life, Gold Dust, Deep and Crisp and Even, Watersky, The Gold Necklace, The Mysterious Bob Larch, The Reindeer Drum, and The Cabin at Big Rock. He is currently working on 3 new books. Jim Carver spent many years working in geological exploration in wilderness areas all over Canada, and his books draw on his experiences. He was sidelined from his career by the onset of hereditary cerebellar ataxia, a condition which affects motor skills in an ever-worsening way. He has been in a wheelchair for almost 3 decades, and has taught himself to type very slowly with only 1 finger. He dictates his books, even though it is difficult to speak. He has a well-developed sense of humour, a keen interest in his characters, and to read him is to laugh out loud on every page. He continues to inspire himself and others through his books. He loved his work in the Canadian wilderness. Now his writing is his way of interacting with others, and exploring the world. Jim Carver lives and writes in Victoria, on Vancouver Island, B.C.

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Copyright © 2017 Jim Carver

www.authorjimcarver.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-988284-04-0

Cover design by Iryna Spica

The Gold Necklace

You’re a big fan of forward thinking, aren’t you? Pauline was rearranging the dishes in a cupboard and I was watching.

Sure, I said, but you can go too far.

Deciding the shelf itself needed cleaning, she’d removed all the items and was wiping it thoroughly with a damp cloth. And how can you go too far? she asked distractedly, returning the dishes to the shelf. She was wearing jeans, moccasins and a madras blouse/shirt, its sleeves only just reaching past her elbows. She had her strawberry-blonde hair drawn back into a ponytail, and a small bead of sweat had formed at her temple. Pausing, she turned and regarded me, waiting for my reply.

For example, you could plan the menu five years in advance and you’d probably only succeed in driving yourself nuts, I said. It’s a matter of priorities; you try to do what’s most logical.

Finishing with the cupboard, she went to Sarah’s room and returned with a three-ringed binder. Putting it on the table in front of me, she said, We’re not invading her privacy; Sarah told me she doesn’t mind people looking at her drawings. Actually, I think she likes it. Pauline opened the book and turned to a page on which was depicted the Three Duck Lake logo: three cartoon ducks wearing fedoras, looking back angrily at the viewer. The picture had been drawn within a penciled round frame about four inches in diameter. Beside it was a much smaller circle enclosing the same design, with neat hand-lettering under it informing the viewer that this was actual size. Sarah showed me this drawing months ago, Pauline said. She was pleased with it, but knew it would require nearly an ounce of gold. This would make it too expensive of course, so it remains just a picture in her binder. Pauline studied the illustration once more and chuckled, saying, It’s a shame to see this amusing image come to nothing. Sarah’s birthday is coming up in a few weeks, so let’s use the design in a necklace for her. Made with local gold, of course. Pauline momentarily looked cross, saying, Remember last year? We left it to the last moment, so I wasn’t very pleased with the sweater we ended up giving her. She looked at the drawing again, then smiled, saying: This year let’s give her something special, something personal. We can have the gold melted into the shape and size of a dollar coin, have it imprinted with the logo, then get a nice chain so she can wear it as a necklace. She’ll love it. It was easy to see her enthusiasm growing as she said, And we can personalise it on the back with a not-too-mushy inscription. What do you think?

It sounds like a good idea to me, I said, looking at the drawing again, but there’s a problem. The last of the gold was used in the making of bear-charms for bracelets.

Her blue-green eyes sparkling, she turned to me with eyebrows raised and said, That problem is easy to solve; you’ll just have to get more! She said this as though it’d just be a matter of nipping down to the corner gold store and picking some up. It’s Monday tomorrow, so we shouldn’t be too busy around here. Why don’t you and Pooch go out for the day and see what you can find? We can have one of our cleaning-the-paydirt parties without Sarah, she won’t be here for another week, anyway.

It’d been a while since I’d gone out with the dog, so I looked forward to the change in routine. Pauline was still looking at me, waiting for a reply. For you, I said, dramatically getting up to kiss her hand, I’d find El Dorado: the dog and I will leave on the morrow.

The following morning was dull, but the clouds were high and seemed to be scudding along at good speed, so they were perhaps promising a storm somewhere down the line, but not here. Pauline poured me my morning coffee, kissed me and wished me good luck, then went up to Moon’s, taking Banjo and Grace with her. Immediately knowing something was afoot, Pooch stared and squeaked at me, trying to cock his ears, but they were too floppy, so he could only manage less than half-mast. After hurriedly finishing my coffee, I took him out back and fitted the saddlebags to him. This used to be a process filled with chaos and pandemonium if Banjo and Grace got involved. But now Pooch had learned to contain his excitement (mostly), and the other dogs were absent. After a couple of rough and tumble sessions featuring me trying to get Pooch’s saddlebags on him while Banjo and Grace barked and leapt around, I’d resolved to do it without their help. So, after getting Pooch suitably attired, I fastened my backpack and a shovel to the deck of the rickshaw. The pack contained all the equipment I’d need for my prospecting trek, along with my lunch.

Previously, I’d worked along the rivulet that goes under the main trail, finding gold dust in varying quantities along the way. So now we just had to hike the trail to the north of the lake, find the spot (marked with flagging tape) where the rivulet intersects, then follow it north into the bush and away from the lake. I didn’t bother hitching the rickshaw to Pooch; it was easy enough pulling it myself. Even this early in the morning, there was always the danger of being waylaid by a client wanting to know what we were doing, but it was only 7:30 a.m., so probably nobody was hiking yet. It was still a gloomy morning; the high clouds were shifting rapidly across the sky and the breeziness had turned into a steady wind. Small waves were slapping at the wharf’s pilings as we headed down the trail with Pooch in the lead. Once we were well into the trees, the wind became less apparent and the clouds were mostly blocked from view. As I pulled the rickshaw along, Pooch sniffed at the trail ahead, a buckle on his saddlebags clinking. I stopped for a moment just before getting to the Narrows to listen to the bush and the birdsong. For a while the dog obviously wondered why I’d stopped to stand in the middle of the trail doing nothing, so he looked askance at me and squeaked. I just stood there breathing the morning air deeply and regarding the mossy ground beside the trail. Clearly, Pooch had decided I’d stood motionless between the bars of the rickshaw long enough. Still looking at me questioningly, he bumped into my leg and gave me an ‘arf’. It was almost as if he was saying, ‘Okay, enough of that! Let’s get going!" Managing to shake off most of my reverie, we splashed through the Narrows, then headed along the trail at a casual pace. Going through the thick bush above the north shore of the lake, the trail narrowed a bit, but there was still plenty of clearance for the rickshaw. Finally reaching the spot where the rivulet goes under the trail, I hid the wagon in the bush, then retrieved the backpack and shovel from its deck.

The rivulet flows underground for a distance north of the trail, so I had trouble finding it in the thick bush. It finally reappeared as a trickle barely a foot wide, so even though its smallness was discouraging, I dutifully cut a path back to the trail. During all this, Pooch investigated the area then lay down, the better to critically study my machete and hatchet techniques. Taking the gold pan from my pack, I filled it with the gravel and sand I’d dug from the rivulet. Adding a little more water, I carefully swirled it around until getting down to the black sand. There was no trace of gold, not a single flake. Steadily moving northwards, panning at regular intervals and finding exactly nothing, I finally said to Pooch, Looks like all the gold is south of the trail, let’s have something to eat. He seemed amenable, so throwing down shovel and gold pan, I took off my backpack and rummaged around in it. Finding the lunch bag containing four large doggy-biscuits, I gave him two. I also dug out a plastic box containing a blueberry muffin and a thick slice of cheddar sitting atop an orange. Looking forward to my snack, I walked quickly to where the rivulet makes a sharp turn towards the lake. It was a lot more open near the crest of the easy slope, which was somewhat of a relief after the claustrophobic conditions a little further down. The trees were widely spaced, while the ground was mostly moss-covered rocks about the size of basketballs. Returning to where I’d left my stuff, I ate my snack and told Pooch, It’d be nice to give you some paydirt to carry, but it looks like we’re out of luck up here.

To be thorough, I’d decided to work my way up the rivulet taking samples, until reaching the sharp bend near the top of the hill. From there I could pan the flow for a hundred feet, but I knew it disappeared underground again. And I wasn’t very hopeful: the results of all my panning weren’t exactly dazzling. We’d stopped for our snack in an open area, with the ground too rocky to support trees of any size. I scanned the spot while I finished eating the muffin, enjoying the ‘parkland’ feel of the place. I walked a few paces from the rivulet to relieve myself. So Pooch, probably wondering why I’d marked this territory so copiously, added his own brief signature. It started to rain steadily, so I was considering returning to the lodge as I put on my rain jacket. But I could hear water running under the moss, as a smaller rivulet flowed into the one I’d been working. Pooch heard the sound too, so unbidden, he started digging with his massive paws. I noticed the stones he was unearthing were rounded and obviously former river rocks. With this clue, I could now see that long ago a river had flowed here, but its course had somehow been disrupted. Now moss grew thickly over rocks that used to form a creek or river channel. Peeling back the moss, I could see the small trickle flowing between the rocks and on towards the bigger rivulet. With some difficulty I rolled a large rock aside, revealing the gravel and sand beneath. Digging into it with my shovel, I could feel it was much deeper (about six inches) than I’d expected. As I transferred the dirt from shovel to gold pan, I could readily see gold dust gleaming among the pebbles. After washing the worst of the detritus out, a thick coating of gold dust remained on the black sand. It continued to rain, but I was too intent on panning and pouring the rich pay dirt into the plastic sample bags to pay much heed. Carefully listening for the sound of the little underground rivulet, I followed it about a hundred feet beyond our starting place and dug there. Greedily, I was hoping to find richer deposits, but no such luck. Slowly working my way downstream, I discovered the gold dust seemed limited to a twenty-foot stretch, just where we’d started. While there’d been traces further upstream, they were nowhere as rich as the deposits I’d already found. So I concentrated my efforts on the area I knew was productive. By the time I’d loaded four twenty-pound sample bags into each of Pooch’s saddlebags (with four for myself), it was pouring.

Trying to ignore the rain, I cleaned up the area by laying the moss back over the holes I’d dug and levelling mounds of dirt. I planned to revisit the spot and saw no reason to advertise it as a work-site; maybe finding this gold was leading to a bit of paranoia. But in my own defence, this location isn’t far from the main trail, so a client might stumble onto it.

After finishing my landscaping, I looked at Pooch. He was lying under a sodden bush looking miserable: looking like, well….. a wet dog. Although he’s a water dog, he hates the rain. Unless someone takes him out, he’s happy snoozing in the lodge until better weather comes along. Right now the rain was lashing down heavily as we made our way to the main trail. Pooch tried shaking the rain from his fur, but couldn’t do it properly, since the heavy saddlebags were too restrictive. He usually has such a helpful and happy outlook, but now it was obvious he’d rather be elsewhere, like in the nice dry lodge. Me too. When we got to the rickshaw, I took off my pack and fastened it to its deck, doing the same with Pooch’s saddlebags. When the dog’s wet, he usually tries sidling up to me to shake off the water, thus generously sharing it all with me. It’s a game we play; I consider it an amusement, but he probably views it as a challenge and a chance to be a bad dog while still acting all innocent. He’ll go for a dip as Pauline and I sit drowsily on the wharf-bench just before bedtime. Quietly exiting the lake, he’ll approach and stand broadside to us, wearing a thoughtful, preoccupied expression. Lowering his head and turning it slightly to the left were the first moves in his shake cycle, and my cue to act quickly. I’ll hurriedly stand and take a pace towards his front end, while he continues the familiar corkscrewing motion of shaking, with his coat seemingly separate from his body. While I’d only be hit by a few drops, poor Pauline would get a thorough and shocking drenching. I’d warned her many times to be on the alert when Pooch leaves the lake, but sometimes she misses the signs. I suppose I could be gallant and jump in front of her to protect her from the spray, but she’s been warned. Anyway, when Pooch has a good shake, it’s every man for himself.

Now, in the pouring rain, the dog was clearly dispirited, only giving a perfunctory shake of his head as he tried ridding himself of the little creek forming on his muzzle and pouring off his nose. Taking the heavy saddlebags off him had been a perfect opportunity for him to give me a broadside of spray, but he just briefly shivered with relief, then wagged his tail forlornly. As I cinched everything down on the rickshaw’s deck, I certainly wasn’t enjoying the downpour either, I was soaked. Nonetheless, I knew I’d done well today and was looking forward to finding out how much gold was actually in the paydirt. As I pulled the rickshaw down the trail towards the lodge, Pooch got further and further ahead of me in his haste to return home. I saw him splash through the Narrows, then increase speed on the other side, not even looking back as he disappeared around a bend in the trail.

When I finally got back to the lodge, I took the sample bags filled with paydirt from my pack and saddlebags, then lined them on the floor of the shed out back. I hung my rain jacket on a peg, then swabbed the now-empty saddlebags with a towel, hanging them and my pack on the wall too. Pausing a moment to listen to the rain pelting on the shed’s roof, I felt grateful not to be out in it any longer. By this time I was feeling clammy and cold and I could smell wood smoke, so I headed into the lodge in search of dry clothing and warmth.

I could hear Pauline’s voice as I went through the back door. She was fondly admonishing Pooch for having been out in the rain for so long, while vigorously buffing his back with the large pink doggy-towel she always keeps handy. Banjo and Grace were absent and probably taking shelter at Moon’s. Pooch wagged his tail upon seeing me, but didn’t shift