EDITORIAL & OPINION — ODDS ‘N’ SODS — The showing (January 11, 1999)

Around 1955, I became associated with three Irish prospectors from Noranda, Que. Being French-Canadian and from Rouyn, this good relationship was quite an education for me.The three were employed by a small, well-managed exploration company. Most of its income was derived from good investments and royalties received from properties that had become producers.The president, one of the company’s founders, was a branch manager of a brokerage house. He was tight with a buck but a shrewd market operator.Scotty, the secretary-treasurer and another founder, ran the office in Noranda. An older chap in his 70s, he had a pleasant personality and was as honest as they come. From the front, the office looked like an abandoned store front. The place was always dusty and poorly lit.Joe, the vice-president and also a founder, ran the exploration with his son, nephew and a few helpers. When Joe and his gang were not in the bush, they could be found in the National Hotel, a real dump where all the prospectors, claim-stakers and diamond drillers hung around.We told each other some pretty tall tales. One story has stuck with me all these years.Joe had optioned a property, with a small downpayment, from two well-known but shifty prospecting brothers. The only outcrop on the claim group was small and in the middle of a swamp. Jutting out from the outcrop were a couple of narrow quartz veins with some visible gold. Joe was a little leery about this showing, even though it was in an area known for its free gold. He told his son and nephew to drill a couple of short holes with the plugger underneath the quartz veins, and blast with a small amount off dynamite.”Just enough to loosen the rock,” he told his helpers.His nephew, who was kind of new at this game, put a whole stick in each hole. His son lit the short fuses and the two ran like hell. Joe, being slower, stayed quite a distance away.After a loud boom, they all walked back to the outcrop.Joe was not happy with what he saw. “What did you put in there?” he shouted.”One stick,” replied the nephew, sheepishly.”One in each hole,” added Joe’s son.”Half a stick would have been enough,” Joe replied. “You done blasted our brand new mine into the swamp.”The men at the National Hotel all busted out laughing at this and passed around a bottle of rye whisky.After looking at the blasted area, the men knew it had been shotgun-salted. Needless to say, the prospecting brothers never called to get their second payment. — The author, a retired prospector, resides in Pierrefonds, Que.