ODDS’N’SODS — The serendipity deposit (1)

This is the story of the discovery of what was once — under odd circumstances — considered an important ore deposit. Some might say the spooks were at play; other, more religious folk might surmise that the gods themselves had intervened in relation to the following. All I say is that the discovery was mighty unusual . . . and strange things did transpire.

When I first started working as a geologist for the late R.P. Mills and J.H. Morgan (henceforth referred to as R.P.M. and Harry), they used to contend that fate or serendipity had a lot to do with exploring for deposits. I argued with them that geological thought, good exploration and lots of drill holes were the sole ingredients for major discoveries. How wrong I was. I shall never forget the time R.P.M. first mentioned “serendipity.” The word was unfamiliar to me, so I asked Henry: “Is that some type of a new electromagnetic unit?” He howled with laughter and then patiently explained that the term refers to the accidental, unexpected discovery of something valuable. Events were soon to unfold which fit this description to a T. A short spell later, in the fall of 1962, I was finishing a field season of exploration for base metals and silver in the Loch Lamond district of Cape Breton, which was sponsored by a couple of R.P.M.’s private firms. The job was essentially over and the next morning was to be spent cleaning up the camp and then driving home to Halifax.

All summer long, an outcrop marked as granite rock on an old geological map had perplexed me insofar as it was situated on the flank of a sedimentary basin. The outcrop was just outside our claim group, which is probably why I never bothered checking it out. This outcrop was on my mind when, on my way out of the basin and heading home for the winter, I drove by the stream in which it occurred — so I decided to go have a look.

I was struck by a large, flat outcrop in the bed of the small stream; it was massive, fine-grained barite. I can remember thinking at the time that the geologist who had found this outcrop must have been into the locals’ screech because granite resembles barite about as much as a hummingbird does a bullmoose. I proceeded to Halifax and, soon afterwards, staked ground around the outcrop.

A few weeks later, Harry came to Nova Scotia and we visited the barite outcrop together. He collected a fist-sized sample and took it back to Montreal.

About a year later, he called me up and asked, “How much do you want to bet that your barite discovery is barite?”

I immediately responded, “Every cent I have.”

He laughed and said, “You’d become a poor man; the outcrop is celestite.” He then went on to tell me how he found out:

Harry had decided to clean up his office about the time he was sending samples from Chibougamau to the Quebec department of mines for assaying. He picked up the so-called barite specimen from Loch Lamond to throw it away, and then something told him to have it assayed.

As he was bagging up samples for assay, he decided to have the barite one checked by a so-called “semi-quantative element scan.” The results? Zip in barium and high in strontium. It was then that he knew the specimen to be celestite, or strontium sulphate.

He mentioned he felt guilty about assaying the sample because, at that time, the Quebec department of mines was paying for the work. But then he chuckled and said, “You know Avard, the province of Quebec may have found us something of importance.”

He went on to tell me that the mineral celestite was fast becoming important and when it is converted to strontium carbonate, it is used in making permanent magnets and specialty glass and ceramics. Harry knew all this because he was an expert in industrial minerals.

— This is the first of a 2-part article. The author, a resident of Truro, N.S., is a frequent contributor to this column.