Pulling up stakes

A few decades ago, I was summoned to the manager’s office of the German company for which I was working and told to stake a large property north of Saint John, N.B. “Be very diplomatic on this project, and discreet,” the manager said. “It’s going to be a touchy subject, so be careful. Don’t even mention you’re looking for uranium.”

“No,” I replied. “I’ll say we’re looking for gold; that way, everybody will think we’re crazy.”

“Good. But if you should find gold, don’t forget to let me know right away. You never know. Stranger things have happened.”

I laughed. “You know there’s no gold there.”

The plan was to pick up as much ground as we could, quietly, before anyone else woke up. I towed along an old comrade — Hot Dog, I called him — to accompany me. He was the quintessential diplomat: cool, never said much. But when he did speak, they were the right words at the right time — just my opposite. Later on, a German student named Heinz joined us. I could never pronounce his last name, so I called him Ketchup.

The staking took us to the edge of the big army base at Gagetown. We could hear the roar of the cannons whenever target practice was being held. After reconnoitering the lay of the land, we were happy to find lots of good roads and some inhabited houses and cottages. Most were modest, except for one beautiful large house that had an inground swimming pool, a well-manicured lawn and nice trees. We were destined to meet the owner later.

A few days later, we noticed that our staking posts had disappeared. We re-flagged the area and put in new posts. Since the metal tags issued by the ministry to mark the claims were gone, we scribbled the pertinent information on the post. This happened at several places that week, always in the area of an empty cottage. The same thing happened the following week: new and old posts had vanished, along with the flags.

With all the posts and flags disappearing, I decided to phone up the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Saint John.

“It’s against the law to even move a claim post,” I reminded the officer. “They’re not only moving them around; they’re making them disappear.”

The officer checked the Mining Act and found that I was right. He agreed to meet us the following Saturday to investigate. We set out together in his patrol car and tried to settle the matter by telling residents that we were looking for a mine and that, if we found one, they would all be able to retire for life.

We encountered some resistance, however, from the man who owned the fancy house. There were no posts close to his domain, but he kept removing the flags all the same. We would put them up again; he would take them down.

One day he stood in the middle of the narrow road, forcing us to stop. “What’re you guys doin’ here?” he yelled. “Who’re ya workin’ for?”

“We’re just doing government work,” I replied. It wasn’t a lie: the German government was involved with the company I worked for. I believed it was even the majority owner.

“I don’t believe you,” he shouted. “I’ll check up on that.”

“You do! Now please move aside. We’ve had a long day.”

Two days later, he was there again, blocking the road and holding his hands like a traffic cop. “I checked with our provincial member of parliament, and they never heard of you. I also checked with the federal government and they say the same thing. Now, who are you? What’re them flags for?”

Ketchup was sitting behind me and Hot Dog was in the passenger’s seat. The van was idling, our windows open. The man came around to my side and put his hand on the door handle. I pushed the lock button down with my elbow.

“I’ll tell you sir.” I cleared my throat. “These flags will register the degree of radioactivity when they do the atomic test at the site.”

His eyes grew larger. I eased the clutch and he moved his hand. “What?” he yelled. “Are you insane?”

“These flags will be useful for scientists that . . .”

“This is crazy,” the man interrupted, his face red. “Who’re you workin’ fer, anyway?”

“Like I told you: the government — the German government. You should have checked with them.” On that note, I sped off.

Hot Dog was buckled over with laughter. I kept driving, but I was laughing so hard I nearly went into the ditch. Looking back, I saw the man in the middle of the road, making fists at me.

The following Monday, the boss called me in his office. He looked upset. “What the @#!% did you do out there?” he asked.

“Nothing much,” I replied. “Why? What’s up?”

“You created an international incident! The head office called me Sunday at my home. From Bonn! That’s the capital of @#!% Germany! I heard you had the RCMP with you.”

“We had some problems with the locals,” I replied.

“The foreign departments of Canada and Germany are up in arms. Ottawa’s been calling. Bonn’s been calling. What the hell’s going on?”

After he quieted down, I told him the whole story. He thought it was hilarious and called Bonn to tell them it was all a misunderstanding.

We concluded that the irate guy in the fancy house must’ve had some important connections.

— The author is a retired prospector and broker who resides in Morrisburg, Ont.