Golden Gaytime

Yesterday we toured the Mountain Maid gold mine operation near the townsite of Copeland, about fifteen miles or so from Gloucester. The discovery of gold in the area dates back to 1876 when word of mineral riches caused a rush of miners to establish an instant town in a rocky, remote gully. As usual, the placer gold was quickly washed out by panning and sluice boxes along the small creek and the era of corporate mining began shortly thereafter. The mines were worked in the area on and off until the 1930s, and active work did not resume until an owner from Newcastle decided that spending weekends in the bush crushing quartz would be a great getaway for him and a few mates. It was the remainder of their operation that we saw yesterday and, like Mitch McConnell at a press conference, it was a moment frozen in time.

We had made reservations for an official tour earlier in the week and as a result we were met at the parking area by our guide, Matt, and his two volunteer assistants, Anna and Danny. They led us through what I can only describe as a jungle but what they called a "dry rain forest" because there

were no palm trees. There were plenty of other trees, though, including one which had very broad leaves about the size of a Frisbee that we were warned to avoid. Apparently these leaves are covered with very tiny spines that actually sting any unfortunate who might brush up against them. We all had on jackets and long pants, so we were protected somewhat, but I could not help but to imagine how hostile that environment must have been for ancient Aboriginies who did not have the benefit of our protective clothing.

The tour was a combination history lesson and botany lecture, and both were quite enjoyable. The cabin where the latter-day miners stayed during their weekend labors was dark and primitive, not exactly the sort of weekend recreational site most would choose. The rock crushing trip hammers were very impressive, and Danny fired up one so we could see it in operation. A simple device, the ore crusher looked like it could handle rocks up to about the size of a softball. The forest was very dark, partly because the trees were so thick, but also because the creek gully was so deep and the walls on either side so steep that it was hard to imagine sunlight every reaching the bottom. After we were on our way we had a picnic lunch at an overlook of the Barrington Tops, a mountain range that looked a lot like the Ouachita Mountains of Western Arkansas. Higher than the Ozarks, the Ouachitas feature the same rolling forested slopes but with more rocky outcrops. The view was splendid, the lunch was delicious, and the temperatures quite chilly at 3,300 feet above sea level so we did not linger.

A short drive brought us back Gloucester where we stopped at the grocery store and I purchased some delicious ice cream bars that share the title of this essay. Today I believe we will do little more than assist Ronald in building a back stop for his dart board and watch his daily feeding of the wild birds in the area. There are some truly beautiful birds here and I hope we can get some good photographs this afternoon.