Desert Magazine Book Shop - Desert Magazine of the Southwest
Desert Magazine Book Shop - Desert Magazine of the Southwest
Desert Magazine Book Shop - Desert Magazine of the Southwest
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BOULEVARD<br />
by Ken Marquiss<br />
During his 50-odd years Ken Marquiss<br />
has packed into his life most <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong><br />
adventures we dream about—and he is still<br />
going strong! He will soon leave for a<br />
gold project in Ecuador. He spent his<br />
childhood in India where his fa<strong>the</strong>r was a<br />
missionary; led hunting parties in Africa;<br />
searched for hidden fortunes in South America,<br />
and prospected throughout <strong>the</strong> western<br />
United States—and he still found time<br />
to obtain a degree from <strong>the</strong> University <strong>of</strong><br />
Redlands and raise a family.<br />
A former contributor to DESERT <strong>Magazine</strong>,<br />
he has once again resumed writing<br />
about his adventures.<br />
A<br />
VIRULENT infection <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> lost<br />
mine fever is particularly hard on<br />
anyone <strong>of</strong> a scientific or analytical bend,<br />
because <strong>the</strong>re is no logic, rhyme or reason<br />
to <strong>the</strong> course <strong>of</strong> events in <strong>the</strong> mining<br />
game.<br />
Any prospector who woos Lady Luck<br />
(or tries "hanky panky with Miss Fortune"<br />
as my practical minded wife flippantly<br />
refers to it) had better be prepared<br />
for anything; for Fate seems in<br />
her most capricious mood when dealing<br />
<strong>the</strong> cards that cover <strong>the</strong> gold bets.<br />
The richest, most luscious gold ore I<br />
ever saw in my whole life was found<br />
"within spitting distance" — and just<br />
above <strong>the</strong> present smog line — <strong>of</strong> what<br />
is now one <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> major traffic arteries<br />
out <strong>of</strong> California's San Bernardino<br />
valley.<br />
It was a big, heavy hunk <strong>of</strong> rock—<br />
so it didn't drop out <strong>of</strong> some prospector's<br />
pocket—and it was found in thick<br />
manzanita near a mountain top by an<br />
old Kansas wheat farmer out hunting<br />
deer. I got cut into <strong>the</strong> deal because <strong>of</strong><br />
fig jam. If that isn't whimsical, fatalistic<br />
hanky panky, I don't know what is.<br />
The sequence <strong>of</strong> events started about<br />
<strong>the</strong> time <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> birth <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> "alphabet"<br />
syndrome <strong>of</strong> bureaucracy — C. C. C,<br />
N. R. A., T. V. A, W. P. A. ad nauseum.<br />
A couple <strong>of</strong> years prior to that we had<br />
moved to Redlands, California, and Dad<br />
had bought a big old white square house<br />
with plenty <strong>of</strong> shade and conveniently<br />
located to schools and stores. It also had<br />
ano<strong>the</strong>r prerequisite demanded by my<br />
mo<strong>the</strong>r—" a nice chicken yard"—for<br />
which we were mighty grateful when <strong>the</strong><br />
misery fog <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> depression later settled<br />
over us.<br />
In this chicken yard grew a great big<br />
Mission fig tree. In season it bore literally<br />
buckets <strong>of</strong> big, black-skinned, sweet,<br />
luscious fruit. Out <strong>of</strong> this fruit my little<br />
Irish mo<strong>the</strong>r—who didn't take her apron<br />
<strong>of</strong>f to anyone when it came to cooking—<br />
used to concoct great quantities <strong>of</strong> an ambrosia<br />
she called "figgy jam." This nee-