by Jason Quinten Kincade
on 01/20/2020
It was the winter of 1979. I had been bouncing from state to state, job to job, and saloon to saloon since the end of my marriage–two and a half years prior. Bored and restless, craving purpose, freedom, and adventure, I quit my job as a welder at a Seattle shipyard just shy of New Year’s Day.
Thus, I became committed to the fulfillment of my lifelong dream—becoming a full-time gold prospector. I would pit my will and scanty resources against the magnificent, unforgiving, Sierra Nevada Mountains of California. I would arrive in the dead of winter, an utter greenhorn, gambling on being dealt a winning hand—whilst just a-knockin’ on poverty’s door.
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by Jason Quinten Kincade
on 12/13/2019
This is a story about a professional, hardcore gold sniper, whom, for reasons of anonymity, I will call Alabama Jack (AJ). The tale, 100% true, chronicles one of his frequent forays into the untamed backcountry of one of California’s gold districts in quest of a sufficient quantity of gold to bankroll his expenses in the bush and those back in town.
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by Jason Quinten Kincade
on 11/26/2019
Author sniping for gold in the Sierra Nevadas circa 1985
Preface
California’s streams are the focus, however, the principles of sniping apply universally
It was the late 70s. I was a stranger in a big city, recently divorced, chained to a dull, monotonous job, and trapped in a lackluster, rewardless life. As fast as I collected my weekly pay, I squandered it in saloons, taverns, and strip clubs. I was spinning my wheels, going nowhere–and sick of it. A radical change was called for. The time and circumstances were ripe to give my childhood dream of becoming a full-time gold prospector a fair shot at fruition. It was now or never. [continue reading…]
by Jason Quinten Kincade
on 11/12/2019
It was the early 1980s. I was prospecting and sniping for gold throughout California’s Mother Lode country, rolling out my sleeping bag wherever it suited me best, and scraping out a living from isolated rivers and creeks that favored me–mostly at the bottom of deep, narrow canyons.
One day while scouting, I stumbled upon a scanty camp in the backwoods of Plumas National Forest, located in Plumas County, California. The camp’s sole inhabitant was a reticent, aging hippie with a puzzling persona. He gave his name only as Clair—based out of Portola, California, he said.
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