History of the big bonanza

by Dan De Quille

“Then there is Mr. B., a friend of mine and a worthy fellow; we might put him down.”

“All right, Mr. Davidson,” cried Joe, who cared not how long the string of names might be, provided each name were represented in his pocket by a half-dollar, “down he goes!”

All the notices were finally made out, and all the half-dollars paid in. Joe was to attend to the recording the first thing in the morning, but that night he struck a “little game of draw,” and to this day those claims have not been recorded—at least not by Joseph.

As the leads upon the side of Mount Davidson have turned out, it was no doubt a fortunate thing for the old Scotchman’s “worthy friends” that Joe found his “little game.” The height of Mount Davidson above the level of the sea is 7,775 feet, and the altitude of C street, the principal business street in Virginia City, is 6,205 feet. Thus, it will be seen, the peak of the mountain towers to the height of 1,570 feet above the town. As the city stands on the eastern face of the mountain, the sunsets in Virginia are rather early. In winter the sun sinks behind the top of Mount Davidson about 3 o’clock in the afternoon, when the city lies in shadow and it at once begins to grow cold. The altitude of the place is so great that, at any season, when clouds obscure the sun and shut out his rays it rapidly becomes cold. During the summer, however, clouds are seldom seen—weeks and weeks pass without a cloudy day. In order to have the benefit of the sun in winter, until a late hour each day, a Washoe genius once proposed to run a large tunnel through the peak of Mount Davidson. Through this tunnel he proposed to bring the light and heat of the sun after it had gone down behind the mountain. As he could not expect the sun to shine directly through the tunnel at all points in his course down to the western horizon, our inventor proposed to set at the western terminus of his tunnel a huge mirror, moved by clock-work, which should pour the rays of the sun in a constant stream through the tunnel. At the eastern terminus was to be placed a large receiving mirror, which should catch the rays coming through the tunnel and throw them to a distributing mirror down in the town, and from this the sunlight would be reflected throughout the town by smaller mirrors placed at proper points on all the streets. Although this grand scheme was much admired, capital—which is proverbially timid—could never be found to begin the work.

There is a grand view from the summit of Mount Davidson. On a clear day the eye reaches hundreds of miles in many directions. The Sierra Nevada Mountains, twenty-five miles away to the west, and extending north and south as far as the eye can reach, form a magnificent panorama of wild mountain scenery, embracing hundreds of tall snowy peaks and dark, pine-clad ridges reaching upwards toward naked granite towers. To the southward along the great range, the peaks are taller and more imposing than those rising along the northern part of its course. To the southward, then, we turn and see at the distance of from forty to seventy-five or eighty miles, scores of massive peaks standing stately and clearly defined against the sky. Seen when robed from head to foot in glittering snow, these peaks present a particularly striking appearance. They may easily be imagined an army of giants marching up from the desert wilds of Arizona in meandering array.

Far away the tail of this procession of the peaks is seen to sweep miles on miles to the eastward, while above the white hoods of the giants forming this lagging curve, is dimly discerned through the haze a hint of heads in the still more distant rear, swinging back to the west and falling, as it were, into the general line of march to the northward. All above, beyond, and about the giant army, looks so settled, calm, and silent that one is awed into all manner of weird[weird] imaginings in regard to its motionless march. These mighty peaks are impressive at any time, but when they come before us in procession robed in their trailing shrouds they set us to thinking ponderous, solemn thoughts that we don’t more than half like. The view to the eastward is unobstructed for over one hundred miles, and by its vastness and its stern ruggedness is made imposing and grand, though but a region of rocky sterile mountains and broad deserts crested over with salt and alkaline exudations from the sandy and bitter soil.

Far as the eye can range, not a tree, not a house, not a sign of life is seen. All is as dead, and as arid and wrinkled in death, as the valleys and the mountains of the moon. On this side—the east—clinging along the face of the mountain, we see below us Virginia City; turning again to the west, Washoe Lake is seen shimmering almost at the base of the peak on which we stand, its waves washing the feet of the hills that flank the Sierras. Where we stand, on the narrow circle of granite forming the apex of the mountain, is planted a tall flag-staff on which, upon each recurrence of the natal day of the nation, the Stars and Stripes are unfurled. The flag is run up during the night, by a man who is annually sent to the top of the mountain on this errand, and those who turn their eyes toward the peak, on the morning of the 4th of July, will always see the flag of their country floating there through the “dawn’s early light.”

On the occasion of the total eclipse of the moon, which occurred on the night of October 24, 1874, it was not only cloudy at Virginia City, but there prevailed a furious and blinding snow-storm. Not a glimpse of the heavens or of the rising moon could be obtained when evening set in. Not to lose a spectacle so grand as a total eclipse of the moon, I determined to make the ascent of Mount Davidson and so reach a point above the clouds. Accompanied by half a dozen friends, I started a few minutes before 8 o’clock in the evening, and, pressing upward through the fast-falling snow, and through the dense cloud-mass, which we entered on the upper slopes of the mountain, at 10 o’clock we reached the topmost peak, and to our delight found that we at last stood above the clouds and the storm.

It was one of the grandest sights ever witnessed by mortals. As far as the eye could reach, on all sides, stretched a level sea of clouds. All the surrounding mountains were shut—all the lower world was hidden; all but the extreme point of the bare granite peak on which we stood, a little island some fifty feet in circumference, with the tall flag-staff standing in its centre. High above, the full moon shone in splendor, and in all quarters of the heavens the stars twinkled brightly. The air was keen and frosty, but we were provided with blanket-overcoats and mufflers.

For some minutes after rising out of the sea of clouds in which we had so long been enveloped, our little party stood at the foot of the flag-staff and gazed on all around in speechless awe. It almost seemed that we had left the world. Our little island appeared to be all that remained of earth. Hundreds of miles on all sides, as it looked to us, stretched a smooth and level sea of pearl. In the distance this appeared to be motionless, but nearer it all moved slowly and majestically from west to east, while, at the same time, a peculiar swaying up and down was seen as it passed along. On and along the crests of these cloud-waves, or rather cloud-swells, were observed to run and faintly flicker such tints as are seen in mother-of-pearl. All this was very beautiful, but with it came a sense of isolation from the world—a feeling of loneliness that was most depressing. However, as the moon began to enter the shadow of the earth there were so many and such wonderful changes in the appearance of all about us, that our loneliness and littleness were forgotten.