This preface is being written on the side of a mountain three
thousand feet above the sweltering floor of the Mojave desert.
Two years ago, sitting in this very same spot, I first thought of
doing this book.
My wife Patsy and myself, with friends Maggie Miller and Jim
Ball, carved a mine face out of a quartz vein on this forty-five
degree slope. We come here from time to time to dig and blast and
muck out for gold and silver, but mostly we come to get away.
As I sit looking down at the parched scrub-covered desert dot-
ted with manzanita bushes thousands of feet below, I see no living
thing. The air is clear, so clear that the blue sky sparkles in the
sunlight overhead; the soft Santa Ana wind sighs its way through
the rock-lined canyons, dried up stream beds from another age.
The silence almost becomes a sound in itself, echoing from the
range south of our mine.
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