Fish-Head Aric
Greenie
- #1
Thread Owner
Port Orford Meteorite - The John Evans documents - a "novel" idea
Greetings, All!
I am resurrecting an old subject with a new thread, because after reviewing the age of the original thread's last post, I thought it might be more fun to "start fresh."
I am a longtime armchair enthusiast of the "lost Port Orford meteorite" legend. My family (father and uncle most notably) has been actively involved in searches for this mysterious rock of untold fortune, and I have been working on a set of novels that incorporate the legend into them.
Firstly, the purported meteorite was alleged to have been discovered in the southwestern Oregon coastal region, in the general vicinity of the town of Port Orford, by a surveyor/geologist named John Evans in the 1850s. Evans collected samples and claimed to send these back east, with the hopes of returning on a future expedition to retrieve the find. There is some controversy as to what became of the sample - that it was lost, confused with the sample of another find from Chile, etc.
Someone in the previous thread had stated that the Smithsonian denounced the find as a hoax, and it was also stated that the Evans papers were not available for reproduction - either parts were missing, lost, or simply unavailable - in a state of restricted status.
Glory be to the Rocks from Heaven! I am to tentatively have the Evans journals and related materials copied and sent to me! Pending the Smithsonian's policies, I will be tickled to death to share my information with anyone so long as I don't get my fingers bit by legal restrictions!
And thus, I open this great old topic for discussion with or without the acquisition of these archived documents... and, share the first chapter of the "Book 1 - Unnamed (The Uncle Klaus Story)." This set of books is in the works, and "Book 1" most directly approaches the subject.
Note, the novels I am writing are purely fictitious, involving a mix of historical and fictional information intended solely for entertainment. In no way are they to be taken as fact in any way, except for the purpose of intentional self-delusion and pipe-dreamery
...
And now, sharing Chapter 1 now for the fun of stimulating the imagination further.... Skip it unless you want to read it...
_________________________________________________
The small fishing boat bobbed in the waves below a large pier as two men wrestled with a large crate teaming with a writhing mass of crabs (Dungeness) scrabbling chaotically, fretfully, seemingly aware of their impending doom. A cable descended slowly from a hoist mounted on the pier’s deck above, delivering a large hook to the fishermen as they positioned the crate for pick-up.
“It’s been a good season,” came the words from the hoist operator - a young man in his mid-twenties, bearded and dressed in gray sweater and jeans with a black stocking cap on his head. He puffed from a simple pipe as he waited for the men in the boat to secure their catch.
Another man, middle-aged (mid-to-late forties?) stood nearby peering over the rail-less edge of the dock to the boat bobbing twenty-some feet below as the boat‘s crew secured the cable to the crate and waved up to the hoist man, who flipped a switch, setting a small diesel motor to rumbling and reeling, drawing the container and its scurrying payload slowly up.
“We got three more, Phil!” one of the men hollered, waving his hand to the hoist operator and holding up three fingers to reinforce his statement.
“Good, good! We’ll see ’em off properly!” Phil waved back, grinning slightly as he bit onto his pipe and reached to guide the now-in-reach load over to a waiting pallet. As he unhooked the cable and returned it to the boat below, he glanced over to the onlooker. “Up from California visiting?” the young man asked cordially.
Returning the younger man’s gaze with a mildly amused expression, John Ingram nodded with a brief grin. He knew how many Oregonians felt about their neighbors to the south. Some went so far as to stand at the border with signs reading, “Welcome to Oregon… Now GO HOME!!!” While John was never quite sure what the animosity was about, he was not anxious to “stir up the enemy in his own land.”
“Ah, don’t worry, I won’t blow your cover,” Phil winked as he tended to his work. “So, what brings you to little nowhere-land Port Orford?”
It was April of 1974, and since Port Orford’s nearby saw mill had burned to the ground a few years back, the people depended heavily upon fishing and logging for their economy. The town was small and far from any major cities, located along the southern Oregon coast. With a population of of a fairly steady thousand or so, most of the locals descended from miners and settlers during the Oregon Trail migrations and fallout from the California Gold Rush. Few moved in, and few moved away. As with most such towns, most of the people knew each other for better or worse, and were not quick to welcome newcomers or strangers.
Deciding that Phil was harmless enough, John replied, “I’m just up hunting rocks. It’s a hobby, and I heard that this area had some interesting specimens in the hills.”
Phil nodded and grinned, “Well, I wish ya luck. Just be careful, the hills can be a bit crazy to explore.”
“Thanks,” John smiled, “I’ll take care. I’ve a few maps and gear. Never go unprepared.” He fished a Boy Scout compass out of his pocket and held it up, offering a further grin.
Phil’s eye gleamed a little at the sight of the object, and he smiled, a little more ernest in his expression. “Good. You want any help, just ask.” With that, the younger man returned to focus on his duties of tending to the fishermen’s catch.
John watched the work in silence for awhile, and then returned to his station wagon parked down the way, musing to himself as he realized his black and yellow California plates were a dead giveaway.
The survey map lay spread across the table, colored pencil marks and notes standing out in numerous places. John Ingram had let out a room at the Ocean View Motel, perched on a hill overlooking State Highway 101 and the sands and rocky outcrops of the southern Oregon Pacific coastline.
When not working as a longshoreman on the Los Angeles docks and doing his duties as husband and father, John spent his time off from work exploring the Sierra Nevada mountain range in search of any number of different minerals - rocks, crystals, fossils, etc. Many times that included bringing his family - camping always provided a good cover for his ulterior motive and passion. Now, though, his kids were grown and pursuing their own interests, and his wife didn’t feel up to “another fun-filled, rain-filled adventure in no-man’s-land.“ Thus, he took his scheduled vacation time alone to go off and search for another unique and far more interesting “rock.”
It was late in the evening when a knock-knock-knock came from the door. Looking up, John puzzled over who it could possibly be. As if on cue, a familiar voice came from behind the door. “It’s me, Phil, the guy from the dock.”
John blinked and smirked, and, after a brief pause, opened the door to see the hoist man from the port standing there, carrying the scent of fresh crab and diesel exhaust.
“What can I do for you?” John asked.
“Sir, can I come in for a minute?” Phil replied, and John nodded, stepping back and gesturing for the visitor to enter.
Phil stepped through and glanced about the room, seeing the map and papers on the distant table. As the door closed behind him, he turned and got straight to the point of his visit. “You’re looking for the meteorite, aren’t you?”
John grinned despite himself, again caught off guard by this man’s perception. Indeed, that was the sole reason for his visit to Oregon - the legendary “Lost Port Orford Meteorite.” “Meteorite?” he replied, trying to put on a quizzical expression
“Oh, come on, Mister, I’m not quite stupid. You came up from California to hunt for the old meteorite that’s rumored to be in the hills.” Phil winked and pointed at John’s paperwork. “You know it’s not easy to get around in the hills, and I’ve got a few days off. How about I show you how to get where you need to go? I’m needing a bit of extra cash, and you’d do better to pay a few bucks to save yourself time and not waste time getting lost in the woods.”
Phil definitely gets straight to business, John thought, saying as much to his impromptu guest. “Ah, so you want to be my mountain guide as I hunt for rocks. How much does a Port Orford Expert Mountain Guide rate for his services?”
Beaming, Phil took the liberty of pulling his pipe from his pocket and setting it to his lips. “Well, I’m not greedy, and surely fifteen bucks a day won’t be a bad investment to see you get where ya need to go. I‘ve been all over the hills hiking and hunting - both for deer and mysterious, lost rocks from space.”
Philip “Phil” Fischer seemed well-versed in the subject at hand. After the two had properly introduced themselves and Phil accepted John’s counter-offer of ten dollars per day, Phil proceeded to convey his “vast wealth of knowledge” on the Port Orford Meteorite, much of which John already knew.
In the mid-1800s a geologist surveying the region had discovered a remarkable find; an extremely large rock and surrounding debris in the area of a “bald mountain.” The geologist, John Evans, determined the “rock” to be a meteorite of unusual composition, a valuable mineral called pallasite.
To his knowledge, were it true, the meteorite was by far the largest known specimen by far - weighing possible two to three tons. He further estimated the meteorite to be worth around $1,000,000, and set to return with an expedition to retrieve the find.
Evans arranged to have a mineral sample shipped back to the Smithsonian Institution with his notes on the find, careful to withhold the exact location of the “treasure from the skies,” in the hopes of insuring that he would have a significant share in his intended recovery expedition to come.
Sadly, the second expedition never came: the following year John Evans succumbed to illness and died due to complications from pneumonia, taking his secrets of the exact location of the meteorite with him.
“Lotsa guys been hunting that rock over the years. Some come without a clue of what they’re after or doing. Others come with some plan or another, and a few seem to’ve done their homework pretty good, as you’ve got going here,” Phil waved to John’s tabletop. “Me, I’ve hunted for the thing, too, on my spare time. Mostly before I ended up a family guy, but I still like to think on the thing, and I plan my hunting time hoping to find the rock. But, since I‘ve three kids to tend to, my free time‘s gone; work‘s not what it used to be since the mill burned and around here a guy takes whatever he can get.”
Phil continued to eye John’s map and related materials. “You seem prone to unusual timing, and a head for what I‘m working to, Mr. Fischer,” John said.
“Yeah, it’s been a hobby of sorts, Mister Ingram,” Phil smiled in return. “But you seem to have done your own homework real well. I’m thinking it best you call the shots and I just tell you what I know in that way, and go from that. How ‘bout you? Ya sorta chose a bad season though. We got alotta rain right now and it makes for pretty cruddy outdoor time.”
“I know, but then, I’m from California. Not used to thinking about rain,” John retorted with a snort and smirk, considering his station wagon and his rain gear - several heavy all-weather coats, boots, and related gear intended for just the weather in question.
The two spent the rest of the evening discussing the next three days in the southern Oregon Coastal Range questing for the elusive, legendary Port Orford Meteorite.
Greetings, All!
I am resurrecting an old subject with a new thread, because after reviewing the age of the original thread's last post, I thought it might be more fun to "start fresh."
I am a longtime armchair enthusiast of the "lost Port Orford meteorite" legend. My family (father and uncle most notably) has been actively involved in searches for this mysterious rock of untold fortune, and I have been working on a set of novels that incorporate the legend into them.
Firstly, the purported meteorite was alleged to have been discovered in the southwestern Oregon coastal region, in the general vicinity of the town of Port Orford, by a surveyor/geologist named John Evans in the 1850s. Evans collected samples and claimed to send these back east, with the hopes of returning on a future expedition to retrieve the find. There is some controversy as to what became of the sample - that it was lost, confused with the sample of another find from Chile, etc.
Someone in the previous thread had stated that the Smithsonian denounced the find as a hoax, and it was also stated that the Evans papers were not available for reproduction - either parts were missing, lost, or simply unavailable - in a state of restricted status.
Glory be to the Rocks from Heaven! I am to tentatively have the Evans journals and related materials copied and sent to me! Pending the Smithsonian's policies, I will be tickled to death to share my information with anyone so long as I don't get my fingers bit by legal restrictions!
And thus, I open this great old topic for discussion with or without the acquisition of these archived documents... and, share the first chapter of the "Book 1 - Unnamed (The Uncle Klaus Story)." This set of books is in the works, and "Book 1" most directly approaches the subject.
Note, the novels I am writing are purely fictitious, involving a mix of historical and fictional information intended solely for entertainment. In no way are they to be taken as fact in any way, except for the purpose of intentional self-delusion and pipe-dreamery
...And now, sharing Chapter 1 now for the fun of stimulating the imagination further.... Skip it unless you want to read it...
_________________________________________________
CHAPTER ONE
Rock Hunters Unite
Rock Hunters Unite
The small fishing boat bobbed in the waves below a large pier as two men wrestled with a large crate teaming with a writhing mass of crabs (Dungeness) scrabbling chaotically, fretfully, seemingly aware of their impending doom. A cable descended slowly from a hoist mounted on the pier’s deck above, delivering a large hook to the fishermen as they positioned the crate for pick-up.
“It’s been a good season,” came the words from the hoist operator - a young man in his mid-twenties, bearded and dressed in gray sweater and jeans with a black stocking cap on his head. He puffed from a simple pipe as he waited for the men in the boat to secure their catch.
Another man, middle-aged (mid-to-late forties?) stood nearby peering over the rail-less edge of the dock to the boat bobbing twenty-some feet below as the boat‘s crew secured the cable to the crate and waved up to the hoist man, who flipped a switch, setting a small diesel motor to rumbling and reeling, drawing the container and its scurrying payload slowly up.
“We got three more, Phil!” one of the men hollered, waving his hand to the hoist operator and holding up three fingers to reinforce his statement.
“Good, good! We’ll see ’em off properly!” Phil waved back, grinning slightly as he bit onto his pipe and reached to guide the now-in-reach load over to a waiting pallet. As he unhooked the cable and returned it to the boat below, he glanced over to the onlooker. “Up from California visiting?” the young man asked cordially.
Returning the younger man’s gaze with a mildly amused expression, John Ingram nodded with a brief grin. He knew how many Oregonians felt about their neighbors to the south. Some went so far as to stand at the border with signs reading, “Welcome to Oregon… Now GO HOME!!!” While John was never quite sure what the animosity was about, he was not anxious to “stir up the enemy in his own land.”
“Ah, don’t worry, I won’t blow your cover,” Phil winked as he tended to his work. “So, what brings you to little nowhere-land Port Orford?”
It was April of 1974, and since Port Orford’s nearby saw mill had burned to the ground a few years back, the people depended heavily upon fishing and logging for their economy. The town was small and far from any major cities, located along the southern Oregon coast. With a population of of a fairly steady thousand or so, most of the locals descended from miners and settlers during the Oregon Trail migrations and fallout from the California Gold Rush. Few moved in, and few moved away. As with most such towns, most of the people knew each other for better or worse, and were not quick to welcome newcomers or strangers.
Deciding that Phil was harmless enough, John replied, “I’m just up hunting rocks. It’s a hobby, and I heard that this area had some interesting specimens in the hills.”
Phil nodded and grinned, “Well, I wish ya luck. Just be careful, the hills can be a bit crazy to explore.”
“Thanks,” John smiled, “I’ll take care. I’ve a few maps and gear. Never go unprepared.” He fished a Boy Scout compass out of his pocket and held it up, offering a further grin.
Phil’s eye gleamed a little at the sight of the object, and he smiled, a little more ernest in his expression. “Good. You want any help, just ask.” With that, the younger man returned to focus on his duties of tending to the fishermen’s catch.
John watched the work in silence for awhile, and then returned to his station wagon parked down the way, musing to himself as he realized his black and yellow California plates were a dead giveaway.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The survey map lay spread across the table, colored pencil marks and notes standing out in numerous places. John Ingram had let out a room at the Ocean View Motel, perched on a hill overlooking State Highway 101 and the sands and rocky outcrops of the southern Oregon Pacific coastline.
When not working as a longshoreman on the Los Angeles docks and doing his duties as husband and father, John spent his time off from work exploring the Sierra Nevada mountain range in search of any number of different minerals - rocks, crystals, fossils, etc. Many times that included bringing his family - camping always provided a good cover for his ulterior motive and passion. Now, though, his kids were grown and pursuing their own interests, and his wife didn’t feel up to “another fun-filled, rain-filled adventure in no-man’s-land.“ Thus, he took his scheduled vacation time alone to go off and search for another unique and far more interesting “rock.”
It was late in the evening when a knock-knock-knock came from the door. Looking up, John puzzled over who it could possibly be. As if on cue, a familiar voice came from behind the door. “It’s me, Phil, the guy from the dock.”
John blinked and smirked, and, after a brief pause, opened the door to see the hoist man from the port standing there, carrying the scent of fresh crab and diesel exhaust.
“What can I do for you?” John asked.
“Sir, can I come in for a minute?” Phil replied, and John nodded, stepping back and gesturing for the visitor to enter.
Phil stepped through and glanced about the room, seeing the map and papers on the distant table. As the door closed behind him, he turned and got straight to the point of his visit. “You’re looking for the meteorite, aren’t you?”
John grinned despite himself, again caught off guard by this man’s perception. Indeed, that was the sole reason for his visit to Oregon - the legendary “Lost Port Orford Meteorite.” “Meteorite?” he replied, trying to put on a quizzical expression
“Oh, come on, Mister, I’m not quite stupid. You came up from California to hunt for the old meteorite that’s rumored to be in the hills.” Phil winked and pointed at John’s paperwork. “You know it’s not easy to get around in the hills, and I’ve got a few days off. How about I show you how to get where you need to go? I’m needing a bit of extra cash, and you’d do better to pay a few bucks to save yourself time and not waste time getting lost in the woods.”
Phil definitely gets straight to business, John thought, saying as much to his impromptu guest. “Ah, so you want to be my mountain guide as I hunt for rocks. How much does a Port Orford Expert Mountain Guide rate for his services?”
Beaming, Phil took the liberty of pulling his pipe from his pocket and setting it to his lips. “Well, I’m not greedy, and surely fifteen bucks a day won’t be a bad investment to see you get where ya need to go. I‘ve been all over the hills hiking and hunting - both for deer and mysterious, lost rocks from space.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Philip “Phil” Fischer seemed well-versed in the subject at hand. After the two had properly introduced themselves and Phil accepted John’s counter-offer of ten dollars per day, Phil proceeded to convey his “vast wealth of knowledge” on the Port Orford Meteorite, much of which John already knew.
In the mid-1800s a geologist surveying the region had discovered a remarkable find; an extremely large rock and surrounding debris in the area of a “bald mountain.” The geologist, John Evans, determined the “rock” to be a meteorite of unusual composition, a valuable mineral called pallasite.
To his knowledge, were it true, the meteorite was by far the largest known specimen by far - weighing possible two to three tons. He further estimated the meteorite to be worth around $1,000,000, and set to return with an expedition to retrieve the find.
Evans arranged to have a mineral sample shipped back to the Smithsonian Institution with his notes on the find, careful to withhold the exact location of the “treasure from the skies,” in the hopes of insuring that he would have a significant share in his intended recovery expedition to come.
Sadly, the second expedition never came: the following year John Evans succumbed to illness and died due to complications from pneumonia, taking his secrets of the exact location of the meteorite with him.
“Lotsa guys been hunting that rock over the years. Some come without a clue of what they’re after or doing. Others come with some plan or another, and a few seem to’ve done their homework pretty good, as you’ve got going here,” Phil waved to John’s tabletop. “Me, I’ve hunted for the thing, too, on my spare time. Mostly before I ended up a family guy, but I still like to think on the thing, and I plan my hunting time hoping to find the rock. But, since I‘ve three kids to tend to, my free time‘s gone; work‘s not what it used to be since the mill burned and around here a guy takes whatever he can get.”
Phil continued to eye John’s map and related materials. “You seem prone to unusual timing, and a head for what I‘m working to, Mr. Fischer,” John said.
“Yeah, it’s been a hobby of sorts, Mister Ingram,” Phil smiled in return. “But you seem to have done your own homework real well. I’m thinking it best you call the shots and I just tell you what I know in that way, and go from that. How ‘bout you? Ya sorta chose a bad season though. We got alotta rain right now and it makes for pretty cruddy outdoor time.”
“I know, but then, I’m from California. Not used to thinking about rain,” John retorted with a snort and smirk, considering his station wagon and his rain gear - several heavy all-weather coats, boots, and related gear intended for just the weather in question.
The two spent the rest of the evening discussing the next three days in the southern Oregon Coastal Range questing for the elusive, legendary Port Orford Meteorite.
