For five years, I believed that River Bend State Park was merely a dog-walking spot next to an old mining site. Sure, it had trails suitable for pets, but I soon discovered it was a vast complex featuring remnants of the old mine, a quaint museum, and the lavish home of the wealthy mining family, the Hartwells, from San Francisco.
We began our adventure at the museum, where exhibits were neatly displayed behind glass. One room showcased photographs and biographies of key figures associated with the mine. Interestingly, most of the stories followed a similar pattern: a person lived in San Francisco, accumulated some wealth, and then came to this area to become even richer.
Reluctantly, I followed my boyfriend to the replica of the mine, constructed from plastic tubing. Each section represented 800 feet of tunnels. A small model of the town offered a sense of scale to the extensive labyrinth of tunnels lying beneath downtown. As we listened to the recorded narration—“This is the entrance,” “This was where the miners descended”—I realized how much I had underestimated the mine’s complexity. I could have lived my whole life thinking it was just a small, unremarkable area below our feet.
In another room, we viewed glass displays filled with “minerals from around the globe” and learned about their many industrial uses. It struck me as sad that the museum felt the need to distract from the gold story with other minerals that shared some vague connection to it.
The park’s grounds were lush and vibrant, reminiscent of New England with its deep green grass and enormous trees (don’t ask me what kind!). A charming fountain sprayed water into the clear blue sky.
We paused by the mansion’s large swimming pool, which was fed by a stream flowing from a stone-carved mountain lion. The water was brown and murky, and I couldn’t help but wish to see it sparkling and inviting, much like something from an Architectural Digest cover. When I asked my boyfriend if he felt the same, he shrugged, leaving me feeling a tad isolated in my appreciation for swimming pools as the ultimate evidence of divine presence.
As we wandered, we came across large, warehouse-like buildings that mimicked the carpentry and blacksmithing shops essential for maintaining the mine (which had operated from the 1850s until the 1950s). I know that without infrastructure, we’d be in a world of trouble, but I often feel pressured to engage with the machinery and tools, which just isn’t my thing.
In the blacksmith shop, a volunteer began explaining the art of metalworking. It felt like an eternity, though it was only fifteen minutes. I kept telling myself to pay attention, to learn something, but I struggled to care. Yes, people used to make everything by hand and used candles to light their homes, but I found it hard to connect with the past.
The man lifted a hefty steel rod and demonstrated how miners would shape the end into a screw. “Imagine,” he said, “one man would hold this on his shoulder, and the others would take turns striking it with a sledgehammer.” I turned to my boyfriend, and we exchanged incredulous looks. “I knew I didn’t really understand how gold was mined…” I started. “Can you imagine doing that your whole life?” He shook his head in disbelief.
Later that evening, while watching TV, I found myself enjoying it more than usual, feeling as though I had earned that leisure time through new knowledge. The moral? There are two: 1. Revelations only amaze us for about an hour. 2. Sometimes, it’s better to be born later.
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Summary:
A visit to River Bend State Park transformed my perspective, revealing the depth of history and the intricacies of gold mining. As I explored the museum and grounds, I reflected on the labor of past miners and gained a newfound appreciation for life, infrastructure, and the joys of leisure.