Having lived a few years and reflecting back on my roots many times, I have come to the conclusion that treasure hunting is probably in my genes. Searching through my genealogy there are prospectors, rock hounds, collectors, and explorers right up to yours truly, a combination of them all. I didn't know this as a child, I just always remember being fascinated with finding things on or in the ground.

My stepfather married my mother when I was three-years-old and adopted me as his own child. His side of the family was also afflicted with this treasure hunting bug. He was into the prospecting side of it. Soon after, we were packing our bags into the old Studabaker pickup and leaving the state of California for Utah. My stepfather's dad left him a mining claim when he died. He thought there might be some gold worth mining, so we headed out to the sticks to homestead his claim.

Our first two weeks were spent in a "lean-to" built from old rusty tin panels. Dad built our cabin from telephone pole logs the power company had pulled up to make room for a new pole line. Once the cabin was built we moved in, eager to get away from the snakes and scorpions.

We had no running water or electricity and my mother washed our clothes on a washboard and cooked our meals on a wood stove. The summers were unbearably hot back then and it took a lot out of my mother, but she endured it like a soldier.

I took my baths in a ten-gallon tub from water hauled in from the nearest town in milk cans. In the winter we often melted snow on the wood stove for our water supply.

My mother used to set the tub on the kitchen table for me to bathe in. One time I leaned back to relax a little and the whole tub with me in it fell backwards off the table! That was one time my mother was furious at me, though, she couldn't help but laugh!

Being out in the "sticks" gave me time to use my own imagination to create entertainment for myself. My mother taught me to read before I was five years old to satisfy my insatiable curiosity. It was not long afterwards that I latched onto a book entitled "Treasure Island" and was soon busy acting out the story as young children often do.

My stepfather picked up on this and told me there were little treasures all around me if I knew what to look for. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an Indian arrowhead he found to show me. Soon I was busy looking everywhere and driving him nuts with all the little things I found to show him! (I will call my stepfather "Dad" from here on out as he was the one who raised me.)

Dad worked constantly down in his gold mine and would often take me down with him. I would throw rocks into the mining bucket and it would make me feel like a big man. Being the consummate prospector that he was, he would often head off into the "boonies" and look for new discoveries. Frequently, he would take me with him and show me a sample of a particular mineral he was looking for and send me out to find one like it.

I think at first he was just trying to keep me out of his hair but soon it dawned on him that I was finding what he sent me to look for! He dubbed me "the nose" and introduced me to people as such for a few years. I didn't like it much and I guess he figured it out and stopped calling me by that nickname.

When I stayed home with my mother I would play games I had made up in my head. One day I decided to go on a treasure hunt. Just over the hill from our cabin was an old abandoned mine shaft that dad showed me once. He also forbade me to go near it! I remembered next to the mine dump there was a large juniper tree. My imagination was telling me there could be buried treasure under that particular tree. So, with reckless abandon I slipped out of my mother's sight and headed that way.

Sure enough, there it was! Using a large stick for a shovel I began to dig around the roots of the tree. With the hole about a foot under the roots I struck something solid. Reaching in I felt around a bit and my hand touched a round metallic object. I pulled it out into the light. I brushed some of the dirt off and discovered I had a small round can with a lid on it. My heart pounded as I shook it back and forth next to my ear. It made a metallic rattle inside. Really curious to see what was inside, I grabbed the first big rock I could see and began to beat on it to remove the lid. In my young mind it was full of gold coins and I was a pirate in the book, "Treasure Island."

Well, I couldn't get it to open so to make a long story short, I ran over the hill excitedly to show dad my find (I had forgotten in my excitement I wasn't supposed to be there).

Handing the can to him, I shouted, "Daddy, Daddy, look what I found!"

The look on his face was not what I was looking for. In horror, he read out loud, "BLASTING CAPS, DANGEROUS!"

Not saying a word he walked immediately over to an incinerator that he had made from a fifty-five gallon drum and tossed the can into the fire. Reaching for my hand he led me back a safe distance and said, "Just watch the barrel. I want you to see what you got into!"

In a few minutes, garbage, sparks, and tin cans were flying everywhere as the blasting caps went off like firecrackers. As the smoke cleared away I could see fist-size-holes all around the incinerator, or what was left of it!

Dad just looked at me and said, "Son, that could have been you." then walked into the house.

Well, I thought my treasure hunting days were over forever, but like I said before, it is in my genes. Thirty-some-odd-years later I've still got the bug, but I'm just a tad wiser!