Artist Unknown Riders of one of the flumes on the old Flume Trail are seen.
Editor's note: The following is an excerpt from L.J. Ettinger's book, "The Best of Virginia City and the Comstock." The book is available for $6 at area bookstores and shops in Virginia City. The book includes a map showing the location of flumes, including one that ended in Carson City.
Twentieth century mountain bikers may enjoy the exhilarating descent down from the old Flume Trail, but they really don't know what a wild ride is.
In 1875, an East Coast newspaperman was treated to the trip of a lifetime. H.J. Ramsdell, a New York Tribune reporter, was assigned to Virginia City to report on the Comstock. He got more of a story than he bargained for.
While touring the various mining works, Ramsdell asked how the timber was transported out of the mountains. Mining magnate John Mackay suggested a visit to the Bonanza V flume. Two days later, Ramsdell met with James Fair and James Flood in Virginia City. Joining them on the trip was John Hereford, the contractor who built the big flume. The four men left in two buggies, crossed Washoe Valley, and headed for the timber country north of Tahoe.
Once there, Ramsdell climbed to the top of the trestle-work to see the huge logs roar down the flume. "It was like the rushing of a herd of buffalo." he wrote. "I preferred to view the flume, in active working, from a distance."
After he returned to the main group, Mr. Flood and Mr. Fair challenged Ramsdell to join them in a trip down the flume by hog trough. Hog troughs were crude boats, V-shaped like the flume and sixteen feet long. The 200-pound city reporter could not believe what he was hearing, but he thought that, "...if men? worth 25 or 30 million dollars apiece could afford to risk their lives, I could afford to risk mine which is not worth half as much."
The men were well-dressed, but not concerned about their clothes or their lives. It was determined that Ramsdell would join Fair in the first boat with Flood and Hereford in the second. For a bit of comfort, two small boards were installed as seats. At the last minute, Fair decided the party should take along someone who knew something about the flume. There were fifty millhands and lumberjacks standing around, so Fair asked for volunteers. Only one man responded to the call, a red-faced carpenter who took more kindly to drinking whiskey than to working at his bench.
While three stout workmen held the boat over the rushing current, Ramsdell, Fair and the carpenter were told to jump in as soon as the boat was dropped. They were also told to hang on to their hats. One experienced flume shooter warned, "A flume has no element of safety. You cannot stop, you cannot lessen your speed; you have only to sit still, shut your eyes, say your prayers, take all the water that comes...and wait for eternity."
The boat was lowered and at the critical moment the carpenter jumped into the front of the boat, Ramsdell into the stern and Fair into the middle. Suddenly they were off. When the terrified reporter finally opened his eyes, they were already streaking down the mountainside. The trestle was 70 feet high in some places; and, since Ramsdell was lying down, he could see only the aerial flume stretching for miles ahead. Ramsdell tried to judge their speed by watching the hills. "Every object I placed my eye on was gone before I could clearly see what it was," he recalled, "Mountains passed like visions and shadows," and it seemed that they would suffocate from the force of the wind. Suddenly, the first boat hit an obstruction and the drunk carpenter was sent sprawling into the flume, ten feet ahead.
Within seconds Fair dragged the workman back into the boat, but he smashed his hand in the process. "Minutes seemed hours," Ramsdell said later, "I was scared almost out of reason."
Meanwhile, the pig-trough carrying Flood and Hereford was making better time. This second boat crashed into the first and Flood was thrown into the rushing water. The rest of the men hung on for dear life. This confusion of splintered boats and bodies slid the rest of the way to the bottom of the flume. The frightened men fell fifteen miles in just thirty-five minutes, but saved themselves a whole day of traveling by horse-drawn carriage!
When the flume finally leveled out and the men could exit the chute, they were more dead than alive. The carpenter quickly headed to the nearest saloon for a shot of tarantula juice. James Flood declared that he would not shoot a flume again for all the silver in the Consolidated-Virginia mine. James Fair proclaimed that, "I will never again place myself on an equality with timber."
Reporter Ramsdell was able to write a good story, but his main satisfaction came from the fact that his hosts were so battered and sore, they could not get out of bed the next day.