In Auburn, California, near the Sacramento area, there is a river known as the American River. In the late fifties and early sixties, we use to camp along the river and pan for gold.

Waking up early each morning, we women would take our gold pans to the river and sift the sand and gravel for gold flakes, while the men fished for lunch. If we were lucky, a small gold nugget would find its way into our pans and we would hoot and holler like the 49ers did way back when the river ran clean and full of gold.

A few of us women that summer decided to cut our living expenses and rent a house boat on the American River. It was great fun as we could swim and fish all day and just hang out in the sun. We were like a clan or community of house boat people. However, we had our share of adventures and mishaps during that summer on the river.

Our financial plans were to pan for the scattered pockets of gold and find bottles and cans to recycle along the river bank.

In those days, five dollars would pay for a week’s worth of groceries for one person. We managed to live on much less by fishing and even selling fish to the local diners. There were five of us women so sharing the rented boat worked out well. The idea was to live on the river and not work in the fruit sheds where we normally made our summer wages. Packing fruit for minimum wage was not our idea of fun work. I can remember coming home with my hands stained deep purple from the wrapping papers that we used to pack the fruit.

Life was carefree on the river: we could sleep as long as we wished, swim when we liked, and spend hours crafting on deck. House work was simple—just throw a bucket of water on the deck and swish off with a broom. The long hot days flowed by in one long endless adventure that summer.

The creative nature of the “boat women�?(as we had come to call ourselves) had brought us to repaint and decorate the boat in a rather outlandish fashion. We were often photographed by people who were fishing or picnicking along the land side of the river.

Dressed as early 1800 river boat girls, we would tie up and put on plays and musical entertainment for the people who tossed money and food onto the deck as payment. We stood on the front of the deck and recited wild poetry that Sandra wrote dressed as Greek Goddesses. I remember standing on deck reciting a rendition of an old cowboy song called “Beat the Drum slowly�?or also known as the “Streets of Laredo.�?I was dressed in a man’s old three-piece evening suit for that scene—complete with top hat and cane. Lila played the flute and Celia beat the kettle drum. I am sure we were horrible, but we thought we were magnificent.

When we needed to purchase items, we would go into town and sell our “river crafts�?and “river fudge�?in the streets. The wind chimes made from cut rings of old soda and beer bottles that we painted with flowers and birds were tied with wire and fishing line. These chimes rang soft and low from the drift wood clappers that completed the rustic look. These were bought up as fast as we could cut and make them. That summer, a small fortune from our crafts and gold, was gathering in the local bank while we played on the river.

The river boat became a crowd draw on the weekends and became somewhat of a local sensation as we made our way up the river.

The word spread and soon we were known as the “Happening Boat�?as in “anything can happen on that boat, and did.�?Many a weekend party occurred when visitors from the “land side,�?as we called the mainland, came to visit. We would sing and play music until dawn and then sleep until noon. By eating fried catfish and other fish that we caught with our trot lines, we managed to keep our entertainment fees small.

It was wonderful to sit on the deck that surrounded the boat cabin and watch the fish jump and listen to the birds in the evening. The river was cool and deep; if it was too hot, we could just step off the deck and go for a swim. What more could one wish for than that?

One night, someone let the anchor drift and we woke up several miles down river. When we finally came on deck the next morning, we found ourselves in an isolated part of the river where we had not been before. There we were, five women alone, stuck tight on a sandbar.

There were no cell phones in those days; the best way to handle this was to wait until someone missed us and came looking or had a good rain to lift us off the sandbar. The river was very low at this time of year, and the rainy season had passed over a month ago so the chances were slim of being rescued soon.

As usual, we waded ashore and decided to pan for gold. We managed to collect a good bag of nuggets during our stay, from a very large pocket under an old tree root. We protected the location of this pot of gold and made a blood promise to never tell anyone.

The canyon walls that surrounded us were very steep with soft sand cliffs; we decided, for safety, not to climb them. A quick walk of the beach area let us know that no one had been there for some time, if ever.

We used these days to pan for gold and gathering drift wood and stones for crafting. Later at night, we would build a fire on the beach and paint our bodies with mud to ward of the bug bites. Painted in mud and dressed in ferns and grasses, we danced to the music of our own voices that echoed up the canyon. We painted the outlines of our bodies on the stone insets that covered the bottom of the canyon for future visitors to find.

It was a step back in time and we enjoyed every minute of our secret beach.

The land held some plants that we had not seen before, so we gathered many samples. We had plenty of basic supplies on board the boat—those along with fish and fresh water mussels—we were happy. The crawfish were plentiful and we had a bounty of edible greens on the banks to choose from. At night we set snares for rabbits and other small game that came to the river and drink. A small spring bubbled from the side of the canyon wall, supplying us with plenty of clean water. We decided not to make an effort to be found, but to enjoy our secret land and play for a while.

Our adventure made the papers when we were finally located and pulled off the sandbar. The local papers said “Lost women found at last after a two week search. All were found safe and well in their river boat on the American River.�?(Like we were ever lost!!)

That sweet summer closed with the loss of our dear sister and talented artist Kate. She passed that late fall into spirit from breast cancer. We used our funds to hold an elaborate wake and remembering ceremony for her life. The river people came and we set small pieces of wood into the water with lit candles on them to honor her spirit, then scattered her ashes into the American River. Even now, the few of us who are still alive, get together on the phone and talk about our wild summer when things were less complicated. We have made a promised to someday take a house boat back down to that magic spot. I find, as in many things, you can never return, but the thought that we one day might, can be a comfort.

I am glad I had a chance to enjoy the beauty of the river; so much has happened in the years to this once sacred area. There was talk in the late eighties of flooding some areas and diverting the river flow. I could not go back to see this destruction; it was just too painful to imagine.

In these times of stress and everyday struggle, I can still take a few minutes and remember the magic days of our lost river. Once again, we stand dressed in ferns, painted in silky river mud on the white sand. Frozen in an everlasting time, we dance as sisters under the full moon that peeks over the canyon wall. My mind and spirit can rest and be refreshed. Here in this time, thousands of miles away from my magic land and dear sisters, I stand ready for the continuing adventure of life.

Hold all the precious memories in your mind, for these are the real treasures of gold that we store in our hearts.

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