June 6, 1968
“In Memory of Friday, Born May 13, 1954, Died August 15, 1955.”
On a rocky point jutting westward from near the top of the Chetco-Illinois divide, near the tumble-down cabin on an old mining claim, a tiny grave no more than 3 ft. long, outlined with stones and bearing at one end a massive carved wooden upright marker bearing the above inscription keeps its lonely vigil in a graveyard-built-for-one.
What is it that lies buried in that obscure, mysterious little grave? I doubt if more than one person knows the answer – and he’s not about to tell. Once when the claim’s owner was asked if a dog was buried there he smiled wryly and said, “No, it’s not a dog.” Not a very enlightening answer, but obviously he prefers to keep his secret and let those who wonder about the little grave remain intrigued by the mystery.
The wild winds and winter storms that whip across this high exposed ridge have battered the wooden marker till the deeply carved lettering has been nearly worn away, and can only be deciphered with difficulty. The parts of the letters and numbers that were carved with the grain of the wood are all but indistinguishable, and the cross-grain cuts provide little more than clues, but by painstaking squinting and much perseverance the figures can be made out without too much guesswork
Even if there is some question as to the accuracy of the information gathered from the weather-worn marker, the sense of mystery, the feeling that something of real interest would probably be revealed by the true explanation, still remains. Many an old grave has been discovered in the way-back-yonder where so many prospectors and miners in the past underwent extreme hardship in their quest for gold, and one’s first thought when he runs onto a well-marked little grave is that a child lies buried there.
But the inscription, ‘In Memory of Friday’, could hardly refer to a child, although something of that same faintly emotional sensation is felt when you look down upon this little plot and wonder what the answer can be. The grave was obviously prepared and finished with tender care, testifying to the fact that whatever the occupant, it was laid to its final rest with love and regret.
There are a number of great mysteries in our lives that no human intellect at our present stage of development can even make a logical attempt at solving. These we take for granted as being insoluble and are content to let the matter slide, for the time being at least.
But there are innumerable lesser mysteries that we know to be solvable, and these, in seeking for and finally running down their solution, add a great deal of zest and satisfaction to our lives. I like mysteries – when there’s a reasonable hope of eventually realizing their solution. When there’s apparently no such hope, then they often smack of superstition, and superstition devoid of reasonable explanation I am willing to examine, but refuse to take seriously.
The little grave up there in the mountains that gave me that first slightly ghostly sensation now seems only an interesting matter for speculation.
“No, it wasn’t a dog” – what in the blankety-blank was it then? I suspect it was probably a pet skunk or porcupine, and the old coot who supposedly buried it (I know him quite well) was ashamed to admit he could display such sentimentality over a mere animal.
If it weren’t for the possibility of being branded a morbidly curious old ghoul I’d be tempted to sneak up some day to that unoccupied old mining claim and solve the mystery of the wee grave via pick and shovel.
But, on sober second thought, I feel inclined toward the suspicion that however unromantic the answer to the puzzle may be, it had best remain unsolved – unless or until the reluctant old miner sees fit to reveal the truth of the neat, enigmatic little mountain-top grave.
