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Bowhay uncovers treasure tales
Phil Bowhay Flashback
Article Last Updated: 04/27/2008 01:46:56 AM PDT
The great story of the 1948 Monterey gold rush pops up now and then, and it's about time to dust it off again.
As the saying goes, gold is where you find it, and this was on the Martin property, which was being bulldozed for the new Monterey High music room. Seems that John Martin didn't trust banks — sound familiar? — and buried jars of gold coins all around his property. He told his kids that sooner or later he'd show them where, but by the time he was ready to tell them, he'd forgotten!
Well, the dozer cracked a jar and coins were hither and yon, and there was a two- or three-day scramble with both good and bad guys gone nuts. If you want the real story, coin by coin, talk to Mike Maiorana. Mike, about 12 at the time, barely escaped bodily injury saving his broken jar.
After some police protection and maybe a good guy or two, he got home with a decent handful of treasure. Lots more to the story, but Mike's the man. And he is a treasure himself with Monterey history. By the way, he still has those coins, safe in a bank, and not buried in his backyard.
Aside from the Martin property there are dozens of treasure stories, and some might even be true. The Jose Maria Sanchez stash might still be kicking around—you could look it up—but before you start tearing up parking lots or your neighbor's roses, understand that real estate today is worth more than what's buried beneath! I'm reminded by my brother, Mike, that Alvarado Street was painted gold for the centennial celebration. OK. Maybe not real gold, but the right color, anyway.
You may remember that Robert Louis Stevenson was told by an old Chinese merchant that the Indians had saved altar pieces from the Mission, hidden from "the soldiers" in a blow hole at Point Lobos. RLS couldn't find the blow hole, and neither could I. At least he wrote a book.
Other treasure abounds. Years ago somebody found a diamond—yep, a real diamond—in the Big Sur River, up above Ventana. Grayish in color, poor quality, but a diamond still. Let's not even touch the jade story, or abalone pearl.
I read once about ambergris—which starts as whale vomit—and heard it was insanely valuable, sought after for perfume manufacture. And by golly, one day I found a big glop of something strange on Asilomar Beach. Took it home. Dad shook his head, said take it to Hopkins and find out. It was gone the next morning, doubtless taken by an astute raccoon.
My dad was not immune to treasure fever, and he came upon a very authentic map with the location of Joaquin Murrieta's loot. Seems Joaquin was headed south just ahead of the posse, saddlebags loaded with gold. Just east of what is now Puente he buried the bags under a small sycamore tree, marked the spot and rode away.
Dad wasn't sure of what happened to Joaquin, but he had the map, and that was good enough. Well, long story short, armed with a transit and a shovel, he found the exact spot. It was a million-ton concrete overpass.
I do remember something about not laying up treasure on earth, but look north to Heaven. That's close enough.
Phil Bowhay is a Carmel writer. His column runs occasionally in Opinion. He can be reached at [email protected].
Phil Bowhay Flashback
Article Last Updated: 04/27/2008 01:46:56 AM PDT
The great story of the 1948 Monterey gold rush pops up now and then, and it's about time to dust it off again.
As the saying goes, gold is where you find it, and this was on the Martin property, which was being bulldozed for the new Monterey High music room. Seems that John Martin didn't trust banks — sound familiar? — and buried jars of gold coins all around his property. He told his kids that sooner or later he'd show them where, but by the time he was ready to tell them, he'd forgotten!
Well, the dozer cracked a jar and coins were hither and yon, and there was a two- or three-day scramble with both good and bad guys gone nuts. If you want the real story, coin by coin, talk to Mike Maiorana. Mike, about 12 at the time, barely escaped bodily injury saving his broken jar.
After some police protection and maybe a good guy or two, he got home with a decent handful of treasure. Lots more to the story, but Mike's the man. And he is a treasure himself with Monterey history. By the way, he still has those coins, safe in a bank, and not buried in his backyard.
Aside from the Martin property there are dozens of treasure stories, and some might even be true. The Jose Maria Sanchez stash might still be kicking around—you could look it up—but before you start tearing up parking lots or your neighbor's roses, understand that real estate today is worth more than what's buried beneath! I'm reminded by my brother, Mike, that Alvarado Street was painted gold for the centennial celebration. OK. Maybe not real gold, but the right color, anyway.
You may remember that Robert Louis Stevenson was told by an old Chinese merchant that the Indians had saved altar pieces from the Mission, hidden from "the soldiers" in a blow hole at Point Lobos. RLS couldn't find the blow hole, and neither could I. At least he wrote a book.
Other treasure abounds. Years ago somebody found a diamond—yep, a real diamond—in the Big Sur River, up above Ventana. Grayish in color, poor quality, but a diamond still. Let's not even touch the jade story, or abalone pearl.
I read once about ambergris—which starts as whale vomit—and heard it was insanely valuable, sought after for perfume manufacture. And by golly, one day I found a big glop of something strange on Asilomar Beach. Took it home. Dad shook his head, said take it to Hopkins and find out. It was gone the next morning, doubtless taken by an astute raccoon.
My dad was not immune to treasure fever, and he came upon a very authentic map with the location of Joaquin Murrieta's loot. Seems Joaquin was headed south just ahead of the posse, saddlebags loaded with gold. Just east of what is now Puente he buried the bags under a small sycamore tree, marked the spot and rode away.
Dad wasn't sure of what happened to Joaquin, but he had the map, and that was good enough. Well, long story short, armed with a transit and a shovel, he found the exact spot. It was a million-ton concrete overpass.
I do remember something about not laying up treasure on earth, but look north to Heaven. That's close enough.
Phil Bowhay is a Carmel writer. His column runs occasionally in Opinion. He can be reached at [email protected].
