Many years ago I attended a photography workshop in Sheep Ranch located in the Sierra foothills, not far from the historic town of Murphys. I turned off State Route 4, the Ebbetts Pass National Scenic Byway, and headed into the center of Murphys and was surprised by the change. I used to come to Murphys in the old days when it was just a tired out reminder of a time when people rushed in for gold. It always appeared to be barely alive, but in recent years it has had a new birth and is now called the “Queen of the Sierra, One of the Ten Coolest Small Towns in America.”
I drove down the main street passed boutiques, gift shops, cafes and wineries searching for Sheep Ranch Road. The first time through, I passed right by it; I thought it was an alley. The road was narrow and wound its way up, over and around many mountains. These mountains showed the scars of a recent devastating fire. The Mother Lode country has had a long tradition of burning out its inhabitants, but still they come.
Sheep Ranch got its name because of the sheep corrals that surrounded it. In 1860, the place quickly changed to a mining town when gold was discovered in those corrals. In a quick gold rush minute it went from corrals to fifteen saloons and five flourishing gold mines. Today it’s a mixture of old dilapidated shacks and a few newer homes. When I arrived some children had placed a small bicycle ramp in the middle of “Main Street” and were noisily enjoying themselves. The heart of what’s left of downtown with its one building was just a mere twenty feet from where they played. Part of the old building was the post office, which appeared to be alive and well, the other part looked like it might have been at one time a grocery store. Outside an old Texaco pump with a glass top sat rusting. Everywhere paint was peeling, creating rich patterns of age and neglect.
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The inn where I stayed was also a relic from a time when stagecoaches were the mode of transportation and passengers stopped for the night. The parlor was filled with overstuffed furniture and a large steel barrel stove. The green and red walls were a mosaic of pictures, deer heads, tools, a stuffed badger and a stuffed squirrel, the Mona Lisa and an assortment of treasures that one might find in an antique store. Downstairs also contained a bar complete with a barber chair and spittoon, a small poker room just big enough for one table, a kitchen confused with old and new, two bedrooms with marvelous period furniture, and a large dining room with a buckboard hanging from the ceiling. Upstairs there were more bedrooms, creaking floors and lumpy beds. Bathrooms came late in the life of this old relic. Several years ago a tower was added on the backside of the building. It housed two bathrooms down and two up. Next-door, George Hearst made his fortune. From the 3600-foot shaft George and his miners coaxed, sweated, and blasted millions of dollars worth of gold. While nosing around I discovered a small mountain of tailings. It gave mute testimony to their efforts. While I stood on the pile of rocks, I imagined the following scene. George Hearst and his son, perhaps on that very spot were deep in conversation. George wanted his son to continue the family business.
“No, Father I have other plans, besides I rather live in an enormous castle on a mountain top overlooking the Pacific.”
“Ok, my son here’s a couple million. Go peddle your papers.”
And so William Randolph Hearst did precisely that.
Q
