The Bent Spoon
A Tale of Gumption, Gold, and Glory

In the 1930s college chums Tom and Barry embark on an adventure-packed journey that stretches from Estacada, Oregon, to a gold claim in the wilds of Wasilla, Alaska. Along the way the pair and their partners hook up with a cunning old codger and his wily dog who changes their lives forever. And it all begins with a bent spoon.

Along the way they encounter troublemakers, grizzlies, and a cast of colorful characters. In the end, they go to Alaska searching for gold, only to discover the real treasures in their life—faith, love, friendship, charity, and family.

Chapter One Estacada, Oregon, 1932 Down in the North Fork canyon, the still of the evening settled into the pristine forest. The water gurgling over the smoothly worn rocks soothed the souls of the two interlopers who were camped on the north shore. They watched as a water ouzel suddenly dipped under the ripples and effortlessly emerged elsewhere. The “dipper” made his way the streambed, searching for nourishment in the flowing stream. A pair of wild otters played tag along the opposite bank as they frolicked their way upstream. Golden leaves drifted in the riffles to their own destination as they by-passed other spent foliage that lay along the banks. From the west speckled sunshine, filtering through the turning leaves, sparkled on the tumbling waters. A cooling breeze wafted through the campsite from below. The muted rumble from the nearby waterfall on Fall Creek softened the tranquility of the evening. The two young men spoke quietly in deference to the hushed environment. They had arrived at their campsite rather late in the evening dropping down into the canyon from Squaw Mountain Road. They fished down Fall Creek to the North Fork then built a small cooking fire on a sandbar where they fried and ate their catch of trout. They rounded out the meal with a can of cold beans, and a couple of stick-toasted slices of bread. They rolled out and readied their bedrolls for the night, and now they were leaning back against a large water-worn log enjoying the solitude of the darkening evening. That morning, Sven had walked over to the Ramsey place where he found Tom throwing a wheelbarrow full of “gone to seed” lettuce from the garden onto the compost pile. Tom’s father, Ben, was repairing the wear and tear on the nearby chicken house. Tom and Sven talked for a bit, then wandered over to where Ben was pounding staples to hold the chicken wire in place on a cedar post solidly planted in the rocky ground. As they approached Ben laid his old hammer on top of the post and put the few staples from his pocket back into a battered coffee can. He grinned and reached out his calloused hand to Sven, “Haven’t seen you for a while. How are you?” “I’m fine, but busy on the power lines. I’ve got myself a couple of days off. Thought I’d come over and see if I could talk Tom into going with me stomping the woods and catching a few fish. A little recreation time would be good for him.” Ben took the hammer off the post and dropped it head first into the can, rattling the staples within. “I think that’s a great idea, when are you leaving?” “Yet this afternoon, I guess. As soon as Tom can get his bedroll put together.” “Thought maybe you’d stay for supper, Sven.” “Thanks for the offer, but we still have time to get up on Fall Creek well before sundown this afternoon,” said Sven. “I’m all ready to go.” “Well, Tom, you’d better get your things together. Take a loaf of bread and a few cans of beans in case the fish aren’t biting.” “Thanks dad. We’ll probably be back tomorrow evening,” said Tom. An hour later, Tom and Sven were heading eastward on Squaw Mountain Road. They stopped and chatted over the fence with Claude Randall for a few minutes. As Tom and Sven moved on up the road, Claude watched them for a moment as they strode away, walking in brisk cadence to eat up the miles. He admired the noticeable matching in size and build of the two men. Both were about six feet tall, ramrod straight with broad muscular shoulders and slim waists. They were both wearing white T-shirts, blue jeans, and hiking boots. The only visual difference was Sven’s blond hair under his brown hat. Tom wore a black hat matching his jet-black hair. Tom and Sven had gone through school in Estacada together, and had always gotten along well. Their friendship was unlikely—Tom shunned athletics in school, not necessarily by choice, mostly because no one actually asked him to participate. And being a half-breed Indian, he thought it best to leave well enough alone and dwell on getting good grades in his schoolwork. Tom realized that his future would be in a white mans’ world and he’d better be prepared for it. Sven, on the other hand was a star athlete in football, basketball, and baseball. In his junior and senior years, he played quarterback on the football team and was an excellent pitcher on the baseball team. But Sven was also a good student and he and Tom had that in common. As darkness fell, they finished their evening meal. Tom kept feeding small twigs and branches on the fire to keep the cozy feel of the campsite. Sven was washing the tin plates, spoons and forks with river sand and rinsing them clean in the cold waters. They talked about things of interest to both of them, which seemed to be a lot of things. At one point, the conversation wandered back to their high school days and the trials and tribulations each had experienced. Sven said, “You were pretty much of a loner in school. That must have been really hard.” “It was, but I knew I could hardly expect anything but a cold shoulder,” said Tom. “So I let it be. The bullies tried to give me a bad time, but eventually I guess we came to an understanding.” Darkness was falling around them. Sven slipped on his jacket. Tom tossed some extra wood on the fire to brighten up the area. The light from the fire illuminated his high cheekbones and dark brown eyes so reflective of his Indian heritage. “I saw the kind of understanding you had. Like the time you tangled with the Three Musketeers?” Tom glanced at Sven whose grinning face and blue eyes flickered in the firelight. “You mean when Huck, Corky, and Dirty Dave were dipping me in the muddy ditch?” “Yeah,” Sven chuckled. ”Betty and I were just a hundred feet or so down the gravel walkway when it all started.” “Those three guys thought they owned the county, but they pushed me a mite too far that time.” Tom grunted as he shifted to a more comfortable position. “Well, I thought you might need some help, but you kind of ended the party when you squashed Huck’s nose with that hard right. And Dirty Dave left when the doings suddenly got too rough for his blood. By the time I got close enough to help, Corky was groaning and moaning, and Huck was sitting on the muddy ground holding his face as the blood squirted out between his fingers.” “His nose has been kiltered to the right ever since,” Tom laughed. “Did you tell your dad about what happened?” “I told him most of what was going on. Once he said I would learn faster if I took care of my own problems. I wasn’t born into a perfect world but he told me I should still make the best of it.” “You know, I never really asked you about being a half-breed, but I guess in a way it’s none of my business.” “It’s a long story,” said Tom. “But I’m kinda proud of my heritage. I try to fit into the white man’s world by getting decent haircuts, wearing clean clothes, studying hard, and behaving myself. Indians are good people even if a lot of white folks think that they’re nothing but no-good trash.” Tom poked a stick into the flickering fire and stirred up the fading embers. Sparks spiraled upward into the black of the night. An owl hooted off in the woods and the coyotes were yelping up in the hills to the north. Sven said, “You know, I don’t mean to be nosy, but I’d be interested in hearing more about your dad and how you came by your Indian heritage. Should I put a bit more wood on the fire?” “Sure. The night’s young and we’ve got the time,” said Tom. “Dad has an interesting history. It’s a remarkable tale of good and bad times, and if you’re inclined to listen to, I’ll be glad to tell it.” “I sure would like to hear about it,” said Sven. Tom paused for a moment, “It all began back in Fallsington, Pennsylvania. In the spring of 1900, my dad married his neighbor’s eighteen-year-old daughter. I think her name was Sarah. With her at his side he decided to travel west and minister to the downtrodden. This was a calling in keeping with his Quaker faith, and

Otto Henrickson was born in Estacada, Oregon, in 1921, the son of Swedish immigrants. He grew up in the Garfield district of Estacada, where his father grew ginseng. He served in the U.S. Navy in World War II, spending much of that time in Alaska. After the service, he raised his family in Eugene, Oregon, where he still resides. He retired as the textbook manager at the University of Oregon and began writing in earnest in the 1990s. His previous books include Wrinkles on my Ginseng Roots and The Nevada Way.