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Philipsburg The town and the sapphires are both in the side of the mountain. The sapphires are under the town, under the hard rock, even under the long-abandoned mines. The town once survived on ore, but now they’ve got nothing but sapphires and fumes. Main Street slants through the heart of town, down the hill past the one gas station and out to the highway. The highway goes either left or right. Left leads to another highway. Right leads to another highway. As though it is trapped in the middle of a spider’s web. The sapphires are mixed in with the dirt, but don’t just pop out at you. It’s a labored process to convince the stones to the surface where their jagged little edges catch the sunlight and glint it back at you. Prospecting’s out of the question because, as the townspeople tell me, the mountain’s tapped. The mines are caving in and the mountain itself is crumbling in on itself, gutted and rotted from the inside. It was foretold by Chief Missoula, who roamed these same mountains when wolves were abundant and horses were still wild. His prescience warned that white man and his velleity would anger the earth’s heart and turn it black with apathy, would bare its teeth at them, and consume their children with a jagged mouth and an insatiable appetite. In so many words, he said, years ago, that Philipsburg was pretty much shit out of luck. They harvest the dirt from one side of the mountain, load it in dump trucks where they drive it to a panning site and dump the dirt in mounds. Here they charge tourists two dollars for every bucket of dirt and for the two dollars you’re supplied a sieve and running water and a geologist on site who studies your discoveries and informs you if you’ve struck it rich or simply struck quartz. I arrive with a fifty-dollar bill and exchange it for twenty-five buckets of dirt. The cashier’s eyes widen and the geologist’s narrow: the cashier has never seen a fifty-dollar bill before, and the geologist is suspicious of my intentions. They show me to my sieve and my panning place in the running water. I don’t need anyone to show me how to sieve: how to look or what to look for. The geologist stands behind me, arms folded across his chest, watches over my shoulder. Notes my skillful hands and my knowledgeable eye. You’ve done this before, he says.
In a past life, I tell him. California, a long time ago. Sapphires are different, he says, as though speaking fondly of a nephew. The geologist is blocking my sunlight. Do you mind? I ask him. Perhaps three paces to the left. Of course, he says, but instead returns to the office. When they inform me they’re closing up for the night, I ask them to lock me in so I can work through the night. By the moon? the geologist says.
It’s three quarters tonight, I tell him. You’ll damage your eyes. There’s work to be done. He consults the cashier girl whether it’s a good idea and if I can be trusted inside the gates at night. There ain’t nothing for him to steal, the cashier girl says. Nothing he ain’t paid for already. Because she’s in charge of the keys, the decision is ultimately hers, and she has no reservations leaving me out there in the middle of the night with the running water and my buckets of dirt. See you in the morning, she says to me on her way out. In Philipsburg, the sun doesn’t set until nearly ten. I finish three buckets before I have to actually start squinting for lack of light. Behind me, I hear the mountain sigh, inhale and collapse slightly inward. The creaking sound of the lame leaning on a crutch. The cracking sound of the continent crumbling in on itself. The waves reverberate along the ground and up into my legs. I know by the sky above me and the earth under me there isn’t much time. Because of its size and lack of ambient light, the sky over Philipsburg is brilliant bright with glowing stars. Enough for a wolf to tell its way. Enough for a man with buckets of dirt to sift for answered prayers.
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