There’s gold in them thar pails!
They travel from across the globe, vying to be prospecting world champion, as the spirit of the Klondike lives on... here in Scotland!
THE desire for gold drives many to extremes. Since ancient times, man has sailed the world, destroyed kingdoms, endured the harshest climates and doublecrossed the closest friends in search of this glittering prize.
Some, it seems, are even prepared to stand up to their knees in a trough of cold, muddy water in a sports field in Moffat, racing against the clock to get their hands on just a few flakes of this fabled treasure.
This quiet Dumfriesshire market town may seem an unlikely spot for a latter-day gold rush, but many of the world’s most successful prospectors pitch up with their panning equipment to compete in the 41st annual World Gold Panning Championships, where only the most skilful would be crowned champions.
There have been around 40 previous championships, and those taking part were keen to make their name, if not their fortune – winners receive only a medal and a title.
To a novice like me it seems a far cry from the drama of grizzled Klondike veterans patiently swirling the contents of some high mountain riverbed round a tin pan in the hope of striking it lucky.
Yet competitive panning tests the speed and accuracy required by traditional gold diggers and is rich with characters full of tales of their quest for gold.
‘I’ve found more gold in Britain than anyone else,’ says Mike Jones, a member of the British gold medal-winning team at the 2007 championships, held at Dawson City in Canada’s Klondike.
‘I’ve found two very rich places, one in Wales and one near Tyndrum, in Perthshire, along the main fault line which runs from Aberdeen to Oban – that’s where the best gold is, really,’ confides the 68-year-old retired electrician from North Wales, who has been panning since 1969.
‘I’m not saying where exactly I pan, as everyone will come. I have 14oz of Scottish gold for sale right now, which you can buy if you want. At £90 a gram. It’s expensive as it’s very pure.’
Add his haul of Welsh gold and Mr Jones has dredged at least £75,000 from the ground. He has made jewellery for his wife Colleen, 65, out of smaller Scottish nuggets, but some of his Welsh gold, prized for its use in Royal wedding rings, sits on the finger of Hollywood royalty:
‘The jeweller I deal with was asked to make the wedding ring for Welsh actress Catherine Zeta Jones and he was short of gold. I gave him some of mine, so the ring Michael Douglas put on her finger includes some of the gold I found. A good story, isn’t it?’
The figures are impressive but, as someone who prefers not to wear jewellery – even a wedding ring, I am not sure I get the appeal of gold.
Mr Jones vividly recalls the moment he was hooked, on a trip to an old Welsh gold mine with his brother Brian. ‘It was just a few specks and I knew straight away I had gold in my pan. And my eyes lit up. I had gold fever and I have been chasing gold ever since.’
Gold-panning attracts all sorts. There are more wispy grey beards here than at the average Sixties rock convention, but the vibe is part Shanty Town, part Caravan Club. Saltires mingle with the flags of Canada, the US, Germany, France, Italy, South Africa, Japan, Switzerland, Finland, Norway, Sweden, Spain, Slovenia and Slovakia – next year’s host. A giant photograph of Baile An Or, the celebrated ‘town of gold’ on the Suisgill Burn where the last great Scottish gold rush took place in Sutherland in 1869, adorns the results board beside the main arena, where the whooping and hollering of the crowd lent it the air of a Wild West rodeo.
David Millar, 62, is part of a raucous Canadian presence at the championships. A second generation Klondike miner who still operates the family gold mine in Dawson City, he says: ‘There’s still about 150 mines in the Yukon, all small familyowned operations.
PEOPLE think gold and think we are stinking rich, but it’s more a lifestyle choice for me. I work hard for six months of the year and, if it goes well, I can take the rest of the year off. If not, then I need to work through the winter in the oilfields or as a truck driver, making ends meet.
‘I come to the championships for the camaraderie, but I haven’t been doing too well so far. I think my pan leaks gold.’
The event last came to Scotland in 1992, when it was staged at the neighbouring South Lanarkshire villages of Leadhills and Wanlockhead, famous for their mining heritage. This year organiser Richard Deighton, a former team silver medallist, watches hawk-like as yet more hopefuls take their places in the 30 ‘pan pools’, hands poised over their 15kg (33lb) bucket of sand and gravel, in which lurk up to eight tiny golden flecks. Only the fastest 30 panners in each category who find all the gold will make it to the finals.
Mr Deighton, from Leeds, set up Moffat Gold 2017 as a charity to oversee the event, drawing up to 10,000 visitors to the Beechgrove Sports Centre and putting much-needed gold in the tills of local businesses.
He says: ‘This competition has been held across the world – we just felt it was time it came back to Scotland.’
Home contestant Mark Russell, 33, from Hamilton, is a prawn fisherman who enjoyed panning as a child on family holidays.
‘We used to pan up at Leadhills when I was five or six,’ he recalls. ‘When you are that age and you see a wee flake of gold, you just want to see more. I have won the British and Scottish junior titles in the past and when I realised the championships were here I raced down to register. It was great to look out my old pan and hat – they look a bit old-fashioned now. I still got a bit shaky when I saw the gold.’
Antti Seppälä, 71, from
Finland, has won ten world titles in various categories but only managed silver in this year’s veterans competition. His wiry frame and straggly beard lend him the authentic air of a prospector with 54 years’ experience.
‘My first find was quite a small nugget, but it was a brilliant feeling,’ he reveals, in faltering English. ‘It was like no other experience. You come to a river and believe maybe there’s a chance of finding something. You do some testing then suddenly there is that flash of colour. It happens with everyone who tries it – you can see it in their eyes and how they start to burn with this desire.’
His native land was responsible for staging the first world championships in 1977 at Tankavaara, in northern Lapland. Marko Touru, 50, who owns the Tankavaara Gold Village, laughs off suggestions that he is a modern-day Levi Strauss, who lined his pockets selling denim work pants to prospectors heading for the 1870s California gold rush. ‘Oh, I am not rich,’ he smiles. ‘We just work very hard.’
It is a common theme. Panners are never rich, no matter how much gold they claim to have found. Like fishermen, their favourite story is often the one that got away – except for 41-year-old Danish contestant Pieter Bjoernholt, who struck lucky last year on a trip with friends to Western Australia.
‘We drove up into the mountains and spent a few hours with a metal detector prospecting. I had about half an hour left and thought I had run out of time. Then I picked up the detector and almost immediately it went off. I thought it must be faulty, but then I saw a nugget. It was more than an ounce. I could not believe it. I picked it up and went back to camp and flew home to Denmark. Before I left Australia I had a jeweller fix it to a cord which I wear round my neck all the time.’
With a flourish, he pulls the gnarled, shiny lump of gold under his T-shirt and lets me hold it. It feels heavy, substantial, valuable. About £900 valuable.
Mr Jones, who later wins bronze in the five-person team category, offers to give me a lesson in speed panning to see if the bug finally bites. He explains: ‘The competition is against the clock and the judges bury a number of flakes in each competitor’s bucket of sand. They don’t tell you how many until afterwards. It’s to help stop cheating.’
BUT could competitive panners be corrupt? ‘No, there was some kerfuffle involving some Italians many years ago, but people are very honest. We are all friends here.’
He buries six flakes in a pile of grit on my pan. It is lightweight, fast and flat with deep ridges or steps, built for speedy competition and known in the trade as a ‘Ferrari pan’.
It’s all in the rhythm, Mr Jones says, moving the watery mix at the right speed, gently caressing the sandy grit off the side, leaving the precious flakes behind. I slap the pan around like a slovenly washerwoman as great lumps of sludge slop into the water, sinking below the muddy shallows.
‘Gently, big round swirls, keep it under the water or the gravel won’t float off,’ says Mr Jones. ‘You want to walk the gravel up the steps and trap the gold in the middle of the pan. Right, let’s have a look.’
I bring the pan back to the surface and suddenly – there they are! Six tiny flakes of the purest Scottish gold. They measure barely a millimetre each, but they are simply dazzling. I am transfixed. The power they seem to exert is unnerving. I am aware of a Gollum-like glint in the corner of my eye.
After safely stowing them in a phial of water, I can’t stop looking at them. It’s ridiculous – taken together, they are worth peanuts. But I feel my grip tightening; I won’t be parted from My Precious!