Readers of my novella Chasing the Sun have asked where my story’s inspiration came from. Well, grab your popcorn and iced tea and read on.

In ancient times (the 1970s), yours truly and a friend (we will just call ‘Jack’) were driving from Texas into New Mexico. We were kindred spirits, especially where it concerned fishing. Five or six times a year, we would sneak off to the area around Red River, Questa, and a little village called Arroyo Hondo along the Rio Grande River for some brown and rainbow trout. Our target area was usually the confluence of the Rio Grande and the Red River at a spot called La Junta – the Junction. We would park at one of the campgrounds, grab our backpacks, and hike down the long, winding trail into the Rio Grande Gorge. The campgrounds were on top of the gorge, but the river was almost a mile below. The hike down took about 90 minutes, but up to three hours to return to the top. (I was thinner in those days!)

When we passed through Cimmaron, New Mexico, our excitement grew. Highway 64 twisted and turned as it followed the Cimmaron River. “Someday we should stop long enough to fish the river,” I remarked.

“What’s wrong with today?” was Jack’s grinning response.

We each had a set of keys to the car. So, I dropped Jack beside the river and drove ahead about 200 to 300 yards. I would get out and start fishing from that spot. In a while, Jack would reach the car, drive it ahead another 200 to 300 yards, and start fishing from that point. We used this technique to leapfrog for several miles – until Jack did not show up.

Was he fighting a ten-pound brown trout? Had he fallen and broken a leg? Had he found an abandoned bottle of 10-year-old Maker’s Mark? I found him standing still, staring down into a curl in the river’s bend. “Are you okay?” I asked.

“Ah, you need to come down here and see this,” Jack calmly replied. I started to splash toward him when he said, “Come slowly. Try to disturb as little of the sandy bottom as you can.” I saw no blood pouring from his face and no puncture wounds from a fallen tree limb. As I eased beside him, he pointed down and said, “Look there.”

I’ve seen it in movies; I’ve seen videos from Alaska, but here was the real McCoy right in front of me. GOLD!

Jack went back to the car and retrieved our two tin plates, which we eat our freeze-dried dinners off. We started slowly – carefully – panning for gold. We began discussing what we would spend our golden money on – a bass boat, a mountain cabin, or a private plane to take us to exotic places to fish. We stopped talking when we heard a horse whinny. We looked up on the ridge on the river’s other bank to see two men on horseback with saddle rifles and packing pistols.

“You boys are on private property,” Cowboy #1 explained.

“But we’re fishing in the public Cimmaron River,” I replied without thinking.

“This is all part of the Philmont Scout Ranch,” growled Cowboy #2 as he patted his pistol. “And we’re part of the ranch security team.”

“The Boy Scout Ranch?” Jack responded with a grin. “I came here when I was a kid! I didn’t know the ranch extended this far north to the river.”

“Now you know and now you best git,” Cowboy #1 ordered.

“Grab your fishing gear, leave the plates, and leave. Now,” Cowboy #2 added.

Jack and I bought new tin plates when we got to Red River, but memory of panning for gold was etched in my mind for use in a story or book yet to be written. It finally influenced my novella Chasing the Sun.