Joe the Ghost


We had jus’ stepped out of the southeast corner of the main building, which was still under reconstruction. The woman volunteer was explaining how, the walls had buckled and the grizzly, which is used to separate different grades of ore, had been left dangling precariously in the air.

Next to me was a man, another volunteer who was helping fill-in missing details about the retrieval of the three-thousand pound piece of equipment. He had joined us as we walked from the front of Gold Hill, Nevada’s historic Donovan Mill to where we now stood.

Behind me came a deep, friendly voice, “Hello!”

Thinking we’d been joined by someone else, I turned only to find no one there. The man next to me chuckled.

“Heard him, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered, surprised that he was so forthcoming about hearing a disembodied voice.

“We call’em ‘Joe the Ghost.’”

The woman sighed, “I’ve never heard him,” her face filled with disappointment.

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