Two accidents on the notoriously treacherous grade above West Willow Creek Canyon: a runaway 1948 Ford pickup that very nearly killed Erick Nelson and John's brother, Scooter Jackson, on an icy corner below the Commodore Mine; and a comic, multi-act wreck John witnessed a decade later, when an overloaded, underpowered truck carrying two drunk miners and an old sheepherder repeatedly failed the grade, with the herder bearing the worst of both the danger and the joke.
West Willow Creek Canyon has been the host to scores of accidents with its steep, narrow road and treacherous curves. There was a visible pile of ashes and bones at the foot of Black Pitch years ago where the remains of wagons and horses were burned after runaways with full loads when the brakes and rough locks failed to hold the wagons to a manageable speed behind the horses.
Erick Nelson and William C. "Scooter" Jackson took a wild, sliding leap in a 1948 Ford pickup from a switchback below the Commodore Mine ore bin. It was a January day, extremely cold with a snow and ice packed road when they drove from the entrance of Commodore 5 portal toward town. After topping the rise that leads to the sharp curve of the old road the pickup took off like it was on skis and was totally uncontrollable. The truck vaulted into open space from the berm, revolved partially to where the nose was pointed down before impacting on a narrow bench that hurled it again into space for a nose down landing in the canyon bottom.
Miraculously Scooter emerged with only a deep gash on one cheek and Erick suffered only bruised ribs and a sprained thumb. The pickup was repaired and bought by Will Kroll who drove it for many years.
An accident I witnessed on Black Pitch was an amusing exercise in futility. I was on my way to the Midwest Mine in the year 1958 when I drew up behind a 1940s Ford pickup that had seen better days. It was loaded with camp gear on which an old Mexican herder was stretched out behind two fellows in the cab. The pickup was severely underpowered for such a steep road with such a load and before it reached Black Pitch Grade it was steaming and having problems. The driver hesitated, briefly, then revved the engine and spun to a start. They made it a little over halfway before it powered out. Apparently the brakes wouldn't hold and the driver banked it where it tipped, noticeably, and threw the Mexican from his perch on the tent. A rag had been stuffed in the gas tank hole in place of a cap and the sloshing of gasoline blew the rag over the bank. Gas was running from the hole and the driver ordered the old man to put his hand over the hole to stop the flow. The Mexican had a firm grip on a fender and the other hand over the hole when they took another run at the hill and, again, banked the truck with the Mexican running alongside, doing his best to save what gas was left. On the third attempt with the old fellow running and hard-pressed to keep up with a little added speed on the return, he narrowly avoided being under the truck when it hit the bank and overturned, he rolled to the outer edge of the road just in time. I hurried up to check on the two men inside the cab and found them unhurt but looplegged drunk. The old Mexican was rolling on the ground laughing as they crawled from the upper side window and fell to the ground.
With the help of I. D. Crawford and his truck, we were able to skid the wreck to a wide area, lower on the road, and right it. I. D. brought them 5 gallons of gas from the mine tank and surprisingly the engine fired up. I hauled the camp gear to the Midwest Mine, I. D. pulled them over the steepest grades, and they went on their merry way. The old Mexican had retrieved a bottle of wine from the supplies and was much better able to cope with their driving when they left.