Mass veins, fissure veins, thus far, only had been remunerative, consequently fissure veins were the sine qua non; everybody blindly searched for them. Mining elsewhere was deemed a waste of energy and money. The proud owners of successful mines based on fissure veins viewed the stamp lodes of Portage with incredulity, if not contempt. But there was one man in the district, living with his family in a log hut, Among the Indians, at the mouth of Portage river, subsisting on fish and potatoes, trading in furs in winter, exploring on the range in summer; this man, with limited education and scanty knowledge of geology and mineralogy having been a tin-peddler in New York State and a peddler of essences and nostrums in the West this man, full of pioneer energy and courage, was an enthusiast. He believed in the value of the mineral resources of his beloved Portage. His waking thoughts, his midnight dreams, were all of this hidden wealth.. He believed in it; he talked of nothing else. The burden of his song was ever; Portage, Portage! So it came to pass that when he visited the other districts, he was considered, what would be called in modern parlance, a crank. But this man never flinched, never bated one jot or tittle -of Ms high faith in his own district. When opposed, he talked rapidly, in language less choice than forcible, the while spitting tobacco juice with the vehemence of a small geyser.
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