The air was much cooler inside. Taking off his hat, the Traveler surveyed what was a lonely prospectors world for decades. All in the pursuit of wealth.
Judging from the decayed magazines and other artifacts in and around the homestead, Carey came at the tail end of the California Gold Rush to find his piece of the treasure among the Sierra Nevada Mountains. It is not know whether or not he succeeded.
As he hunched down next to the adobe and stone walls the Traveler wondered if Carey felt it was all worth it. Secluding yourself, working in the hot desert sun, digging and blasting through rock, all for the hope of a glint of gold. In the end the only testament to his endeavors was this "castle" sandwiched between two boulders. Nature combined with a little ingenuity allowed Carey to construct a homestead that far outlasted his life or presumed wealth.
His eyes had adjusted to the light. The quiet was broken by his hiking companions breaking out their lunch. All those years with only the wind and a small collection of livestock to break the dead silence. Most men would go mad. Perhaps this is what happened to Carey.
The Traveler thought that it was more likely that Carey had the same reaction as most of the people who got burned in the second California Gold Rush of the Dot.Com Boom. After a brief 5 years, it was followed by a bust that left many shaken, some broke, and even more wary. Reflection is the roadmap of choices made in haste. His vision of Carey driving out of the desert mountains was the same image the Traveler had of all the people he had come across after the Bust. Many of them brilliant. Almost all of them burned. And not one of them ready to return.
The coolness of the shelter had dissipated and small beads of sweat began to form on his brow. The Traveler let his imagination drift 60 years into the future to a section of Marin County that is yet to be annexed by Golden Gate National Park. Nestled between the redwoods there might be a small cabin, forgotten by time while slowly being eating by the moist woodland. Prying open the door reveals the last stand of the Lonely Coder. Stacks of paper with HTML, Java, and C+ code on them in boxes with books on finance, economics, and sailing have become barely recognizable under the layers of dirt, mildew, and lichens. Empty ceramic coffee cups with the logo of a long forgotten start-up’s logo are stacked on circular conference table.
Against the far wall are several computer terminals. Dead gray screens stare out from behind gauze of green mildew. Vines coming out from the processing towers and servers in the room make it clear that any clues to history of this company have been lost forever. It seems that the only real production that came out this shack is the foliage growing out of the derelict equipment.
After that Lonely Coder’s last VC had backed out and the final connection among the fickle Tech-Nuevo Wave had moved onto the next big hope, the Traveler imagined he had the same look of relieved contempt that Carey probably had. Both sets of prospectors driving back into the East. Losing money while gaining age usually equates to gaining knowledge. The Traveler got up, dusted himself off, and as he stepped back out into the heat, hope that at the very least that was what Carey left with.
No comments:
Post a Comment