In May 1875, a lost and thirsty pioneer named Dan Muckles knelt beside a stream in the Black Hills to drink and saw something glint in the water. He grabbed his pan, waded in, and scooped and swirled until there it was: gold. That strike helped put the town of Lead, South Dakota, on the map, and the ground beneath it gave up more than $70 billion worth of gold over the next 125 years.
Today scientists are digging for something far stranger under that same town: the reason anything exists at all.
A secret worth killing for
People had whispered about Black Hills gold for decades. When the rumor reached Father DeSmet, a Belgian-born Jesuit missionary, he begged the Sioux to keep it to themselves. He warned that if white men learned of the gold, they would kill every Indian on the plains to get it. DeSmet had traveled close to 200,000 miles of wild territory and earned deep respect among Native peoples. He helped persuade Sitting Bull to send a delegation to negotiate with the U.S. government, and those talks produced the 1868 Treaty of Fort Laramie.
The treaty created the Great Sioux Reservation, Black Hills included, and set aside more land as unceded territory. That meant the tribes had never legally handed the land over to the government, so it was off-limits to settlers and prospectors. Then, in 1874, George Armstrong Custer marched into the hills with 110 wagons, 1,900 mules and horses, and more than a thousand men. They found signs of gold and sent the news home by telegraph, setting off a new gold rush. Would-be miners howled to get in. One Yankton newspaper declared, "The opening of the Black Hills will be the crowning event of Dakota history." None of this is ancient history, by the way. Adolf Hitler was an eight-month-old baby the day South Dakota joined the Union.
The greatest gold mine in the world
Two brothers from Quebec, Moses and Fred Manuel, had made money mining in Alaska. Supposedly they got tired of the cold, so they came to the Black Hills, staked a claim in 1876 and named it the Homestake. (When two Canadians flee a winter for South Dakota, that tells you plenty about Alaska.) In 1877, silver baron George Hearst, father of William Randolph Hearst, bought the mine with his partners. He built a narrow-gauge railroad to haul in timber, had the operation humming within two years, then ran it from far away until he died in 1891.
His much younger widow, Phoebe Hearst, took over and kept coming back to visit. She founded a department store that gave mine workers unlimited credit and gave the town a library, a kindergarten, a rec center and medical care. As the pit swallowed nearby buildings, she made sure the company, not the residents, paid for at least part of every move. By 1890, more than a thousand stamps, the mine's thunderous ore mills, roared all day long. At its peak the mine employed more than 2,000 people. At the bottom, temperatures topped 130 degrees. Mules and horses lived their whole lives underground because miners had learned the hard way that bringing them up into daylight could blind them. During the Great Depression, the mine paid a special tax that made up half of South Dakota's revenue.
Then, on December 31, 2001, the Homestake closed for good. It left behind more than 370 miles of tunnels and had produced roughly 10% of all the gold ever mined in the United States.
By the math, matter and antimatter should have wiped each other out, so the universe shouldn't exist. Scientists hope to find out why it does by shooting ghost particles 800 miles through the earth into an old South Dakota gold mine.
Dry-cleaning fluid and a ghost
After the pumps were shut off in 2003, the caverns flooded. The owners handed the whole thing over to the state and suggested it become a lab for studying the secrets of the universe. The idea wasn't as wild as it sounds. Back in 1965, the mine had dug out a cavern for a chemist named Raymond Davis. He filled a 100,000-gallon tank with perchloroethylene, a dry-cleaning chemical, to catch neutrinos coming from the sun. He caught only about a third as many as the theory predicted. Fellow scientists mocked him for about 30 years, until he shared the Nobel Prize in 2002.
T. Denny Sanford, the only billionaire in South Dakota, put in $70 million, the state added $40 million, and the U.S. Department of Energy stepped in after the National Science Foundation said no. Former miners came back to drain the tunnels and build what became the Sanford Lab.
Neutrinos are the most abundant particle in the universe, so light they barely have any mass and so aloof they pass through planets, lunches and dogs without a trace. Physicists call them the ghost particle, and they weren't discovered until 1956, in an experiment called Project Poltergeist. They come in three types, called flavors, and they can switch from one to another. That's why Davis's count came up short. Picture calling six kids in for dinner and getting four kids, a raccoon and a possum. Nobody's missing. Two of them just changed.
800 miles, no tunnel required
The bigger puzzle is this: the universe began with equal parts matter and antimatter, which should have wiped each other out. In other words, "the math ain't mathing." The Deep Underground Neutrino Experiment, known as DUNE, will fire a particle beam from Fermilab in Batavia, Illinois, straight through the earth to South Dakota, about 800 miles away. There it will hit 70,000 tons of liquid argon. If matter and antimatter neutrinos change flavors even slightly differently, that tiny imbalance might explain why matter won, and why anyone is around to enjoy tacos and puppies.
Could something go wrong? The same question has dogged the Large Hadron Collider at CERN in Switzerland. A University at Buffalo physics professor said making a real black hole would take "an accelerator as big as the whole universe." That hasn't stopped the internet. Rumors say a July 2022 experiment at CERN tore open a portal. A self-proclaimed internet genius named Max Laughlin claims the collider pushed everyone into an endless string of parallel realities, which he says explains the Mandela Effect: the strange way huge numbers of people share the same false memory, like the Fruit of the Loom cornucopia that apparently never existed.
