There's a picture of his headstone in the book, with this caption "'Snowshoe' Thomson lies at foot of beloved Sierra in pioneer cemetery at Genoa. Snow-covered hills rising sharply in background are first easy step in what becomes giant barrier rising to over 14,000 feet at highest elevations, passes over which Thomson hiked averaged 7,400 feet. Thomson's 'snowshoes' actually were skis, the first ever seen in West, when the word ski was unknown. Thomson's name is spelled "Thompson" in all available historical references. In face of evidence on stone and fact that Norwegians mostly spell the name without "P", we here follow them."

And the story...
Genoa has an interesting old cemetery with many ornate monuments, some enclosed by elaborate wrought iron fences. A more simple marble stone marks the grave of a Norwegian who was certainly the most remarkable mail carrier known to history. John A. Thomson, born 1827, traveled to the United States with his parents when he was ten years old. The family started farming in Illinois, then moved around through other midwestern states until John was twenty-four. This was in 1851 at a time when the whole country was filled with stories of fantastic gold discoveries in California. The young farmer was so taken with the idea of making a quick fortune he headed for the El Dorado. Arriving at Genoa he climbed over the Sierra along with hundreds of other goldseekers, coming out at Placerville on the California side. He didn't know it then, but the hardy Scandinavian was to retrace this route many times, and more, by himself with a heavy packful of mail on his back.

John worked in the Coon Hollow and Kelsey's Diggings near Placerville for awhile, but with poor results. Becoming disgusted with mining he decided to try farming and bought a small place on Putah Creek in the Sacramento Valley. In 1856 he heard about the difficulties the government was having in getting the mail over the mountains in winter when deep snows clogged the high passes and this got Thomson to thinking. He loved the mountains, he had a strong physique and couldn't get lost, having "something in my head that keeps me right."

So he went out to his woodlot, cut a live oak down. He chose a good, nearly straight section about eight feet long and split the stubborn-grained wood into sections. Of the two most even ones he fashioned a pair of skis such as he had seen in Norway, full-sized versions of the small ones he had worn as a boy. They weighed twenty-five pounds. Then came an improvised balance pole. John took his new equipment up to the mountains and practiced on the snowy slopes. Then he showed up at the post office in Placerville and said he'd carry the mail over the snowy mountains, just like that. And carry the mail he did for twelve years, beginning in January of 1856.

At first it took him four days to cover the ninety miles between Placerville and Carson Valley, but he soon pared off a day. His pack of mail often weighed eighty pounds so he carried little to eat, a few dried sausages and crackers, and no blankets. When forced to rest, he set fire to a dead pine stump, cut a few boughs and napped with his feet to the fire.

He often played the role of Good Samaritan as well. On one trip, he found a James Sisson half dead and with frozen feet in a cabin on the Nevada slope but nearer Placerville. After making Sisson as comfortable as possible, he returned to Placerville, persuaded several men to don makeshift skis, return to the cabin with him and take Sisson down to Carson on a sledge. There a doctor decided Sisson's feet would have to be amputated but no chloroform was available. So Thomson returned over the Sierra to Placerville where he got the precious stuff and again crossed the divide to get the anesthetic to the suffering man in Carson.

After a dozen years of this, the railroad was completed over the pass and Snowshoe Thomson was no longer needed. All this time he'd had no pay and, feeling he should have a little something for his efforts, applied to the post office. There he was told he'd have to go to Washington and make personal application for an appropriation, and this he did. There he got glowing promises of adequate reward, returning home well content. But nothing happened. Later, more promises came along.

He had established another farm in the upper Carson Valley barely on the California side and here he settled down to agriculture again to await his pay. It never came. Although of the most robust constitution Thomson had suffered much in his snowy journeys, losing so much resistance to infection that when an illness attacked him May of 1876 he lasted only four days. His body was taken down to Genoa and buried there.

From "Ghost Towns of the West" by Lambert Florin, Published by Arrangement with Superior Publishing Company, copyright 1970, 1971.