Martin O'Leary sits in his dust-covered office with his face in his hands, thinking of the future. His business, the Golden Okie Mine, is going under. 

"I'm really going to just go bananas," says O'Leary, owner and proprietor of the last working gold mine in California. A reporter from Sacramento Special Report was allowed to shadow O'Leary at the El Dorado County mine for during its final days of operation, and learned how the mine came to its final ruin, altering the course of California history forever. 

It all began in 1848, when the Golden Okie was a horse pasture in a rural and impoverished area. The O'Leary family purchased the land that year on the heels of the '49 Gold Rush, which would transform the region into a prosperous hub of economic activity in the state, and turn his family of poor Cornish emigres into millionaires. 

These days, Martin O'Leary shares little resemblance to his wealthy forebears. His office is dilapidated and mildewy, his desk is cluttered with unpaid bills and his mine is falling into disrepair. The gold veins are running dry down below. 

"There's nothing left to dig up," O'Leary says with a wan smile. "They called my family 'poorer than the Okies' before they bought this place. That's how it got the name. But now we really are."

It's difficult for O'Leary to stay long at his desk. He's a burly man of 56 who can't sit still — especially when the overdue bills remind him of the mine's imminent demise. He takes us down into the mines to see how the workers are getting on. 

A 500-foot staircase leads us to a gas-powered tram, where we are shuttled along at an uncomfortable pace into the depths below nearly a mile down. There, we meet up with Charles Boothe, the lead supervisor of Mine Crew A for the Golden Okie. 

We catch him while he's working on a minecart, but he drops his socket wrench to greet us, trying to clean his hands on his dingy, soot-stained coveralls. 

"I've spent more time below ground than above," Boothe says gruffly. "It just ain't dignified to foreclose on a piece of history like this. I just can't believe it."

O'Leary tells me that his men are broken up about the mine's closure, and not just because they'll be losing their job at the Golden Okie. Realistically, there are no more traditional mining operations left anywhere in the Western United States. Some of his workers have no other experience. How can an old man who only knows how to mine be expected to learn a new trade at his age? 

"I've let them down," O'Leary says. It's dark in the mineshaft, so nobody can see his tears, but his shaky voice echoes down into the bowels of the mine. 

Golden State No More?

According to Dr. Gustav Horst, professor of macroeconomics at Tusk University, traditional mining jobs are drying up largely because it's too expensive to continue using older methods and materials. With only a small amount of gold left in the older claims, there isn't much reason to keep them operational. 

"It's simply a matter of scarcity and comparative advantage," Horst said. "Every SWOT analysis we've run shows the same results: the mines have gotta go."

Experts suggest this shifting economic reality could potentially change the face of California permanently. If the Golden Okie shuts down permanently, then the state's famed epithet — the 'Golden State' — may be in jeopardy. 

The California Committee on Nomenclature and Designation (CCND) recently released a statement regarding the Golden Okie, saying that California would no longer be able to legally use branding and stylings related to its Gold Rush past due to an obscure Federal law restricting state's rights dating back to the early 19th century. 

That means the 'Golden State' might have to change its most recognizable nickname, which could be a disaster for the state's multi-billion dollar tourism industry. 

According to CCND Chairwoman Theresa Augustine, the change would be terrible but necessary. 

"Nobody wants to see the 'Golden State' disappear," Augustine said. "But we can bounce back from this. We have plenty of other options."

Augustine suggested 'the Sunshine State,' only to realize moments later that Florida had already claimed the nickname.