Bedrock and Gold: The mysteries . . .

[Lanny in AB]

Do you love to chase the gold? Please join me--lots of gold hunting tips, stories of finds (successful and not), and prospecting poetry.

Nugget in the bedrock tip:

I had a visit with a mining buddy this past weekend, and he told me of an epic battle to get a nugget out of the bedrock, and of what he learned from the experience. I thought some of you might like to learn from his mistake.

While out detecting one day, he came across a large sheet of bare bedrock. The bedrock was exposed because the area had been blasted off with a water cannon (a monitor), by the old-timers! It was not fractured bedrock, in fact it was totally smooth.

He was not optimistic at all of the prospects of a nugget. But, for some reason (we've all been there) he decided to swing his detector over that bedrock. After a long time, just as he was about to give up on his crazy hunch, he got a signal, right out of that smooth bedrock.

There was no crevice, no sign of a crevice, nada! So, he had to go all the way back to camp to get a small sledge and a chisel. The signal in the rock intrigued him, but he still wasn't overly optimistic. For those of you that have chased signals in a similar situation, sometimes there's a patch of hot mineralization in the bedrock that sounds off, but this spot, according to him, was sharp and clear right in the middle of the signal, not just a general increase of the threshold like you get when you pass over a hot spot in the bedrock.

Anyway, he made it back to the spot and started to chisel his way into the bedrock. If any of you have tried this, it's an awful job, and you usually wind up with cut knuckles--at the least! Regardless, he kept fighting his way down, busting out chunks of bedrock. He kept checking the hole, and the signal remained very strong.

This only puzzled him all the more as he could clearly see that it was solid bedrock with no sign of any crevice. He finally quit at the end of the day, at a depth of about a foot, but still, nothing in the hole.

An experienced nugget shooting friend dropped by the next morning to see him, and asked him how the hunt was going. My buddy related his tale of the mysterious hole in the bedrock, and told the friend to go over and check it out, and see if he could solve the riddle.

Later in the day, the other nugget hunter returned. In his hand was a fine, fat, sassy nugget. It weighed in at about an ounce and a quarter! After my friend returned his eyeballs to their sockets and zapped his heart to start it again, he asked where the nugget had come from.

Imagine his surprise when he heard it came from the mystery hole!! He asked how deep the other guy had gone into the bedrock to get it. "Well, no deeper" was his reply.

So, here's the rest of the story as to what happened. When the successful nugget hunter got to the bedrock, he scanned the surface got the same strong signal as my buddy. He widened out the hole and scanned again. Still a solid tone. He widened the hole some more so he could get his coil in, and here's the key and the lesson in this story, he got a strong signal off the side of the hole, about six inches down, but set back another inch into the side of the bedrock!!

My unlucky friend, the true discoverer of the gorgeous nugget's resting place had gone deep past the signal while digging his hole!!

Now, of course, a good pinpointer would easily solve this problem. The problem was, my buddy didn't have one, so why would he widen the hole, right? Well, the other guy was the one with more experience, and that's why he did. It was a lot more work, but what a payoff!

So, my buddy's butt is still black and blue from where he kicked himself for the next week or so for having lost such an incredible prize.

Some nugget hunting lessons are harder than others to learn. . . .

All the best,

Lanny


P.S. When in gold country--check the bedrock, regardless of whether it looks likely or not! Mother Nature likes to play games sometimes.

 

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[Lanny in AB]

Good Morning Lanny,
With yarns, words and pictures like yours the book should sell quite well to the niche market of prospectors of all grades even 2nd class novices like myself.

For some of my stories people think I'm making them up and I suspect like you all I'm doing is telling the truth as some of the stuff I've done or have had happen to me are strange or unique and they sound made up. Like hiking out on a broken leg with a sprained ankle or having a bear tear up my equipment and I pieced it back together enough so I could stay for another 9 days. Once I found a sizeable section of historic stream bed perched high up on the side of a mountain and I just kept on walking. Some 20 years later I tried to find it, spent two weeks looking in that gold bearing area but never found a single thing and the brush had done some amazing growing in all those years so a lot more was covered .Seems like this sort of stuff sounds made up but I've the x-rays as well as pictures for some of it to prove it.

Keep relating and spinning......63bkpkr

BKPKR--it sounds like you should write some more of your stories down. As everyone knows, life is often stranger than fiction, and the more of life I see, the more I realize how true it is.

Tough luck that you can't find that old channel again--I hear what you're saying--When things start growing, and with all the changes in nature, it's almost impossible to find things again. I know a guy that found a virgin crevice across the river from us--took out two ounces in an afternoon, then he left for the weekend. However, when he came back a month later, someone had pushed a new road in, and as it changed the landmarks sufficiently, he hasn't been able to find it again.

All the best, and thanks for your kind words,

Lanny

 

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[strickman]

Thanks, I was trying to imagine what it was . I would love to get under it a time or two.

 

[Lanny in AB]

(Part III of The Midnight Caller.)

After we arrived at where we were going to set up camp, and suddenly realizing that my near death experiences were over, and that I had survived, I got out with a keen desire to start kissing the ground, to start doing anything and everything to convince myself that I was still alive, even crazy things like running around shouting and screaming! Well, the shouting and screaming started almost immediately—the hordes of northern bugs found me before my feet hit the ground.

I leaped back into the truck shouting and screaming to my partner to dig behind the seat to get me the can of Deet-laced dope. (By some stroke of luck, he had one in his front jacket pocket, and he handed it to me, while calmly chewing on his sandwich, yet still looking somewhat alarmed by my noisy re-entry into the truck. [I believe I have a story somewhere on this thread about Bugs, blood, and gold that goes into much greater detail.]) Anyway, being careful not to squirt any portion of the quasi-nuclear concoction on any of the plastic in the truck (bug dope and plastic don’t like each other at all—it always turns into a gooey get together—a very sticky relationship), I spread enough on me to keep the bugs at bay.

However, while I was in the truck doping up, the bugs were busy doing what they do best; they were busy bashing themselves senseless in to every inch of glass, infuriated at not getting inside to continue their frenzied, northern blood drive.

Being doped up, and feeling safe, we set up our base-camp on a flat treed area containing older growth spruce and fur, white-wrapped birch, and along the banks of the bordering creek, thick stands of green-leafed willows grew profusely. Nestled amongst the trees, here and there, were several old log cabins—none of them inhabited. But, all were proudly possessed of great character. Undoubtedly, each structure had many tales to tell, as all were located in a rich, storied goldfield--one where the noble metal had been hunted and chased for well over a hundred and twenty years. Moreover, the old road we had journeyed in on ran right through our camping flat. In addition, it was still used by the locals on their way to the lakes for fishing, and to the upstream claims for mining.

We went through the never-favorite process of unloading everything from the back of the truck so that we could set up the wall tent. Once we’d put together a portion of the steel inner-frame, we hauled the white canvas up over the sidewall and roof supports. Next, I ran inside to lift up the remaining sidewall struts and poles, and then I set up, adjusted, and stabilized the wall legs while my partner steadied the tent. After our canvas home was up, we covered the whole thing with a massive silver tarp as extra protection from the sudden downpours that frequently occur in those remote mountains. We secured the tarp and the tent walls with ropes and stakes, and then set up our mattresses, bedding, and wood-burning stove.

To say that I was wasted and hammered by lack of sleep, adrenaline drop, and road exhaustion brought on by sixteen straight hours of night and day travel (and punched-out logging truck stress) is to use pathetic, impotent understatement. Nonetheless, the long summer night was beginning to wane, and all I wanted to do was crawl into my sleeping bag and drift off to blissful sleep. That is what I wanted, but that is not what happened.

When I started to strip to get into my night skivvies, I was seized upon by a dreadful realization that the tent was inhabited by uninvited guests--it was full of bugs that still wanted their share of blood. They lined the walls and roof of the tent, and they hadn’t given up at all, they'd simply waited in the tent, biding their time, fresh meat was on the menu. I swatted and clawed, but knew it was purposeless. Something had to be done.

Well, I don’t know about you, but I can’t go to bed with bug dope all over my body—it doesn’t only eat plastic—it’s hard on brain cells, and harder still on other far more sensitive body structures. So, my partner, seized upon by the same realization as I, decided that he’d fix the problem. Bravely armed with his full compliment of clothing once again, he built a roaring fire in the tent--it was his secret weapon. In fact, it was amazing how quickly the moving mass of bugdom worked their way up the walls of the tent as the heat intensified.

My partner was enjoying the show so much that he stuffed the firebox full of wood--threw the damper wide open--until the belly of the stove glowed cherry red. The bugs were now driven to the peak of the tent, spurred into marching along the ridgepoles, beating a hasty, motivated retreat out of the vent holes on either end. The outside northern night air was now so chilled (it was full dark), that the bugs never came back (they just couldn’t keep flying in that frigid night air. By experience, we discovered that every night, the little vampires ceased flying—flight was physically impossible for them at those lower temperatures).

However, we now had a new problem, even if we’d chosen to sleep buck naked, it was far too hot in the tent to enjoy it. Our only option left was to close the damper on the stove, throw open the front flaps of the tent, toss them up over the sides, and tie them in place until the tent cooled sufficiently.

(As mentioned earlier, we soon discovered the flightless nature of the bugs after a certain hour, and so every evening thereafter, we engaged in our nightly de-bugging ritual: firing up the stove, baking our brains as the bugs vacated, then throwing up the flaps to cool down the tent. As a result, it always provided a cozy, pest-free, sleeping environment.)

Nevertheless, sleep eluded me that first night. And, here is the reason why--I soon found out that my partner’s (unknown to me then) snoring alternated somewhere between the decibel range of a screaming, fully-revved chainsaw, to close to that of the jarring stutter emitted by a completely-engaged Jake-brake (engine retarder brake) on a semi-trailer! I tried pushing on his air mattress to interrupt his anguished, midnight symphony, but he would only snort, make puckering and slurping sounds, then hurry on by composing whole, new, improvised measures to his masterpiece.

Mercifully, my brain came to my rescue, as I remembered hearing once that a sudden, loud noise could jar a person from their snoring, leaving them in a lighter state of snore-less sleep. In desperation, I whistled with all I had. (I can whistle at will, one of those piercing, ear-splitting whistles you hear at sporting events when a team scores.) The offending bedbug sat bolt upright in his sleeping bag—wildly scanning the tent in every direction—completely unaware of what had awakened him. I lay there as quiet as death, unmoving, eyes closed, the perfect picture of an unconscious tent mate. He quickly settled down, as everything was obviously calm and serene within the walls of the tent, and he went soundlessly to sleep.

For about fifteen minutes . . . .

Unbelievably, he launched into a whole new score of musically cruel and unusual torture! He rehearsed and then soared to unheard of almost operatic heights—I genuinely felt he was in danger of waking the long-dead residents of the little Old-timer's cemetery fully two blocks distant. So, I whistled again, with renewed, desperate effort. Once more, he sat bolt upright, and again, I remained motionless and silent. This time, he went back to sleep, but the snoring had ceased for the night, and I slept like the dead I had truly become.

Upon waking the next morning, my partner was in a reflective mood. It took him a bit of time to come out and state what was perplexing him so deeply. Without a word of a lie (or you may boil me in oil), he finally spit it all out. “Did you realize that you whistle in your sleep?” he exclaimed. You woke me up last night, and I just couldn’t get back to sleep!

(The rest of this story is yet to come, and my apologies, as I have yet to relate the tale of The Midnight Caller, but I will get there.)

 

[nuggy]

Hi Lanny, hadn't stopped by for a while so I had a bit of reading to catch up. Great stuff - very funny, that last bit about the snoring had me chortling and snorting till tears came to my eyes, Thanks for posting it.

Made me remember.......... Camping out in the summer on a meadow in a tent, near where I was dredging with a buddy who snored. His snoring usually started just before dawn, always woke me in the very early morning. This meant that I was always first up, and had got the fire going and the kettle boiling and cooked breakfast every day. As this began to annoy me. I decided to wait it out one day, and was lying there wondering how to wake him "accidentally on purpose" when a bird landed on our small tent. It was a blackbird and it's small claws came through the tent fabric as it sat there chirping gently.
Somehow I got the idea to reach up and grab it's claws, one claw on each foot with both hands. It unexpectedly screamed out the loudest blackbird alarm call I have ever heard, flapped it's wings loudly against the tent, then yelled again even louder.
My buddy sat bolt upright, but too late to see my hands come back down as I released my shocked captive. What the hell was that! he yelled, in panic. Aw just a blackbird, I replied, they land on the tent and do that every day if no one is moving around outside. (I used to tell tales like that to some of those city boys.)
He swore for a little while, then got up and got the fire going and scrambled some eggs for our breakfast, while I lay in the tent trying hard not to laugh right out. Afterwards he said I should wake him before they came around if I wasn't getting up, as he didn't think his heart could cope with it again. Even now 30 years later I can still get a chuckle out of that prank.

Hope you liked my little reminiscence, a little payback for your entertaining tales of the north. Thanks again, Nuggy

 

[strickman]

that's funny , I can relate this jake brake snoring phenomenon .

 

[Lanny in AB]

Nuggy--so great to hear from you again!!

I had a great laugh reading about your Blackbird alarm, and breakfast motivator, clock. I'm glad you warned the city boys of that peril as well--very neighborly of you to do so.

Are you dredging yet? Or have you been tied up with other priorities lately?

All the best,

Lanny

 

[Lanny in AB]

that's funny , I can relate this jake brake snoring phenomenon .

Thanks Strickman--I'm glad you enjoyed it.

All the best,

Lanny

 

[nuggy]

Hi Lanny, glad you enjoyed it.
Unfortunately I have not had the time to do any dredging this summer also my buddy, who would make me go usually, got stuck working in Christchurch because of the earthquakes there.
Similar story with the detecting, just can't get far enough ahead to take a day or two off when the weather is right. Not sure if you read about my detector buy - further down the page of threads, Minelab eureka bought cheap - help ?

All the best Nuggy

 

[Lanny in AB]

Hi Lanny, glad you enjoyed it.
Unfortunately I have not had the time to do any dredging this summer also my buddy, who would make me go usually, got stuck working in Christchurch because of the earthquakes there.
Similar story with the detecting, just can't get far enough ahead to take a day or two off when the weather is right. Not sure if you read about my detector buy - further down the page of threads, Minelab eureka bought cheap - help ?

All the best Nuggy

I was wondering if the quake had somehow affected you directly or indirectly--I can't imagine that it wouldn't somehow. And, I'm so sorry about what happened to your that beautiful area of your country.

I haven't read your post on the Eureka, but I'll check it out.

Nice to hear from you again, sorry about your hindrances to getting out to get more gold.

All the best,

Lanny

 

[Lanny in AB]

Every time I write another portion of this "Midnight Caller" tale, it reminds me of yet another part to the larger story. However, this is the second to the last installment before the promised event.

So, the next day, we set about cutting firewood, finding a supply of water (we even found a local spring with pure, fresh tasting water whose taste finished with a little buzz on the tongue—it was great stuff.

After starting a fire to kill the chill in the tent (there was ice on the water in the fire bucket in the corner of the tent), and after downing a hearty breakfast cooked-up on wood-stove, we layered ourselves with bug-dope, took the quad, and went up the twisting, bumpy road among the pines, fir, balsam, aspens and birch. Yellow and purple flowers grew thickly along the sides of the road. Lazy bumblebees went about their unpredictable, comical aerobatics from flower to flower. Butterflies and humming birds were busily feeding among the flowers as well.Moreover, the invigorating smell of new-growth pine was everywhere.

We journeyed on, all the while climbing in elevation toward the active upstream placers. We took the time to introduce ourselves to the miners along the way. There were two operations upstream on the main logging road, clearly visible from the road, with a total of eight people working them. Both operations had cut through old drift mines from the 1800’s and the 1930’s—seeing the old mine workings opened up was fascinating and somewhat surreal.

The larger operation of the two placer mines was sited on ground that was running six grams of gold to the yard, with that amount increasing to eight grams to the yard when they hit the bedrock. Moreover, on bedrock the gold was coarse—nuggets in the half an ounce to an ounce and a half range were retrieved. As well, the gold had tons of character—very bumpy and rough, and it was couched in graphite schist and slate formations.

The other operation was a bit smaller, their equipment was older, and they spent a lot of time repairing their equipment. But, they were located where several ancient channels intertwined and intersected, and they too were getting gorgeous gold from their mine. They were very friendly and shut down their wash-plant and loading machinery to have a chat with us.

Both mining ventures invited us to detect their claims whenever we wished. We only had to inform them of our finds--they didn't want any of the gold at all—very nice neighbors indeed! (We went home with some fantastic nuggets from that trip thanks to them.)

We also went up and took a branch off the main logging road, and as it was no longer active explored it at a leisurely, relaxed pace. Along the route of discovery, we noticed that old growth trees had clearly been cut long ago, as massive, moss-covered stumps accompanied the new growth. We found a placer miner far up that canyon, located down an adjoining gulch, where he was patiently working a small-scale operation. The old-timer was working a pay layer that was six feet off the bedrock—there was no gold on the bedrock whatsoever, but the gold he was getting was magnificent—some of it was crystalline, and all of it was coarse.

It was sure curious how the gold was deposited in that new-to-us region—you had to find the pay-layers and work them where they were—you actually had to forget some of your learning, open your mind, and accept new inputs and strategies. It was kind of like it was good to throw out some of your working knowledge and assumptions about gold concentrating on the bedrock and calmly accept the new facts.

We spent the entire day exploring, meeting people, asking lots and lots of questions; as well as orienting ourselves to the new location. By the time we got back to camp, it was getting dusky (about 11:30 at night). We were both very tired, not yet recovered from our sketchy trip in to our base camp.

So, we were eager to drive the bugs out of the tent, make sure the 30-30 was locked and loaded within easy reach, and we were very ready to crawl into our warm sleeping bags and get some sleep. That is what we both dearly desired, but that is not what happened. For that night, we had our first unscheduled visit, one that interrupted our desperately needed sleep in every way.

 

[strickman]

left hanging ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ohhhhhh the suspense !!!!!!!!

 

[EagleDown]

I dropped in here this morning just to say hello. But, ended up spending a while catching up on your posts. Darn thing isn't letting me know when there's been a new post. (Again) Well, I've "refreshed" the notify button, so we'll see what happens now.

I'm still loving your stories my friend. The only problem I have with them is; every time I read one of them, it reminds me of one (or more,) of my experiences.

Between your experiences and those of your many fans that are posted on your thread, I should never run out of stories for my thread. As a matter of fact, your behemoth logging trucks reminded me of something else. Unfortunately, it's not near as humorous as your "Near Death" Experiences.

Yu Da Man Bro'!! Keep 'em coming.

Eagle

 

[Hefty1]

For that night, we had our first unscheduled visit, one that interrupted our desperately needed sleep in every way.

And, and, Oh the misery of waiting.

 

[Goodyguy]

Great story, I'm hanging on your every word.

GG~

 

[Lanny in AB]

left hanging ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ohhhhhh the suspense !!!!!!!!

The end is finally here!

All the best,

Lanny

 

[Lanny in AB]

I dropped in here this morning just to say hello. But, ended up spending a while catching up on your posts. Darn thing isn't letting me know when there's been a new post. (Again) Well, I've "refreshed" the notify button, so we'll see what happens now.

I'm still loving your stories my friend. The only problem I have with them is; every time I read one of them, it reminds me of one (or more,) of my experiences.

Between your experiences and those of your many fans that are posted on your thread, I should never run out of stories for my thread. As a matter of fact, your behemoth logging trucks reminded me of something else. Unfortunately, it's not near as humorous as your "Near Death" Experiences.

Yu Da Man Bro'!! Keep 'em coming.

Eagle

Eagle--you and I have the same problem--I start writing and all it does is remind me of related stories and events. I have to force myself to write on just one.

Thanks so much for your support and encouragement. I love reading your stories as well.

All the best,

Lanny

 

[Lanny in AB]

For that night, we had our first unscheduled visit, one that interrupted our desperately needed sleep in every way.

And, and, Oh the misery of waiting.

No more waiting Hefty--promise!

All the best,

Lanny

 

[Lanny in AB]

Great story, I'm hanging on your every word.

GG~

GG--thanks so much!

All the best,

Lanny

 

[Lanny in AB]

The Midnight Caller Mystery, Part IV-A (Too long to post in one piece--part B to to follow.)

That night I drifted peacefully off to sleep, kind of the same way that big, fluffy flakes do while drifting into a ridge, when accompanied by a soft wind, on a pleasant winter’s eve. Moreover, my partner, probably still suffering from post-traumatic-whistle-shock, had verbalized a bit of pragmatic logic, right before he turned in: “You know”, he said, “My wife always makes me turn over on my side when I snore at home—she says it stops me cold.” And, with that, he turned on his side and I heard no Jake-brakin’-chainsawin’ ruckus whatsoever. (Although, I did wonder why he hadn’t employed that tactic the night before—must have had something to do with gold miner wisdom he just wasn't willing to share.)

Regardless, I found myself dreaming soft, easy dreams of nuggets in every pan, of virgin bedrock covered with pickers, when all at once my conscious mind was alerted by my subconscious that all was not right with the world. (You know the experience, when you’re peacefully dreaming, and all at once you find yourself awake, and you wonder why the heck you’re awake when you know you nodded off dead tired? Well, that’s what happened to me. I knew I was awake, but I didn’t know why.) Listening carefully, I noted that my partner was as silent as Grant’s Tomb. So, I was somewhat puzzled as to why I was awake. However, as I was just drifting off again, I clearly heard what my subconscious had heard to awaken me.

“Snort—snuffle!”

My hair stood on end; my body began to contract itself into the smallest form it could. (I knew how much protection the walls of a tent offered from a predator.) Then I heard something big twang off one of the guy ropes of the outfitter’s tent, and I heard an alarmed snort. This was not good. I already knew we were in bear country—thick bear country as a matter of fact, filled with blacks and grizzlies, and I wondered how long it would be until one of them (For yes, there was definitely more than one.) decided to test the sharpness of their claws against the flimsy resistance of a canvass sidewall.

The only comforting thought I had during this paralytic horror was that they were on the same side as my silently dozing partner. (Yes, it was selfish hope, I’m not proud of it now, for the greedy carnivores would get to snack on my partner before they got to me. His body was a convenient barrier barring them from me, and yet he remained oblivious to the unseen horror outside the tent.)

However, my brief sense of shameless security at my partner's expense vanished when one of the unseen malefactors shifted itself to the head of the tent right where our puny human heads were resting. Whatever evil power it was then began to rip up large clumps of grass! Now that move put me in a real pickle. These unseen carnivores were clever—a two-pronged attack was much harder to defend against. Moreover, imagine my distress when another began snuffling, snorting, and ripping up grass at the front of the tent!! All was doomed—I had nothing to lose now—any hope of using a human shield had fled. So, I reached over and shook my partner. He came awake with a very slurpy gurgle, then he dopily asked me if he’d been snoring again. Instantly, the snorting, snuffling, and the tearing of grass halted immediately. All was deathly still. I’m sure my partner wondered why I’d jarred him from his baby-like bliss. I shushed him and quietly told him that there was something alive and ominous, prowling outside the tent.

I flicked on a tiny penlight I had stashed under my pillow, and started to make my way down to the foot of the tent where I kept a large, halogen flashlight. As I moved cautiously, the snorting and tearing started again. I turned around with the light, and my partner’s eyes were bugging out of his head. (Or maybe it was a bug. I don't know. They really are that big up north.) His hair was standing on end (it didn’t matter that it was already like that before he went to bed—it just looked perfect for the frightening mood of the moment), his jaw dropped, and he flew to the foot of the bed to yank the 30-30 from the scabbard. That much noise from within the tent quieted the noises from outside once again. Gathering all of my courage, I unzipped the front of the tent, and we stepped outside.

On a bit of a side note, that light of mine could melt the eyeballs from the head of a bronze statue, and I quickly panned it left and right. Well, this didn’t sit well with the animals. Eyes lit up all over the place in the darkness. I was thunderstruck. It was an invasion-sized force! I’d never seen so many evil eyes blazing in the forest darkness.

But all at once, those wild eyes in those huge heads jerked up from the ground. Massive blasts of steaming breath fogged the the chill night air, obscuring everything.

Nevertheless, finding some hidden reserve of inner strength, I kept the light moving, shining the beam to illuminate whatever the living nightmare was. I watched in transformed terror as their claws turned to hooves, their imagined humps turned to manes—until, as one, with a great blowing and snorting, off they galloped.

Wild horses.

A herd of wild horses? Where the heck had they come from? (We found out the next day that there was a herd that worked its way all summer up and down the connected series of canyons we were camped in.)

Of course we both had a good laugh (sort of a hysterical, fake kind of laughter if you must know), and we both shot out macho, man-bonding statements about how silly it was to get all worked up about bears, when in reality it was only horses. The kind of friendly B.S that lives briefly after a heart-stopping crisis, one where you've shamelessly lost every shred of your manly dignity. You must know what I'm talking about.

Well, I know it’s hard to believe, but it took us a while to get back to sleep, but we worked on it by bucking up our spirits with a couple of cups of hot chocolate, and we may have even told silly, way less scary stories about real bear encounters. I don’t recall the exact contents of the conversation exactly—most-likely due to shock, and brain seizure, but eventually we went back to sleep. And, we awoke the next morning to a beautiful, clear day.

(The Midnight Caller Mystery, Part IV-B to follow.)

All the best,

Lanny

 

[Lanny in AB]

(The Midnight Caller Mystery, Part IV-B.)



After breakfast, we went to the truck, lifted the lever to let the seat fall forward, and then took out our metal detectors. We connected the batteries and then walked a few steps away to conduct air tests. My machine was working flawlessly. I tossed my chip with the nugget glued to it on the ground and got a nice low-high-low sound. All at once I heard the most awful screeching, and I figured my partner must have gotten his coil too close to the truck, all of that metal overloading his circuits, blowing out his speaker. As the screech and howl continued, I turned and saw a blur disappear into the tent. Nope—it wasn’t the detector at all—my partner had simply forgotten to spray up with bug-dope.

Well, we went out that day and dug all kinds of square nails (commercial-made and hand-made nails), bits of lead, pieces of tin, iron wire, copper wire, shell casings, bullet lead, but no nuggets. We came home dog-tired and ready for bed. Up north where we were, you can get in fourteen or more hours of detecting in a day if the weather’s good, and we’d put in lots of hours of swinging the coil that day.



I actually fell asleep before my partner that night, as he was updating his little spiral-bound notebook that he always carried in his front pocket. Anyway, it was sometime right near midnight (I sleep with my watch on) when I was once again awakened by my subconscious. I opened my eyes and listened (I’d learned to trust my subconscious by now). At first, all I could hear was a kind of scuffing noise off in the distance accompanied by a human voice, and then the words of that voice came clearer to my waking ears.

Someone, approaching the tent from downstream, was weaving a tapestry of obscenity unlike any other masterpiece I’d heard before. The verbal assailant was a true scholar of the form--a genuine master. Moreover, if the outer air of the planet had been blue before he’d started, it was now a rich, dark, navy blue! As he got closer his tirade took on an increased intensity, but he was coming onward quite quickly, then he was hastily by, launching his copious cussing all the while to speed off into the trailing distance to be heard no more.

My partner slept through the whole stellar performance. He was blissfully unaware of any part of it. I, on the other hand, was quite astounded by it, and I pondered it’s meaning and purpose until sleep finally overcame me. Contentedly, I was once again wrapped in the drowsy arms of Morpheus. Several hours later, my subconscious mentor once again placed a call. Taking it quickly this time, I listened alertly in the darkness.

The same scuffing noise (accompanied by some highly creative, colorful language) was returning from the opposite direction! The bizarre oration's cadence and volume increased until it once again sped by the tent, hurrying on until its symphony disappeared into the distance toward the tiny hamlet (down-slope of our camping site). Other than the interruption of sleep, I in no way felt threatened by the unrequested demonstration of artistic, volcanic energy. So, I went back to sleep, thinking of it as a once-in-a-lifetime midnight performance—a northern oddity of sorts.

It was not!

(The next morning, in the dust of the gravel track that passed the tent, I could clearly see the outline of a bicycle’s tires, front and rear. That explained the speed with which the impromptu midnight orator had arrived and departed.)

The next night, the preacher’s symphony of obscenities was repeated again at the exact same hour, only this time, as he approached, I woke my buddy so he could verify the act. He groggily complied, acknowledged his witness of the act, and then went back to sleep. Several hours later, as the bicycle preacher returned for his encore performance, I woke my partner and let him enjoy another soliloquy. (To say my partner did not appreciate being awakened for these twin sermons is to be overly vague—suffice it to say he enjoyed sleeping better. If I recall in more detail, It was something about how he valued his sleep—or some such rot as that.)

The next night, I was sound asleep (I guess my subconscious knew that the midnight caller was no threat—I’m not sure), yet my partner awakened me to listen to the caller blast the air with his verses of profanic ecstasy. (I wonder why my partner felt the need to wake me? I was fast asleep, enjoying a well-earned rest . . . ?) Regardless, he felt I needed to enjoy another nighttime session.

The next morning, we made out the tracks of the bicycle once more. We followed them upstream for miles on the quad, until they crossed a bridge over a stream. We quit following them at that point, as there was some good looking bedrock exposed along the bank downstream of the bridge. (Imagine gold miners being distracted by that!)



But from the tracks we’d followed, it was obvious that the midnight caller traveled extensively at night, zealously spreading his colorful message far and wide.

The next night, he returned again, with renewed energy and zeal in his delivery, and he truly waxed sublime in his oration. This time, my partner and I were both awake as our senses were assaulted. However, these verbal excesses were not getting us any prolonged sleep, so I determined to do something about it.

You’ll remember that halogen flashlight—the one that could melt bronze eyeballs? Well, I devised a plan on how to use it to its full advantage.

I kept myself awake the following night, waited until I could hear the first stirrings of the midnight caller’s latest sermon. I quietly unzipped the front of the tent, and when he was coming alongside the tent in all his magnificence, I gave him the full blast right in the eyeballs! He jerked as if he’d been pole-axed!! His head snapped up, his one hand clawed the air to fend off his impending blindness. Alas, he was doomed.

Having lost control of his metal steed as he’d raised his hand, the gravel hooked his tire and off he shot at right angles to the road, launching himself gloriously into the now still night air, straight down the embankment, through the dense thicket of fringing willows, to be plunged without dignity into the knee deep water.

We heard some strangled cries, some renewed cussing, a lot of snapping of branches, followed by a great deal of splashing water, and then we spotted him emerging from the gloom on the far side of one of the previously mentioned historic cabins. He mounted his horse of the night, and with many wet, squishy sounds, rode off down the road. However, he did so in profound silence, no doubt lost in deep thought.

We went back to sleep, and were not awakened by a return performance later that night. Indeed, the rest of our stay was unmarred by any further profane performances. Somehow, we’d found a solution to the mystery of what motivated the midnight caller on his nocturnal rides.

Somehow, indeed.



All the best,

Lanny