tigerbeetle
Full Member
- Jan 2, 2009
- 166
- 275
- Detector(s) used
- Many -- Fisher, White's, Minelab, Cobra, others
- Primary Interest:
- Metal Detecting
Double Dose of GW Treasure:
The police were gone. And it had been a real close call.
Two officers in a shiny new cruiser had all too slowly driven by the spot where I was hiding in deep bush -- so close to the road I could smell the cruiserâs exhaust. The odds were against them seeing me in my Nam-era camo but I wasnât taking any chances. I was flat against the ground and flush to the base of the largest tree I could find in an area of thick but skinny shrubbery. My face was flat against the ground. I ever so lightly rubbed it into the soil to remove any shine, just in case the officers decided to stop to look for the guy the crazy lady in the nearby house had called them about. I was nervously wondering if any of the aftershave I had worn to work earlier in the day might still be wafting around when I realized the danger had inched on, toward a nearby stop sign.
Lying there, I watched as the threat suddenly accelerated off at high speed, likely responding to a report that Dunkinâ Donuts had just put their day-old items out at a reduced price.
I then had to contend with the option of further continuing my detecting of the area or bolting for my truck, parked a solid half mile away â a ploy to divert attention from my target area. Sadly, my parking ploy had gone awry when I opted to walk a goodly distance on the road toward where I wanted to hunt, passing Lady McNuts house along the way. I found out later she was five cans short of a six-pack. She had called the police on me, as she apparently does in response to virtually anyone she sees, thus the officersâ reluctance to search the area very long.
As I slowly rose, post-police, staying or leaving was a brutally hard choice due to what lay deep within the pocket of my button-top military pants. Only half an hour earlier, treasure hunting lightning had struck â then struck again. In back-to-back readings, I uncovered two identical Washington inaugural buttons, vest variety. Being a Federal Period aficionado, these were holy-grail grade finds.
On digging them, I had gone into a lather fully convinced there were surely matching buttons nearby. I knew those buttons came something like 5 to a vest, -- at least that was the educated guess of historians, since data on such inaugural relics was bare bones.
Somewhat typically, no sooner had I located the second button than I heard the first of my machineâs warning beeps, indicating my batteries were running low. No problem. I always carry extras in my backpack. Big problem. I had left the bloody pack back in the truck. Dumb ***!
Knowing I still had some time left in the bleepinâ beepinâ batteries, I did exactly what you donât want to do in such a situation: I began frantic-hunting. Kiss of death. As all detectorists know, a great digging day is marked by becoming one with the machine and the cosmos, so to speak. A certain rhythm is found and a relaxed attentiveness sets in. Nothing is better than getting on a THâing roll â confident that if itâs there you can find it. That had been my mindset before the fabu-finds got me to lathering -- and those low-battery beeps turned up pressure. I lost it, getting angry that I wasnât hitting any good readings â after 60 seconds of hunting. Then the cops came.
Let me note here that I was not trespassing. You heard right. I was fully within my legal right. Oh, Iâm not saying someone didnât own the land. Hey, every piece of land on the planet is ownedâ admittedly, not by me. The thing was this property was fully un-posted.
New Jersey law is amazingly rigid on such things. If you expect people to stay off your land in the Garden State, said property must have regularly placed signs, dated and authorized by the owner, annually. Such signs must be on objects owned by the proprietor of the land. Telephone poles are NOT legal repositories for âNo Trespassingâ signs. Such misplaced signs are null and void, per the law.
Now, many states are not so lenient. Detectorists have to do meticulous homework or face the music. But, in my case, that day I was on solid legal ground â and flat against the ground, pushing my head into the soil And for good reason. While the cops couldnât bust me for trespassing, they could easily dub me a disorderly person, a blanket violation that covers anything they want.
And even that disorderly thing wouldnât have scared me if I werenât in a paranoid âTheyâre mine!â inaugural button-finding mode. All I could picture was a command of, âEmpty your pockets, sir.â And on the hood of the cop car, my newly beloved inaugural buttons would be up for grabs. Yeah, as if the police would see dirty round things and suddenly blurt out, âOh, my god, Washington Inaugural buttons! Let me see your hands, mister!â
Still, I think most THâers know of that instant paranoia after finding a biggy. It got the best of me that day. Not only did I opt to head back to my truck but I moronically chose to do it through the thickest woods known to man, bogging down no less a dozen times to where I began seeing tomorrowâs headline in the Press: âCrazy Man in Camo Found Dead in Quicksand,â with a subhead, âIncredible Inaugural Buttons Found in Pocket.â
âI knew he was up to no good,â a crazy woman who lived nearby told the Press.
Here are my finds. Iâve yet to go back to look for their brethren. The land is now perfectly posted. Legal as all get-out.
The police were gone. And it had been a real close call.
Two officers in a shiny new cruiser had all too slowly driven by the spot where I was hiding in deep bush -- so close to the road I could smell the cruiserâs exhaust. The odds were against them seeing me in my Nam-era camo but I wasnât taking any chances. I was flat against the ground and flush to the base of the largest tree I could find in an area of thick but skinny shrubbery. My face was flat against the ground. I ever so lightly rubbed it into the soil to remove any shine, just in case the officers decided to stop to look for the guy the crazy lady in the nearby house had called them about. I was nervously wondering if any of the aftershave I had worn to work earlier in the day might still be wafting around when I realized the danger had inched on, toward a nearby stop sign.
Lying there, I watched as the threat suddenly accelerated off at high speed, likely responding to a report that Dunkinâ Donuts had just put their day-old items out at a reduced price.
I then had to contend with the option of further continuing my detecting of the area or bolting for my truck, parked a solid half mile away â a ploy to divert attention from my target area. Sadly, my parking ploy had gone awry when I opted to walk a goodly distance on the road toward where I wanted to hunt, passing Lady McNuts house along the way. I found out later she was five cans short of a six-pack. She had called the police on me, as she apparently does in response to virtually anyone she sees, thus the officersâ reluctance to search the area very long.
As I slowly rose, post-police, staying or leaving was a brutally hard choice due to what lay deep within the pocket of my button-top military pants. Only half an hour earlier, treasure hunting lightning had struck â then struck again. In back-to-back readings, I uncovered two identical Washington inaugural buttons, vest variety. Being a Federal Period aficionado, these were holy-grail grade finds.
On digging them, I had gone into a lather fully convinced there were surely matching buttons nearby. I knew those buttons came something like 5 to a vest, -- at least that was the educated guess of historians, since data on such inaugural relics was bare bones.
Somewhat typically, no sooner had I located the second button than I heard the first of my machineâs warning beeps, indicating my batteries were running low. No problem. I always carry extras in my backpack. Big problem. I had left the bloody pack back in the truck. Dumb ***!
Knowing I still had some time left in the bleepinâ beepinâ batteries, I did exactly what you donât want to do in such a situation: I began frantic-hunting. Kiss of death. As all detectorists know, a great digging day is marked by becoming one with the machine and the cosmos, so to speak. A certain rhythm is found and a relaxed attentiveness sets in. Nothing is better than getting on a THâing roll â confident that if itâs there you can find it. That had been my mindset before the fabu-finds got me to lathering -- and those low-battery beeps turned up pressure. I lost it, getting angry that I wasnât hitting any good readings â after 60 seconds of hunting. Then the cops came.
Let me note here that I was not trespassing. You heard right. I was fully within my legal right. Oh, Iâm not saying someone didnât own the land. Hey, every piece of land on the planet is ownedâ admittedly, not by me. The thing was this property was fully un-posted.
New Jersey law is amazingly rigid on such things. If you expect people to stay off your land in the Garden State, said property must have regularly placed signs, dated and authorized by the owner, annually. Such signs must be on objects owned by the proprietor of the land. Telephone poles are NOT legal repositories for âNo Trespassingâ signs. Such misplaced signs are null and void, per the law.
Now, many states are not so lenient. Detectorists have to do meticulous homework or face the music. But, in my case, that day I was on solid legal ground â and flat against the ground, pushing my head into the soil And for good reason. While the cops couldnât bust me for trespassing, they could easily dub me a disorderly person, a blanket violation that covers anything they want.
And even that disorderly thing wouldnât have scared me if I werenât in a paranoid âTheyâre mine!â inaugural button-finding mode. All I could picture was a command of, âEmpty your pockets, sir.â And on the hood of the cop car, my newly beloved inaugural buttons would be up for grabs. Yeah, as if the police would see dirty round things and suddenly blurt out, âOh, my god, Washington Inaugural buttons! Let me see your hands, mister!â
Still, I think most THâers know of that instant paranoia after finding a biggy. It got the best of me that day. Not only did I opt to head back to my truck but I moronically chose to do it through the thickest woods known to man, bogging down no less a dozen times to where I began seeing tomorrowâs headline in the Press: âCrazy Man in Camo Found Dead in Quicksand,â with a subhead, âIncredible Inaugural Buttons Found in Pocket.â
âI knew he was up to no good,â a crazy woman who lived nearby told the Press.
Here are my finds. Iâve yet to go back to look for their brethren. The land is now perfectly posted. Legal as all get-out.
Upvote
0
Property boundary signs in NJ must have the owner's name and telephone number, so the system also works for those wanting to go the ask-permission route. Works for me. 
