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Lanny his real name as far as I know is Preston Vicory. I think that's how you spell it. I'm not sure
what pen name he is using. but I do remember sitting around the campfire reading his stories.
he also hunted all over the west and was very good at finding gold and writing about it. 
AzNuggetBob

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4 hours ago, AzNuggetBob said:

Lanny his real name as far as I know is Preston Vicory. I think that's how you spell it. I'm not sure
what pen name he is using. but I do remember sitting around the campfire reading his stories.
he also hunted all over the west and was very good at finding gold and writing about it. 
AzNuggetBob

I maybe mistaken but I think Preston's last name is spelled "Vickery", but this could be another Preston Vickery, Preston has been mentioned a few times over the years on this forum, here's a link to a article about Preston and him finding pocket gold.

http://www.goldgold.com/pocket-hunting-for-gold.html

Is this the same Preston you referring too Bob?

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5 hours ago, AzNuggetBob said:

Lanny his real name as far as I know is Preston Vicory. I think that's how you spell it. I'm not sure
what pen name he is using. but I do remember sitting around the campfire reading his stories.
he also hunted all over the west and was very good at finding gold and writing about it. 
AzNuggetBob

Thanks!

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1 hour ago, Au Seeker said:

I maybe mistaken but I think Preston's last name is spelled "Vickery", but this could be another Preston Vickery, Preston has been mentioned a few times over the years on this forum, here's a link to a article about Preston and him finding pocket gold.

http://www.goldgold.com/pocket-hunting-for-gold.html

Is this the same Preston you referring too Bob?

Yep That's him. thanks for the spelling correction on his name Au Seeker.

We went down to Mexico hunting together and I would run into him in Nevada and all over Az. too.

AzNuggetBob

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16 hours ago, Au Seeker said:

I maybe mistaken but I think Preston's last name is spelled "Vickery", but this could be another Preston Vickery, Preston has been mentioned a few times over the years on this forum, here's a link to a article about Preston and him finding pocket gold.

http://www.goldgold.com/pocket-hunting-for-gold.html

Is this the same Preston you referring too Bob?

Thanks for the clarification, much appreciated.

All the best,

Lanny

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Flashback Series: Tales From The Flat, Part 1

Oh, the things we discover when we camp with someone for the first time . . .

In the 1990’s, I used to chase the gold a long, long ways north and west of where I currently live, and the last section of the journey was a series of rough logging roads that was hard on vehicles and on nerves (if you’ve ever almost been killed by a logging truck, you know of what I speak).

After our arduous journey, we selected a spot where some of the original gold rush miners from the 1870’s had camped. It was a nice level spot with a creek on one side and the river on the other, the river about 30 feet down on the left, the creek located in a gentle draw on the right.

We went through the tiring process of unloading everything from the back of the truck, so that we could set up the outfitter’s 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, in order to set up, adjust, and stabilize 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. Then, we secured the tarp and the tent walls with ropes and stakes, and lastly, set up our mattresses, bedding, and the wood-burning stove my partner had manufactured himself (he used to supply the GPAA with stoves for their Alaska trips).

We set up our base-camp on the flat treed area of older growth spruce, fur, white-barked birch, aspen, complimented by (along the banks of the bordering creek) thick stands of green-leafed willows and alders. Nestled amongst the trees, here and there, were several old log cabins, none of them inhabited, and an abandoned Hudson’s Bay store. However, all possessed great character. Likely each structure had many tales to tell, being located in such a rich, storied goldfield, one where the Argonauts had chased the gold for well over a hundred and twenty years. On a related note, the old road we had journeyed in on ran right through our camping flat, and was still in use by the locals to get to the upper lakes for fishing, and to get upstream to their mining claims.

With the camp set up, I finally felt how truly hammered I was from lack of sleep, adrenaline drop, and road exhaustion, brought on by sixteen straight hours of night and day travel on terrible roads, plus near-death encounters with logging trucks! As the long summer night was beginning to wane, 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 . . .

A long, restful sleep was not to be that first night. Even though I fell asleep easily, I was soon jarred from my dreams to discover something shocking about my partner: his snoring alternated somewhere between the noise of a fully-revved chainsaw, to that of a fully engaged Jake-Brake (engine ******er brake) on a semi-trailer! I tried pushing on his air mattress to interrupt his screeching midnight symphony, but he only snorted, made puckering and slurping sounds, and then hurried on to compose whole new measures to his masterpiece.

Mercifully, my brain came to my rescue: I remembered hearing somewhere that a sudden, loud noise could jar a person from their deep-sleep snoring, leaving them in a lighter state of sleep with no snoring. In desperation, I whistled as loud as I could. (I can perform a loud, ear-splitting whistle on command, call my horses in from half a mile) My partner shot bolt upright in his sleeping bag, wildly scanning every corner of the tent, completely unaware of what had torn him from his sleep. I lay there as quiet and motionless as death, eyes closed, the perfect picture of an unconscious tent mate. As nothing was amiss in the tent, he quickly settled down to drift off to a soundless sleep.

For about fifteen minutes . . .

After that short reprieve, he launched into a whole new musical composition whose noise surpassed his former cruel and unnatural level! I genuinely felt he would wake the long-dead miners in the historic cemetery two blocks away. So, I whistled again, with a renewed, desperate effort. Once more, he sat bolt upright, and again, I remained motionless and silent. This time, the snoring ceased for the night, and I slept like the dead in the cemetery two blocks distant.

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. After fidgeting a bit, he said, “Do you realize you whistle in your sleep? You woke me up last night, and I just couldn’t get back to sleep!”

Truth is indeed stranger than fiction.

All the best,

Lanny

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Great story Lanny
It brings back a lot of memories for me too. Dodging logging trucks in NorCal driving a Baja bug on icy roads and snoring hunting partners.
The secret is, you just have to out snore them.:thumbsupanim
 AzNuggetBob

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9 hours ago, AzNuggetBob said:

Great story Lanny
It brings back a lot of memories for me too. Dodging logging trucks in NorCal driving a Baja bug on icy roads and snoring hunting partners.
The secret is, you just have to out snore them.:thumbsupanim
 AzNuggetBob

Thanks for your compliment Bob.

Only those that have faced down logging trucks on steep grades know of what we speak!

As for out-snoring a partner, I'll have to give it a try. :thumbsupanim

All the best,

Lanny

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Flashback Series: Tales From The Flat, Part 2

Things that go “snort” in the night.


After our largely sleepless night, the next day we set about cutting firewood, and we went off in search of drinking water (we even located a local spring of pure water whose taste finished with a little buzz on the tongue, great stuff indeed).

Returning to camp and firing up the stove to get rid of the chill in the tent (there was ice on the fire bucket water in the corner), and after cooking grub on the stove, we ate a hearty breakfast, layered ourselves with bug-dope, then took the quad for a ride to wind our way along the twisting, bumpy road that headed up the canyon. The day was calm, the sky a pristine blue. Yellow and purple flowers grew thickly along the sides of the road. Lazy bumblebees went from flower to flower performing their unpredictable aerobatics. Butterflies and humming birds busily fed among the same blossoms. In addition, the ageless melodies of colourful songbirds filled the crisp mountain air. As a punctuation mark to all of this, the invigorating smell of new-growth pine was everywhere.

Steadily climbing in elevation, we worked our way toward the upstream placer workings, ancient and modern. When we saw a current site, we took the time to introduce ourselves to the miners. In this way, we discovered two operations just off the main logging road, with a total of eight crew members working at each. Both operations exposed old drift mines from the 1800’s and the 1930’s, revealing a fascinating series of dark tunnels and opened rooms.

The larger of the two placer operations struck pay running six grams of gold to the yard, with that amount increasing to eight grams to the yard on bedrock (the old rule about gold being on bedrock held true at these operations). The gold was coarse, nuggets in the half ounce to ounce and a half range were retrieved. Being bumpy and rough, the gold had lots of character, and with the channel material removed, it was bedded in graphite schist or slate formations.

The other operation was a bit smaller, their equipment was older, so they spent a lot of time repairing their equipment we were told. However, they were located where several ancient channels intertwined and intersected, and this formation produced gorgeous gold from their mine as well. They were very friendly and even shut down their wash-plant and excavation machinery to chat with us (not a lot of visitors in that remote area).

Both mining ventures invited us to detect their claims whenever we wished! What a shock, but a good one. We only had to inform them of our finds, and if we honoured their show-and-tell request, they didn't want any of the gold, very nice neighbors indeed! (We went home with fantastic, chunky nuggets from that trip thanks to them.)

Later, on a branch leading off from the main logging road, we came across a fellow in his late 70’s patiently working a small-scale operation. The old-timer was working a pay zone, dark gray in colour, six feet thick above a lighter-coloured layer of dirt resting on the bedrock (Strangely there was no gold on the bedrock whatsoever!). However, the gold he was getting was magnificent; some of it was crystalline, and all of it was coarse.

We learned quickly in that new region that the pay-layers had to be found and worked where they were, not where we thought they should be. We had to forget some of our previous learning, open our minds, and accept new inputs, strategies, and gold-deposition thinking. The old notion that the best gold was found on bedrock only was tossed out, and new facts were accepted.

That night before closing our eyes, my partner, probably still suffering from post-traumatic whistle-shock, told me, “You know, my wife always makes me turn on my side when I snore at home. She says it stops me cold.” And, with that, he turned on his side. (I did wonder why he’d kept this from me the night before.) With all quiet, I drifted peacefully off to sleep . . .

Later however, my conscious mind alerted my ever-alert subconscious that all was not right with the world. Something was once more amiss. Listening carefully, I noted that my partner was still as quiet as a sleeping newborn. Because of this, I was somewhat puzzled as to why I was awake. Thinking perhaps my subconscious was a bit overactive from the previous night’s debacle, I was just drifting off when I clearly heard what my subconscious had heard.

“Snort—snuffle!”

Icy fingers skittered up my spine; my body began to contract itself into its smallest form. Visions of Timothy Treadwell danced in my head. (Tent walls offer no protection from large, apex predators.) Then something big struck one of the tent’s guy ropes, and it reverberated with a loud twang. This contact with the rope produced an alarmed snort, followed quickly by several others. My brain’s alert level shot to the top of the scale, as we were in remote country filled with blacks and grizzlies. To complicate matters, it was certain there were multiple somethings out there in the dark.

To be continued:

All the best,

Lanny

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7 hours ago, Lanny in AB said:

Thanks for your compliment Bob.

Only those that have faced down logging trucks on steep grades know of what we speak!

As for out-snoring a partner, I'll have to give it a try. :thumbsupanim

All the best,

Lanny

Yep it can be a real butt tightener to have a huge tractor trailer loaded with fresh cut logs and Roo or Buck bars all over the 
front of it looking like something out of a road warriors movie coming at you going sideways down an icy mountain road with its horns blaring as it goes sliding by. 
but it is kinda fun. :arrowheadsmiley:


         AzNuggetBob

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Flashback Series: Tales From The Flat, Part 3

Confronting the terror.

During this paralytic horror, my only comfort was the assailants were on the same side of the tent as my dozing partner. However, my shameless security in using my partner as a human shield vanished when one of the snorting monsters shifted itself to the back of the tent (right where our heads were) as it began to tear at the grass! I was no longer safe. A two-pronged attack is always harder to defend against. Imagine my heightened distress when another one started ripping up grass at the front of the tent! These attackers were definitely not browsing deer. The weight of these assassins caused the ground to shudder as they moved. Whatever they were, they were huge.

Having nothing to lose now, I reached over and shook my partner. He came awake with a slurping gurgle, and he asked me if he’d been snoring again. I shook my head, but at the sound of his voice, the snorting, snuffling, and tearing of grass immediately halted. The night was deathly still. Using agitated hand signs, I relayed my concerns.

From under my pillow, I flicked on a tiny penlight, then made my way to the front of the tent where I kept a large, halogen flashlight. As I picked it up, the snorting, snuffling and tearing started again. Turning around to check on my partner’s progress, my light lit his panicked, bulging eyes. His hair stood on end! (It didn’t matter it always looked that way; it was perfect for the mood at that moment.) Rushing past me, he flew to the foot of the bed and yanked his 30-30 from its scabbard. The new noises he made caused the outside noises to stop once more.

Gathering all of my courage, then nodding to each other to be ready, I unzipped the front of the tent, and we stepped outside.

I quickly panned my bright halogen beam left and right. Multiple, malevolent eyes were instantly lit in the darkness. I was thunderstruck by their number. We were besieged by an invasion force; evil eyes blazed hotly in the boreal darkness. And then, those demonic eyes, in those huge heads, jerked up from the ground. Massive blasts of exhaled, steamy breath, fogged, and then filled the air.

Regardless of the horror, and somehow finding a reserve of inner strength, I continued moving the light and fully illuminated that host of bodies. I watched in transformed terror as the nocturnal beasts’ claws turned to hooves, their imagined humps to manes, until as one, with a great blowing and snorting, off they all ran.

I have never been so terrified by a herd of wild horses.

We found out the next day that throughout the summer there was a herd that worked its way up and down the connected series of canyons above and below where we were camped.

Of course we both had a good laugh (a hysterical, counterfeit kind of a laugh for sure), and we both uttered macho statements about how silly it was to get all worked up about bears, when in reality it was only horses after all. Clearly, it was the kind of jittery conversation that accompanies the complete and utter loss of every shred of manly dignity.

Oh, the everlasting shame . . .

All the best,

Lanny

(P.S. In the last instalment of this “Tales From The Flats” series, I will relate another disturbing black and midnight event that plagued our seemingly cursed sleep.)

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Great story, Lanny....I hope you don't mind....

Oh what the imagination can see...

Once , down around Yuma, I was sleeping in the bed of my truck; back when I was younger and tougher and much poorer...

Anyway, in the dark of night I woke to see three or four aliens staring over the truck rail at me...I saw a long-ish head and big weird eyes...just like aliens at Roswell.

I am pretty sure I screamed like a little girly...

as the donkeys thundered away I woke up enough realize what they were

fred

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Great story Lanny, but I do believe you left out the epilogue to that night.....about having to change to clean pairs of underwear!!

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On 3/26/2019 at 1:04 AM, AzNuggetBob said:

Yep it can be a real butt tightener to have a huge tractor trailer loaded with fresh cut logs and Roo or Buck bars all over the 
front of it looking like something out of a road warriors movie coming at you going sideways down an icy mountain road with its horns blaring as it goes sliding by. 
but it is kinda fun. :arrowheadsmiley:


         AzNuggetBob

I can sure tell you've been there just by the way you're describing it, takes a few years off after one of those encounters; the fun comes from knowing you're still alive . . .

All the best,

Lanny

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Posted (edited)
9 hours ago, fredmason said:

Great story, Lanny....I hope you don't mind....

Oh what the imagination can see...

Once , down around Yuma, I was sleeping in the bed of my truck; back when I was younger and tougher and much poorer...

Anyway, in the dark of night I woke to see three or four aliens staring over the truck rail at me...I saw a long-ish head and big weird eyes...just like aliens at Roswell.

I am pretty sure I screamed like a little girly...

as the donkeys thundered away I woke up enough realize what they were

fred

Of course I don't mind, in fact, I welcome your input and that of others as well. It's what makes these forums a living thing, the sharing that is.

What a great story you've shared, one of many I'm sure lots of us have experienced while being outdoors when things went "bump" in the middle of the night.

All the best, and thanks again for sharing,

Lanny

Edited by Lanny in AB
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4 hours ago, Au Seeker said:

Great story Lanny, but I do believe you left out the epilogue to that night.....about having to change to clean pairs of underwear!!

Yup, had to leave that out . . .

Thanks for dropping in, and all the best,

Lanny

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(Alder Gulch, Virginia City Montana is where I first got bit! I wrote these lines in memory of that fateful day.)


The Alder Gulch Virus, or, Why I Chase The Gold

In days gone by, when just a lad
My sister’s spouse did somethin’ bad
A ghostly town we went to see,
That lit a fire within me . . .

Virginia City’s driving force
Was mining gold. You knew of course
That Henry Plummer ruled that town
‘Til vigilantes brought him down.

But his demise is not my goal,
A bug bit me to take its toll.
It bred a fever inside me,
Away down south, in Montanny.

What plague is that, you’ll likely say,
That sickened me that fateful day?
A golden fever, spread in me
And since that day, I ain’t been free.

The bug that bit that special day,
Infected me in every way.
Just let me say, there ain’t no pill,
To cure that sassy fever’s ill.

I’ve tried to lick it, ain’t no fun
That potent fever’s always won.
It’s driven me around the bend,
Up mountain streams, to canyon’s end.

It’s made me search in arctic climes
And in the desert many times.
But nothin’ ever seems to kill
My golden fever’s iron will.

But should I cure it? What the heck?
There’s tougher ways to stretch one’s neck!
There’s booze and parties, speed and weed;
There’s lust and pride. There’s crime and greed.

But blast it all, it seems to me 
It ain’t the gold that’s drivin’ me.
The lookin’ for it’s got me hooked
That’s why my fevered brain is cooked.

All the best,

Lanny

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9 hours ago, Lanny in AB said:

(Alder Gulch, Virginia City Montana is where I first got bit! I wrote these lines in memory of that fateful day.)


The Alder Gulch Virus, or, Why I Chase The Gold

In days gone by, when just a lad
My sister’s spouse did somethin’ bad
A ghostly town we went to see,
That lit a fire within me . . .

Virginia City’s driving force
Was mining gold. You knew of course
That Henry Plummer ruled that town
‘Til vigilantes brought him down.

But his demise is not my goal,
A bug bit me to take its toll.
It bred a fever inside me,
Away down south, in Montanny.

What plague is that, you’ll likely say,
That sickened me that fateful day?
A golden fever, spread in me
And since that day, I ain’t been free.

The bug that bit that special day,
Infected me in every way.
Just let me say, there ain’t no pill,
To cure that sassy fever’s ill.

I’ve tried to lick it, ain’t no fun
That potent fever’s always won.
It’s driven me around the bend,
Up mountain streams, to canyon’s end.

It’s made me search in arctic climes
And in the desert many times.
But nothin’ ever seems to kill
My golden fever’s iron will.

But should I cure it? What the heck?
There’s tougher ways to stretch one’s neck!
There’s booze and parties, speed and weed;
There’s lust and pride. There’s crime and greed.

But blast it all, it seems to me 
It ain’t the gold that’s drivin’ me.
The lookin’ for it’s got me hooked
That’s why my fevered brain is cooked.

All the best,

Lanny

Are you sure you aren't Preston? :)

AzNuggetBob

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4 minutes ago, AzNuggetBob said:

Are you sure you aren't Preston? :)

AzNuggetBob

Quite sure, but I did go read one of articles about how to find pocket gold, sounds like he's quite the prospector and really knows his stuff.

Online, I couldn't find any of his stories though, but I'll check abebooks.com to see if they have any of his material.

(If you're using his name as a compliment, I appreciate it.)

All the best,

Lanny

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Lanny

He could be writing under another pen name, I don't know.  I haven't seen him in several years.

AzNuggetBob

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6 minutes ago, AzNuggetBob said:

Lanny

He could be writing under another pen name, I don't know.  I haven't seen him in several years.

AzNuggetBob

I'll keep looking as from his article about how to find pocket gold, he seems like the kind of person I could learn a lot from.

All the best,

Lanny

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Hope you don't mind Lanny you asked me about Mexico. I'm going to throw in a Preston story. I'll make a long story short.
One time when we were down in Mexico we had heard (a local told me)about another placer just over the hill from where we 
were hunting. things were getting slow as far as gold finds So we pack up the 4x van and off we go.We top this saddle on the mountain and look down and it was obvious that the old timers had worked it hard. 
digs on the hillside and stacks down the wash for as far as I could see.
you could see relics of old rusty mining equipment abandoned long ago in the top of the basin. so we go down and park and get out the detectors and I head for the diggings. I head one way and Preston goes the other.
about an hour later I'm thinking better set up camp. the suns going down so I go back to the van and I'm building a fire and I see Preston walking in and he has a huge grin on his face.
So I'm thinking he found a big-un. well he holds out his hand and he has about a couple ounces of smaller nuggets in his hand. I'm puzzled how could he dig that many nuggets in and hour? 
he laughs and says see the old rusty trommel, it has a nugget trap in it. What? ya it has a 3"nugget trap ring about six feet inside the trommel ahead of the screens.
At that point I knew it was going to be a good trip.


AzNuggetBob
 

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13 hours ago, AzNuggetBob said:

Hope you don't mind Lanny you asked me about Mexico. I'm going to throw in a Preston story. I'll make a long story short.
One time when we were down in Mexico we had heard (a local told me)about another placer just over the hill from where we 
were hunting. things were getting slow as far as gold finds So we pack up the 4x van and off we go.We top this saddle on the mountain and look down and it was obvious that the old timers had worked it hard. 
digs on the hillside and stacks down the wash for as far as I could see.
you could see relics of old rusty mining equipment abandoned long ago in the top of the basin. so we go down and park and get out the detectors and I head for the diggings. I head one way and Preston goes the other.
about an hour later I'm thinking better set up camp. the suns going down so I go back to the van and I'm building a fire and I see Preston walking in and he has a huge grin on his face.
So I'm thinking he found a big-un. well he holds out his hand and he has about a couple ounces of smaller nuggets in his hand. I'm puzzled how could he dig that many nuggets in and hour? 
he laughs and says see the old rusty trommel, it has a nugget trap in it. What? ya it has a 3"nugget trap ring about six feet inside the trommel ahead of the screens.
At that point I knew it was going to be a good trip.


AzNuggetBob
 

Bob,

I don't mind it at all when others drop in to share a story, adds to the fun I think, maybe draw us all a bit closer as a group that love to chase the gold.

As for the trip to Mexico, it sounds like it was amazing! I'd love to hear more if you feel you can share some details that is.

All the best,

Lanny

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Flashback Series: Tales From The Flat, Finale

The Midnight Cusser!

Well, I know it’s hard to believe, but it took us a while to get back to sleep after the wild horse encounter. So, we bucked up our spirits by telling far less scary stories about real bear encounters, most-likely due to shock, and eventually we went back to sleep.

We awoke the next morning to a beautiful, clear day.

After breakfast, we went to the truck and took out our metal detectors. We connected the batteries and then walked a few steps away to conduct some tests. My machine worked flawlessly. So, I tossed me test nugget on the ground (glued to an old Golden Nugget poker chip) and got a nice low-high-low sound.

All at once I heard the most awful screeching. I figured my partner passed his coil too close to the truck, all of that metal overloading his circuits, the noise blasting from his speaker . . . However, as I turned to look, I saw a blur disappear into the tent. Nope, not the detector at all, my partner simply forgot his bug spray.

Well, we went out that day and dug all kinds of square nails (factory ones and hand-made ones too), 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, it’s possible to 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 coils that day.

I actually fell asleep before my partner that night, as he was updating his little spiral-bound notebook he always carries in his front pocket (a hold-over from his ranching days). Anyway, around midnight (I sleep with my watch on), something woke me. At first, all I heard was a faint scuffing noise, off in the distance, accompanied by a human voice, and then the words started to sink in.

Someone approaching from downstream was weaving a tapestry of obscenity unlike anything I’d ever heard. He was a true master of the art. As he got closer, his cussing intensified, but then he sped past the tent. Swearing like a sailor the entire time, he faded away in the distance to be heard no more.

My partner slept through the entire event, blissfully unaware of the fine performance he’d missed. On the other hand, I was quite astounded by the profane sermon, but eventually I fell asleep.

Several hours later, I woke again to familiar sounds in the darkness.

The same scuffing noise, the same colorful language returned from the opposite direction! The volume increased until the midnight cusser sped by the tent, the words drifting off in the distance. Other than being annoyed at losing some sleep, I was ready to write it off as an odd, once-in-a-lifetime performance.

It was not!

(The next morning, I could clearly see bicycle tracks in the dust on the road. That explained the hurried arrival and departure speed of our midnight caller.)

The next night, at the same time, the northern preacher repeated his sermon in all its glory. Hearing his approach, I woke my buddy so he could witness the event. Several hours later, I woke my partner to enjoy the return soliloquy. (However, he seemed a bit cranky I’d woke him up.)

The next night, I was sound asleep, yet my partner woke me to listen to those midnight verses. (I wonder why he did that?) Moreover, for the return performance, my partner woke me yet again. (Karma? Or, was it only revenge?)

The next morning, we followed the preacher’s bicycle tracks for miles up the road until they crossed a bridge over a stream. We quit following them at that point, as it was obvious he traveled extensively at night, spreading his wilderness sermon far and wide.

That night, he returned again, with renewed energy and volume in his delivery, but I was ready to do something about it.

(Remember that halogen flashlight, the one that could turn bears into horses? Well, I devised a plan to use its blazing white light to full advantage.)

As he approached, I quietly unzipped the front of the tent, and when he was alongside the tent, I gave him the full halogen blast! He jerked on his bike as if he’d been pole-axed!! His head snapped up, his one hand clawed the air to fend off the impending blindness, but it was too late.

Losing control as he raised his hand, the gravel hooked his front tire, and off he shot at right angles to the road, launching gloriously into the crisp night air, shooting down the embankment, flying through a dense thicket of alders, to plunge into the knee deep water of the creek.

My partner wondered if the bicyclist might need some help. However, I assured him that anyone that could swear like that didn’t need any help with their cussing . . .

To prove my point, we heard some strangled cries, some renewed cussing that surpassed anything we’d heard to date, followed by a great deal of splashing water, the sound of many branches breaking, and then, by the halogen beam, we spotted him emerging from the gloom. Mounting his metallic steed, and with many squishy sounds, he rode off down the road, utterly speechless, but likely thoughtful.

We crawled back under the blankets, and were not awakened by a return performance later that night, or any other night.

Somehow, I’d found a solution to those midnight sermons.

Somehow, indeed.

All the best,

Lanny

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Great Story! Add it as a chapter in the book! :thumbsupanim

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