Trapper John
Jr. Member
- Dec 29, 2014
- 85
- 136
- Detector(s) used
- Garrett AT Pro
- Primary Interest:
- Metal Detecting
This is true story. It has no explanation, nor does it necessarily require one. I am simply reporting on my experience and its consequences.
Some years ago I lived in Southeast Oregon in a small college town. Each day upon awakening I would take my Labrador Retrievers up the steep hill behind our home to about 14 acres of open land and plumb thickets. There we would train and exercise in preparation for bird hunting. I did this each day, every day, for nearly 20 years, regardless of weather or season. I would repeat the process in late afternoon when I finished work.
We lived at the South end of a large lake, where Klamath, Modoc, and Paiute peoples frequented. The patch of land that this story refers to overlooked the lake and apparently was used as a lookout and knapping site. The ground was littered with shards of obsidian, agate, and jasper that had been worked into various cutting tools, presumeably. I always kept my eyes open and over time developed the habit of picking up and examining pieces that caught my eye. You can imagine the quantity of these small fragments that I acquired after almost two decades of collecting. Still, I never found an intact arrowhead.
But now for a bit of background. My oldest grandson - about five at the time - had been given a replica arrowhead of which he was extremely proud. Needless to say the tip eventually broke off. My grandson was disappointed and I privately logged the event, determining that the broken item needed to be replaced with "the real thing." Now my daily sessions had a new meaning, but since I had never actually found a point before the odds seemed to be against me. Until, that is, one November afternoon.
I arrived home after my last class for the day. It was about 4pm and raining. I grabbed my gear and the waiting dogs needed no encouagement. They were "four off the floor" excited, the way Labs get when they are about to go to work. We headed up the hill for our session, as we'd done so many times before.
Those of you used to looking for small things in dark places will understand it when I say that rain (or any sort of moisture in general) makes rocks glisten in the light. It makes for great collecting and dog men say that it improves scent holding. We walked up the hill behind the house and a break in the clouds let a soft yellow light filter across the landscape. And this is when it happened.
I heard a voice. My own voice.
It wasn't loud or distressed. I didn't hear it in the usual sense; it was more like it was in my head. It said:
"Look over there. There's an arrowhead."
I walked through wet field grass to the edge of a plumb thicket. There I spotted what appeared to be a willow leaf. My eye was attracted to a flash of sunlight and I picked up the leaf to examine it.
The leaf was an arrowhead. Carefully knapped. Ready for use. Crafted, perhaps on site, in antiquity.
The long and short of it is that my grandson received this specimen, which he still has. His Dad consulted with local experts who said it might be Paleolithic. But that's not the point of the story.
What was The Voice? Explanations range from the superficial ( "It was pure coincidence") to the supernatural ("Spirits led me to the arrowhead") to the spiritual ("a Higher Power led me to discover the point.") What was my " Field of Dreams" moment?
What do you think?
Some years ago I lived in Southeast Oregon in a small college town. Each day upon awakening I would take my Labrador Retrievers up the steep hill behind our home to about 14 acres of open land and plumb thickets. There we would train and exercise in preparation for bird hunting. I did this each day, every day, for nearly 20 years, regardless of weather or season. I would repeat the process in late afternoon when I finished work.
We lived at the South end of a large lake, where Klamath, Modoc, and Paiute peoples frequented. The patch of land that this story refers to overlooked the lake and apparently was used as a lookout and knapping site. The ground was littered with shards of obsidian, agate, and jasper that had been worked into various cutting tools, presumeably. I always kept my eyes open and over time developed the habit of picking up and examining pieces that caught my eye. You can imagine the quantity of these small fragments that I acquired after almost two decades of collecting. Still, I never found an intact arrowhead.
But now for a bit of background. My oldest grandson - about five at the time - had been given a replica arrowhead of which he was extremely proud. Needless to say the tip eventually broke off. My grandson was disappointed and I privately logged the event, determining that the broken item needed to be replaced with "the real thing." Now my daily sessions had a new meaning, but since I had never actually found a point before the odds seemed to be against me. Until, that is, one November afternoon.
I arrived home after my last class for the day. It was about 4pm and raining. I grabbed my gear and the waiting dogs needed no encouagement. They were "four off the floor" excited, the way Labs get when they are about to go to work. We headed up the hill for our session, as we'd done so many times before.
Those of you used to looking for small things in dark places will understand it when I say that rain (or any sort of moisture in general) makes rocks glisten in the light. It makes for great collecting and dog men say that it improves scent holding. We walked up the hill behind the house and a break in the clouds let a soft yellow light filter across the landscape. And this is when it happened.
I heard a voice. My own voice.
It wasn't loud or distressed. I didn't hear it in the usual sense; it was more like it was in my head. It said:
"Look over there. There's an arrowhead."
I walked through wet field grass to the edge of a plumb thicket. There I spotted what appeared to be a willow leaf. My eye was attracted to a flash of sunlight and I picked up the leaf to examine it.
The leaf was an arrowhead. Carefully knapped. Ready for use. Crafted, perhaps on site, in antiquity.
The long and short of it is that my grandson received this specimen, which he still has. His Dad consulted with local experts who said it might be Paleolithic. But that's not the point of the story.
What was The Voice? Explanations range from the superficial ( "It was pure coincidence") to the supernatural ("Spirits led me to the arrowhead") to the spiritual ("a Higher Power led me to discover the point.") What was my " Field of Dreams" moment?
What do you think?
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