Prospecting Tales

[Lanny in AB]

Prospecting stories, tips, a few poems on gold hunting, and all are about chasing the gold. Just fly past the poems if you'd rather read stories.

The Tale of Sourdough Sue

It’s time for the tale of Sourdough Sue,
A right salty gal she was, through and through.
She’d followed the strikes all over the west,
And chasin’ the gold was what Sue liked best.

As summer was fadin’ there came word to her
A rush was a hapnin’, for certain, for sure
Yes, gold had been found, big nuggets, coarse flakes
“I’m goin’”, said Sue, “Whatever it takes.”



It seems in Montanny they had them a strike
And word of a rush, them gold diggers like.
So Sue grabbed her gear and loaded her mules
With beans, bacon, flour and stout minin’ tools

At last she was ready to head on up north
Sue knew t’would be tough, but still she set forth.
Why, week after week it was lonely and cold,
But Sue couldn’t shake the lure of that gold.

The weather degraded the farther she went
The storms she encountered seemed not heaven sent
The trek was slow, the wind howled in the trees
The snow was so deep Sue wished she’d brung skis.



Them passes was chokin’ with oodles of snow
The air in them mountains was forty below
Now Sue weren’t no Pilgrim, but this here was tough
The sun had skedaddled, and things were plumb rough.



Sue needed a spot to ride out that storm
A shelter and fire to get herself warm
Well, off in the spindrift she spied her a light
To Sue there weren't never a more welcome sight.

A cabin it was, for certain, for sure
The warmth that it offered was likely a cure
For cold toes and fingers with needle-like pains
(Escape from that storm didn’t take many brains.)

The cabin was home to one Hook-Nosed Bob Brown
His spirits was up, for they never was down.
As looks weren’t his strong suit, Bob’d loaded his mind
With right clever sayin’s from book quotes he’d find.



Now Sue came a stumblin’ from out of that storm
And Hook-Nosed old Bobby just turned on the charm
He sat Suzie down, right close to the heat
Then went to his stable—those mules got a treat,

Bob stripped off their harness, their cold heavy packs
He rubbed them right down with dry gunnysacks
He broke out some oats, some sweet meadow hay
Then forked them some bedding where both mules could lay.

Then back to the cabin he flew off to check
How Sue was a doin’, but she’d hit the deck
A buffalo hide, she’d found near the bed
And close to the fire, she lay like the dead

Well Bob had read somewheres to let such things lie
(T’was somethin’ on canines, to wake them you’d die?)
So Bob settled in for the last of that night
While the storm shook the cabin with all of its might.

The mornin’ it came with a hushed quiet chill
The wind had died out, but the cold was there still.
Bob built up the fire, then snuck off outside
To check on those mules, who thanked him bright-eyed.

Then back to his cabin he sped to his guest
For Sue was a stirrin’, so Bob did his best.
He threw on some bacon, them beans got a stir
Whatever Bob did, he did it for her.

For up on the wall, on a peg near the fire,
A stockin' was hung! For what you enquire?
T’was Christmas of course, and Bob had desired
A gift from old Santa, just like he’d enquired.

Right here lay a woman, fresh in from the storm
And on Christmas eve, he’d made his place warm.
He’d trusted in Santa to grant him his wish
This Sourdough Sue was a right purty dish.

Well Sue and Bob bonded. His nose wasn’t right,
But Bob was so witty, it fled from Sue’s sight;
She saw there, instead of what others had seen,
The solid-gold-Bob that'd always there been.


So, this is the tale of Sourdough Sue
Who went in a rush to find gold, it’s true.
But Sue wasn't savvy to Nick’s crafty plan
To scoot her off northward to find there a man.

And just so you’re certain, so there's not a doubt
(I’m sure in your mind you’ve figured it out)
In Bob’s Christmas stocking, hung there on his wall
Was a note from old Santa explaining it all.


All the best,

Lanny

 

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[Jeff95531]

No lessons greater than the ones Mother Nature teaches when I'm out chasing the gold.

What's your story with waterfalls? You've got me interested. . . .

All the best,

Lanny

I started getting into prospecting with a lot of help from the first season of Gold Rush. The glory hole So here I am brand new in CA with tons of streams and rivers and hundreds of water falls. I research river bends and falls. Most people say to stay away from falls...the gold gets ground up in the bottom with no where to go. And that is EXACTLY what I have found 6 out of 6 times last year. Lessons learned hardest are lessons learned best. If you'd like to read about my latest "proof" go here:

http://www.treasurenet.com/forums/gold-prospecting/392398-bottom-9th-no-time-outs-remaining.html

I believe I figured out what happened this last time. The falls are coming straight down and have been for several months with little change. (we are having the driest season on record here). I have found gold going upstream all the way up to the falls. The first few shovels at the base had rocks, then nothing but sand. The rocks and top layer had the most flour gold I had ever seen in a pan and little slivers. After that was nothing but 2 1/2 flakes. Now I didn't get to the bottom but with NO evidence to continue, I won't. I think that the gold is ejected outward (with considerable force) when it has a "normal" rainy season...AWAY from that gold grinding vortex at the base. I just need to work my way upstream, but the "easy access" is over...and forget about water falls, at least for now

 

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[Hoser John]

Great story Lanny mining is quite a addiction as we risk our very being on that golden hunch. A detector saved me whilst sliding down a extremely steep hillside as used as a protector and Tesoro fixed it for free with a new control box,sure saved my hipside fer sure. Looks sure are deceiving as jus' a little mo'higher turns into OMG how did I end up way up here hahaha a little adreneline goes a long way but does not garner safety-Respect-John

 

[Lanny in AB]

I started getting into prospecting with a lot of help from the first season of Gold Rush. The glory hole So here I am brand new in CA with tons of streams and rivers and hundreds of water falls. I research river bends and falls. Most people say to stay away from falls...the gold gets ground up in the bottom with no where to go. And that is EXACTLY what I have found 6 out of 6 times last year. Lessons learned hardest are lessons learned best. If you'd like to read about my latest "proof" go here:

http://www.treasurenet.com/forums/gold-prospecting/392398-bottom-9th-no-time-outs-remaining.html

I believe I figured out what happened this last time. The falls are coming straight down and have been for several months with little change. (we are having the driest season on record here). I have found gold going upstream all the way up to the falls. The first few shovels at the base had rocks, then nothing but sand. The rocks and top layer had the most flour gold I had ever seen in a pan and little slivers. After that was nothing but 2 1/2 flakes. Now I didn't get to the bottom but with NO evidence to continue, I won't. I think that the gold is ejected outward (with considerable force) when it has a "normal" rainy season...AWAY from that gold grinding vortex at the base. I just need to work my way upstream, but the "easy access" is over...and forget about water falls, at least for now

Thanks for the background info and the reply. Now I've got an idea what you're referring to.

All the best,

Lanny

 

[Lanny in AB]

Dredging River Dance; or, how to almost die dredging.



(This rather lengthy tale is about one of my dredging misadventures experienced while I was investigating what I thought was promising bedrock.)


Well, here's tale of summer's fun, more or less.

Once, I tried to cross the swiftest part of the river to get to the other side. I like to think of it (my attempt) in terms of the world famous River Dance—there are common elements: both of them require very rapid movement of the feet, clever planning, and lots of spinning and whirling of the body, with accompanying vocal tones that may be melodious (well, sometimes).

As I got suited up one gorgeous summer’s day to get into the dredge hole, I saw a cliff across the river at the base of a terrace of other cliffs that marched up the mountain in a series of timbered steps that rose upward for several hundred feet.



Cut into the bottom of this black bedrock, there’s a wicked pool of water where the river fires most of itself through a bedrock chute. Just upstream of the chute, the river slams into the bedrock wall, cuts back on itself in a foaming suction eddy, then whirls on in a quick right angle turn to create a channel around eight feet deep, yet the width is only a couple of yards across.

The rocks and boulders in that hole perpetually shimmy and shiver under the relentless thrumming of the stream.

Nevertheless, my giant brain had a feverish idea—a true inspirational melon buster of an idea it was. I peeked across the river, and since I was already suited up for underwater gold hunting, my brain devised a way to get me safely to the other side to investigate.



Now, remember, there’s a cliff on the other side, so holding on to that far bank isn’t an option. However, with the weather nice and hot, and the river level dropping day by day, it seemed a good plan to saunter over and have a peek underwater, right alongside the chute's edge to see if any nuggets were trapped in its cracks or crevices. I’d just peek around over there and have a shot at the coarse gold before the snipers cleaned it up later in the summer.

As I’ve mentioned, I was geared up for dredging which works great for sniping as well. In fact, I had on two wetsuits, the shorty, and my farmer-John 7mm, with a cold-water hood; my mask, and snorkel; and my Hooka harness with my regulator slung over my shoulder. I was ready.

So, my pea-sized brain (notice how my brain shrunk from earlier on?) decided it would be a glorious idea to secure my arm around an anchor rope and then tiptoe across the river—all while keeping constant pressure on the line to maintain my balance in the stiff current. That was the idea.

I’d work my way to the far side of the chute, gently lower myself into the river, and then let the sixty pounds of lead I had strapped to me do what lead does best. While it sunk me, I'd casually examine the bedrock for orphaned chunks of gold, little river children in need of adoption, so to speak.

That was the plan. That is not what happened.



While the motor purred contentedly on the dredge to fill the reserve air tank, I stepped away from the Keene 4505PH four-inch three-stage model to work my way over to the chute to snipe for gold. I was excited to get going, to get into the hunt so to speak, and it reminded me of when I was younger and was excited to hunt pheasants with my gun dog.

Come to think of it, it’s too bad I didn’t have my hunting dog with me then, as he’d have absolutely refused to test the waters for the golden game I was after that day. Being a smart dog, he’d have looked at me like I was crazy, turned tail, shot back to the cab of the truck, hopped in with a smug look on his face and then bedded down for a safe snooze!

Upon reflection, there’s something about a dog being smarter than a human that just doesn’t sit well. Regardless, maybe some humble pie is in order and I should wise up and pay him a consulting fee to save myself future grief.

Dog brains and canine wisdom aside, I decided that I’d quickly get to the task and cross that stream. So, I walked away from the dredge and immediately stepped onto a slippery sheet of slate. Not to worry, I told myself, for in addition to my weight-belt around my waist, I had ankle weights that would quickly stabilize my feet.



Thinking back on it, there must be some science of river physics that my rice-sized brain hasn’t quite grasped. It must be a ratio or an equation that goes something like this: river velocity x mass + slippery rocks =stupidity run out to a power of 10! And, if you divide that by the dimwit factor high on gold fever steroids that day, you get a very predictable result. With every misstep in the stream, the river exerts an ever-increasing degree of control over the flailing foreign body that’s trying to stagger across it (NASA should consult me on bizarre test theories when they get stumped!).

Well, the river's fun started almost immediately as my left foot, moving forward, slid down the slippery rock, the force mashing my big toe into a boulder, thus causing that formerly happy dredger (we’ll refer to this numb-skull in the third person, on and off, for the next while to keep things simple) to commence to weave a tapestry of glorious, colorful words in the mountain air, all accompanied by melodious tones (Well, as melodious as the sounds of a boar grizzly attacking a cougar with newborn kittens is melodious, I guess!).

This verbal explosion of excited speech in turn created a momentary lapse in sanity, causing said golden boy to move his right foot in reflex to the hammering pain of his throbbing left foot's big toe. Furthermore, the river current promptly seized said bozo’s right leg in its grasp, at the exact moment when the right foot slipped quickly down a submerged incline.

This in turn caused the back of the doomed dredger to twist slightly, creating some sort of physics wonderland where the broad part of the dredger's back now acted like a garage door trying to navigate the river perpendicularly, and yet the dredger was still trying to keep his body upright!

This exponential force utilized the might of untold millions of gallons of glacial melt water moving at roughly Mach III (This guess of the speed is only an estimate as I had no calibrated instruments for measuring water velocity with me that day). These enhanced forces acted out their vengeance on the dimwit porpoising back and forth across the river, the same dimwit that somehow managed to keep a death grip on the safety line!

I must call a brief pause here to say that there’s nothing so annoying as a smug dredge buddy that watches you thrash about as you helplessly struggle in the grasp of a raging river. It's not annoying that your buddy is watching. No. What's annoying is that while he’s watching he's laughing such a jackal-like, high-pitched laugh that it's effects terrify and frighten off any man or beast within three miles that could help with a rescue in any manner.

But, not to worry, after several ballet-like corrections on micro-brain’s part, he’d righted himself by using the safety line. Well, almost righted himself that is . . . For, as he pulled back hard on the safety line to come upright, his garage-door-like body, playing the part of a super-rudder, rocketed him back across the river, bouncing him playfully off the boulders as it propelled him toward, while pointing him downstream of, the dredge. This liquid inertia started a barrel roll, spinning the attached twit around on the safety line like a tailless kite in a hurricane.

Oh, did I mention that his Hooka regulator was hanging across his shoulder as he artfully (Yes, but more like really bad art than anything else) stepped into the stream? Well, with his regulator streaming straight behind him, and as his snorkel wasn't in his mouth either, he began to try to drink the river dry.

Oh, desperate drinking it was! For, after his head plowed underwater furrows, he’d burst forth, shaking his melon side to side, smacking his lips loudly as he bellowed unpronounceable syllables from Viking drinking songs. Songs sung only after drinking steadily for two days! Nevertheless, he soon floundered (both eyes now felt as if they were the squashed and compressed eyes found on the side of the flounder) his way up the safety line. He then stood waist-deep in the placid river, magnificently in control, feet firmly anchored once again.

Yes, rest from turmoil was finally his. However, then befell the shame of trying to explain his aquatic aerobatics to his mining partner.



Nonetheless, after a witty explanation, the dope on a rope cautiously proceeded to the chute on the other side. Once there, he launched himself into the slack water behind a lip of protruding bedrock guarding the head of the chute.

With regulator in place, he stuck his head under water only to see that the bedrock's surface was as smooth as a bathtub for most of its length . . . But there, just off to the right, was a small crevice, and in that crevice was a chunk of sassy yellow gold.

(Oh, it was magnificent and glorious, the bright sunshine winked off it as it sparkled and shone.)

Therefore, the dauntless dredger forgot the function of his gray matter and tried to reach the golden prize, forgetting about his precarious footing, and abandoning the shelter offered by the bedrock outcrop.

This unexplainable act launched him yet into another River Dance. Clearly, this performance was not in any way connected to the one that played on the world stage for years. No, this was a river dance accompanied by colorful and strangely explosive, yet disharmonious tones instead of the lively, upbeat music of the famed production.

At last, the soggy dredger, much refreshed after finishing his two-time audition for the River Dance, returned to his still purring dredge, stuffed his brains back in through the openings originally intended for his ears and nose, reinserted an eyeball, reattached an ear, and then quietly returned to a boring day of uneventful dredging.



River Dance indeed.

All the best,

Lanny

 

[Hoser John]

hahahaha thanx for my first righteous laugh a the day. River dance aaaa yes sir done a few myself. SF American,MF American,Sacramento ,all rivers but nuttn' that small. Only 60 lbs a lead?? not much at all as that's my slow water weights with 100+ for fast. Boat anchor and a dog chain to the weightbelt in sf american/m fork too as RAGES up 6-10' in mere minutes and swing yourself(and dredge)to bank when raging waters start. I found the ankle weights tear up knees BAD as momentum when knee hits rock tears them tendons,ligaments and turns that ol'miniscus to shreds. Waaaay back in the day when we started on this forum-prior owners-let us use more colorful language as I posted that Flying saucer rock story-new owners would pass a brick now hahaha. Still summer here so no time to play on internet as MUST detect as NO none zilch water. Thanx mucho as always Lanny for the ride alone a dancen' to a different drummer-John

 

[Jeff95531]

Thanks Lanny. I love all of our stories of WTF was I thinking because we all have done it and more than once. Thank God there is that 10% left in our brains that screams out "MUST...LIVE....MUST GET OUT OF THIS" that brings us back to tell the stories...of what not to do.

 

[Lanny in AB]

Great story Lanny mining is quite a addiction as we risk our very being on that golden hunch. A detector saved me whilst sliding down a extremely steep hillside as used as a protector and Tesoro fixed it for free with a new control box,sure saved my hipside fer sure. Looks sure are deceiving as jus' a little mo'higher turns into OMG how did I end up way up here hahaha a little adreneline goes a long way but does not garner safety-Respect-John

That adrenaline does get a body in a heap of trouble from time to time--I'm with you on that.

All the best John,

Lanny

 

[Lanny in AB]

hahahaha thanx for my first righteous laugh a the day. River dance aaaa yes sir done a few myself. SF American,MF American,Sacramento ,all rivers but nuttn' that small. Only 60 lbs a lead?? not much at all as that's my slow water weights with 100+ for fast. Boat anchor and a dog chain to the weightbelt in sf american/m fork too as RAGES up 6-10' in mere minutes and swing yourself(and dredge)to bank when raging waters start. I found the ankle weights tear up knees BAD as momentum when knee hits rock tears them tendons,ligaments and turns that ol'miniscus to shreds. Waaaay back in the day when we started on this forum-prior owners-let us use more colorful language as I posted that Flying saucer rock story-new owners would pass a brick now hahaha. Still summer here so no time to play on internet as MUST detect as NO none zilch water. Thanx mucho as always Lanny for the ride alone a dancen' to a different drummer-John

Yup--your river sounds bigger and faster. (Boat anchor? My, my--that is a terrific volume of water!) I admire the fact that you've survived by working in that environment, especially the times you had to beat the rising, raging waters!!

I've had rocks come flyin' in the hole, a dog jumped in on top of me once (totally unexpected), and I've had various other rapid-pulse inducing incidents as well.

Thanks for dropping in and all the best,

Lanny

 

[Lanny in AB]

Thanks Lanny. I love all of our stories of WTF was I thinking because we all have done it and more than once. Thank God there is that 10% left in our brains that screams out "MUST...LIVE....MUST GET OUT OF THIS" that brings us back to tell the stories...of what not to do.

It's good that 10% is still there all right. There have to be some lucky neurons firing somewhere to keep me healthy while I'm chasin' the gold.

All the best,

Lanny

 

[Lanny in AB]

The Midnight Caller Enigma.

Well, this is a story I've promised to write, and so after looking at my notes, here it is, in installments:

The day we started up that brutal logging road amid the vast forests of re-seeded spruce and pine, things looked great. It was a hot and dry northern, mid-summer’s day. You know, the kind of day in the North Country where the sun sets at about eleven at night, and it’s still light at eleven-thirty. The kind of day where you’re in no real hurry, with all fine and right in the world.



I’d driven all night, putting in the twelve hours it took to get to the junction by the little gas station and road-side café where we teed off the main highway to hit a north-west trending logging road. After about a mile on that packed, wash-boarded gravel, things began to change. As the trail to the gold was an active logging road, if you’ve never driven one, adventure and terror are common things.

The craziness started after that first mile. All at once, the truck began to shimmy and shake like a disco dancer on steroids. I thought we'd flattened at least one tire, but when I checked, they were all up. However, the road looked like someone had been trying to imitate the effect of corrugated metal on that roadbed, like they’d mass produced the pattern and kept it up for infinity off into the distance.

I had no idea that pattern was the result of non-stop heavily loaded logging trucks, nor did I have any idea that driving on it would be a new extreme sport, one that lasted for the next four hours!

But hey, I got the best free back and body massage of my life. However, anyone tires of four straight hours of massage. Nonetheless, this isn't a story about free spa treatments. It's a tale of getting to where the gold hides. So, I’d best get back on track.​

On the way in, we had to drive quite slowly, for in the back of the truck we carried a substantial load. We had the quad tied down in the box, along with enough grub and drink for a month. A large waterproof bundle (duct-taped, enclosed tarp) sheltered our bedding and clothes, along with the large, white Outfitter’s wall tent. The other essentials were the wood-burning stove, the steel poles for the internal frame of the tent, gold pans and bottles, a chainsaw, a hatchet, a couple of axes, sledgehammers, pry-bars, buckets, river sluices, and a variety of shovels.

Yup, we were loaded right up, and we didn’t want to wind up with a busted spring or two, so we just plugged along.



Well, that road was bone dry, and the clay dust rose in an ultra-fine powder to invade the windless sky. It then fell to cling and coat everything in a tan blanket. Our whole outfit layered in clay dust. We could have pulled into Afghanistan or Iraq and not had to bother messing with any kind of desert camouflage.

However, the dust was a fairly light coating until, heading in our direction we saw a massive self-propelled dust cloud boring down on us. Alarmed at the speed of the approaching cloud, we pulled off the road to avoid it. Lucky for us, we did! That freight train of dust went roaring past, and inside of it spun and bucked a fully loaded logging truck—the ultimate terror of the north! The ground jumped and shook as it thundered by. It's dust cloud, blocked the sun. We did absolutely nothing for the next few minutes except try not to panic. With our new coating of dust, our camouflage got a superb upgrade.

After about an hour of pulling over to avoid death, and then moving cautiously forward again, the skies started to change. Clouds and patchy mist started to spot the horizon. Then, moving with amazing speed to greet us, the clouds hit us with a vengeance, and then rain poured for half an hour. The bonus was that the dust went away. The scent of a fresh pine and fir filled the air in the shower's wake, but everything in the back of the truck was now coated in slick clay.

However, the side benefit made the logging trucks much easier to spot. That was a nice bonus that saved the nerves.



The road now climbed steeply in elevation, carrying us into terrain littered with lakes and swamps, but a new hazard was about to present itself, and it was a northern doozy: a brand-new experience that required a steep learning curve, one packed with a powerful surprise.

​

Here's Part II

(Part II of The Midnight Caller.)

Apparently in the North Country, they have these little things they like to call “punch outs”. Well, if you’ve never been “punched out” before (bar fights, sporting disagreements, and scraps over women don’t count), you’ve never lived the true northern experience.

For those of you unfamiliar with this phenomenon, I’ll try to explain what a "punch out" is. As you remember, the terrain and elevation had changed on our route in, and we were in an area with more crystalline lakes, low-lying areas pocketed with extensive swamps and little streams. However, every once in a while as we rumbled down the road, the front end of the truck would just dive down into it! And, I do mean dive!! The truck would drop, then smash into that big steel guard under the engine that stops the oil pan from being crushed. The shocks would bottom out as well, and then we’d be through it and the back end would then bottom out with a terrific crash. The full effect on us was like a violent chiropractic adjustment, one designed to adjust and realign every joint in the body!



As you can imagine, this freaked us out as we had no idea what it was. However, after a couple of episodes, we learned to notice the subtle indications in the road that one of these jarring moments would soon arrive. The color of the road was slightly darker, and sometimes you could even see a little moisture leaking from the road bed around a slight depression on it (these depressions were much deeper than the aforementioned corrugated ruts). Upon cresting a rise in a stand of older timber, we found a van nose down in a big one, with the vehicle dead on the spot.

We stopped to see if we could help, but they’d already radioed some friends that were coming to tow them out to the aforementioned little café way back at the highway junction. After chatting with them a bit, that's how we learned the dreaded punch-out's name! These unsympathetic traps are caused by deep frost coming out of wetter sections of the roadbed (areas of roadbed with more moisture appeared to be worse than dry stretches). As a result, the water created the spongy bottom of the punch-out. As they won’t support the weight of a vehicle, the nose of any vehicle dives into them thus punching out the vehicle (mechanically and physically), and sometimes the driver as well!

Needless to say, we kept a sharp eye out for theses menaces, and avoided any serious consequences by respecting them through slowing down. After that, we simply detoured around them.



However, our risks were not at an end. Working our way up a winding hill where the road was narrowing, and just as we were about to top out, a fully loaded logging truck came flying down heading straight for us. Well sir, we had no place to go, and that bit of road was too small for the both of us, so we did the only thing we could to save our lives—we hit the ditch, hard!

The logging truck roared straight on through, as he could not have stopped, even if he wanted to (mass, momentum, etc.). Well, we sat there, nose down in the ditch, and shook for the next five minutes. Later we learned to travel with the proper radios to talk to the truck drivers to give them a heads-up by calling out the mile markers as we passed them, or we traveled on a Saturday or Sunday when the trucks weren’t running.

By four-wheeling a bit after recovering, we chewed our way out of the ditch (It was a good thing we didn’t go into one of the many swamps!).

The greatest surprises after that event were spotting a wolverine crossing the road (I understand they travel mostly by night, and it's the only one I’ve seen in the open). Next, we spotted a couple of black bears, a moose and her calf, plus a few deer.

At last we came to a chain of lakes signaling our closeness to the goldfield. The road forked, and we took the one to the left and soon found ourselves climbing a long grade that led to a small settlement. The residents had no electricity (except for generators), no phones (sattelite phone at the store only), no natural gas for heat (wood-burning stoves or propane), and no water or sewer services (wells or river water for drink, and outhouses or septic tanks for the rest).

We stopped at the store to get oriented, bought a few items, and inquired where we could pitch our Outfitter’s tent. We were directed down the road a ways to cross a creek, then continue to a flat with several historic cabins located in clearing the forest surrounding that surrounded the campsite. We then unpacked and set up camp.

​

All the best, and more to follow,

Lanny

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[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 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 end of the tale of The Midnight Caller, but I will get there.)



All the best,

Lanny

 

[Jeff95531]

Snoring and mosquitoes...so much a part of any hard core camping experience. I slept in a tiny toyota 4x4 one night in AK, the mosquitoes were attacking the truck so hard it sounded like light rain on the windshield. (no, I am not exaggerating). Snoring? Well let's just say I take after my dad..rafter loosening...but I sleep thru it.

 

[Lanny in AB]

Snoring and mosquitoes...so much a part of any hard core camping experience. I slept in a tiny toyota 4x4 one night in AK, the mosquitoes were attacking the truck so hard it sounded like light rain on the windshield. (no, I am not exaggerating). Snoring? Well let's just say I take after my dad..rafter loosening...but I sleep thru it.

Jeff,

People that haven't had the genuine "bug" experience have a hard time believing how horrible it can be.

I like your analogy to rafter loosening--that's a great one!

All the best,

Lanny

P.S. I have a story about bugs and gold hanging around somewhere; I'll have to see if I can find it.

http://www.treasurenet.com/forums/metal-detecting-gold/69-bedrock-gold-mysteries.html

 

[Lanny in AB]

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

All the best,

Lanny

http://www.treasurenet.com/forums/metal-detecting-gold/69-bedrock-gold-mysteries.html

 

[Lanny in AB]

When I look up and know it’s a crazy risk; when I begin to think it’s a possible chance; when I tell myself it’s a great opportunity to sample virgin ground; when I steadily gain confidence and plot a way up; when the first fifty or so steep steps reward me; when the firm footing suddenly abandons me, as one foot, then the other slips and bone meets rock; when I begin to think that thinking was a better idea; when I calm myself, then wish myself to believe it’s still possible; when I move up farther and find even less to grab on to; when I slip more frequently, lose skin, and leak blood; when I discover I can’t see the toes of my boots because the pitch is too steep; when my deep brain survival instinct initiates a neuron firing loop; when the mind fog suddenly lifts revealing the impossibility of heading back down; when every upward movement buys only fractions of toe or handholds; when I finally reach the spot that looked so tempting to find it’s only an illusion some pea-brain dreamt up at the bottom of the gorge; when I realize there’s nothing to hang on to and take a sample of dirt regardless; when I start to realize that playing Russian Roulette gives me the better odds; when the mountain goats are laughing so hard they fall off the surrounding cliffs; when the eagles start texting each other about some idiot glued to the rock, I realize how powerful the lure of gold is.



All the best,

Lanny

http://www.treasurenet.com/forums/metal-detecting-gold/69-bedrock-gold-mysteries.html

 

[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

http://www.treasurenet.com/forums/metal-detecting-gold/69-bedrock-gold-mysteries.html

 

[Terry Soloman]

LMAO!

 

[Lanny in AB]

LMAO!

Glad you had a chuckle Terry.

Thanks for dropping in, and all the best,

Lanny

http://www.treasurenet.com/forums/metal-detecting-gold/69-bedrock-gold-mysteries.html

 

[bedrock bubba]

There was a legendary miner named Flat Nose Bob up here in The N. Cal Sierras. He died a few years back. He was a true loner and mined
for gold all year long, and got a lot of it, I'm told.

My miner friends knew him well, and one stayed in a dilapidated cabin a few days with him.

Epic poetry! And I love those mountain pics!

 

[Jeff95531]

A very good read and pics. I lived every moment with you going from bears to horses. Thanks always for sharing Lanny.