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Flashback Series: Tales From The Flat, Finale

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