Miner Problems ©
By A. E. Poynor

Part Two

Note:  Last week was the first of three parts on the staking of a gold claim by Blizzard Bob, Knucks Mahoneigh and the author.  Things get worse this week....

     After Knucks was swept up in the excitement of becoming a mining baron, the tide of enthusiasm became an inescapable force.  Before a sane voice could be raised in objection, plans were set to travel up a steep valley and stake a claim where B.B. assured us the El Dorado of the north lay in wait.  B.B. had been to the trail head on the way back from Anchorage just three days prior to the NORSMen meeting, and he assured us the snowfalls of mid October had been all but eliminated by the drizzle and mist that had followed. 

     It was decided B.B. and Knucks would pick me up early Saturday morning to allow plenty of time for hiking in and staking.  The crew would be a foursome, as Knucks’ son, Timmy, would go along.

     At the appointed rendezvous time on Saturday, Knucks called me.

     “We’re getting a late start,” Knucks said.  “B.B. called me on his cell phone.  He never connected with his buddy Micah Schist during the week to borrow the GPS and range finder.  He’s driving to Kasilof right now to pick them up.”

     “What’s with the GPS?  Can’t we just use a compass?”

     “We could, but Micah told B.B. the GPS would be more accurate in determining the positions.  B.B. said he’d bring a compass too.”

     Knucks, along with Timmy, picked me up an hour after the originally scheduled departure time.  We drove to Soldotna, parked in the Fred Meyer parking lot, and waited.  And waited.  Knucks tried to call B.B., using his own cell phone, but only got that annoying, copyrighted recording about the subscriber being away from the phone.  After more than an hour’s wait, B.B. pulled up.  Knucks was antsy and more than a little short tempered.

     “What in blazes took so long?  You coulda built a GPS in the time it took you to drive to Kasilof and back.”

     “We had a little trouble finding it.  Ended up tearing the whole place apart.”

     “B.B., I’ve seen Micah’s place.  It’s a camp trailer on jacks,” Knucks said sourly. “That couldn’t have taken more than fifteen minutes.”

     “Yeah, but we went over the place three times... finally found it sitting on top of the TV.  Looked just like a remote control... then Micah remembered his TV doesn’t have a remote.”

     The hour’s drive to the trail put us three hours behind schedule, and left us less than six hours of daylight to accomplish everything.  Our packs, stuffed with hip boots for wading the creek, were quickly unloaded.  B.B. tucked the GPS and range finder into his pack while Knucks crammed the four deli sandwiches we had picked up while waiting for B.B. into his.  The stakes and hammer were snatched up, and we headed down the trail at a brisk pace for the first fifty yards.

     B.B. had been right: the snow was, for the most part, gone.  There were only limited patches of snow, scattered about the ice that coated the depression of the trail, turning it into a respectable luge run.  The sides of the trail offered no better footing.  The frost heaved sides allowed a hiker to sink ankle-deep wherever the ice was missing.

To complicate matters, the trail climbed sharply at points.  One side of the trail hugged the steep canyon wall, and the other offered a free fall to the creek bottom.  Progress was necessarily slow.  After an hour of gingerly picking our way down the trail, it narrowed considerably.

     “I’ll bet we’re past where the end of the trail is indicated on the map.  Just another mile at most,” B.B. commented as we started down a little incline in the trail.  “Sure wish I had some ice cleats,”

     “I do,” Knucks replied, “and I’m going to put ‘em on in...”

     As if to accentuate an immediate need, Knucks’ right foot shot out in front of him, while his left leg curled up under his falling bulk.  He sat down hard on his twisted left foot and slid to the bottom of the incline, where he rolled over on his side and curled into a fetal position clutching his left knee.  B.B. and I immediately scrambled over to him.

     “Oh, no.  Knee?”

     “Hargum forbin nurbung... no.  Ankle.”

     “Hurt?”

     “Unngg rumbin... nope.  Just thought I’d stretch my buttocks a little...  Arrgh.”

     “Let me take a look...”

     “DON’T TOUCH ME!”

     “Okay... maybe we’ll just wait a minute for the exam...” 

      Knucks quit writhing after a few minutes and allowed us to gently remove his mukluk.  The ankle was starting to swell and there was the faintest discoloration.

     “I don’t know, Knucks... could be broken.”

     “Naw... it’s just a sprain.  You hear anything pop?”

     “No.  You feel anything pop?”

     “I’m not sure... maybe.  But it could’ve been a tendon.  One thing’s for sure, I’m not going any farther up the trail.”

     A discussion ensued about the relative merits of not staking the claim, and instead, just concentrating on getting Knucks back to the truck.  Knucks wasn’t buying into that plan.

     “Look: it’s just a sprain.  It’s feeling better already.    I’ll put my ice cleats on, and head back to the truck with Timmy.  We’ll be fine.  If we run into trouble, I’ll call you on the cell phone.”

     It was obvious Knucks wasn’t going to have anything to do with a rescue until the claim had been staked.  B.B. and I split most of Knucks’ load from his pack so Timmy could carry it, and headed down the trail to stake the claim.

     “You know, we’ve never named the claim,” B.B. commented as we worked down the trail.  “Why don’t we name it after Knucks?”

     “You mean something like ‘Mahoneigh’s Dream’?” 

To be continued.....