Miner Problems ©
By A. E. Poynor

Part Three

Note to readers: This is the last of three parts on the mining disaster of 1997.  

     After Knucks slipped on the icy trail and injured his ankle, our mining party split up.  B.B. and I headed out to stake the claim while Knucks and his son, Timmy, headed back to the truck.  Knucks assured us his ankle was only sprained, and if anything went awry, he would call us on the cell phone. 

     The farther we traveled up the trail, the less of a trail it became.  Progress was slow, as we frequently stopped to compare the terrain to the map.  Finally, the canyon narrowed visibly.

     “We ought to be there by the look of things,” B.B. said.  “Time for the GPS.  I figured out the coordinates for the northeast stake.  We’ll use the GPS to find the exact spot, and drive the stake.”

     “So... you know how to work that thing?”

     “Nope, but Micah said to just turn it on, and let it tell us the coordinates.  Couldn’t be simpler.”

     B.B. pulled out the GPS and turned it on.  “See?  It’s looking for satellites.”

     Ten minutes later, the GPS was still looking for satellites.  “Micah said sometimes you have to let it sit for awhile.  Let’s set it down and take a look up the trail.”

     We left the GPS to find its satellites and walked up the trail.  Comparing the map to the terrain, it appeared we were right where we wanted to set the stake, but decided to confirm things with the GPS.

     As we walked back to our gear, B.B.’s cell phone rang.  It was Knucks.  B.B. talked to him briefly and closed up his phone.

     “He just wanted to know if we’d staked the claim yet.  Says he’s fine.  He’s got a fire going, and resting.”

     The GPS had given up looking for satellites.  In place of the “SEARCHING FOR SATELLITES” message, it was confidently displaying the coordinates for some distant point a full two degrees off our position— most likely Micah’s trailer.

     “Technology, ya gotta love it.”

     “Wait a minute.  You know about compasses, don’t you?” B.B. asked as he rummaged through his pack.

     “Yeah...“

     “Well, here y’go.  You oughta be able to shoot some sorta line with that.”

     I looked at the compass he’d dragged from his pack.  It was basically useless, being of a quality that would normally be found only in the bottom of a Cracker Jacks® box.  My list of the compass’ shortcomings was interrupted when B.B.’s cell phone rang again.  This time it was Knucks’ wife, Stacie.  She had just spoken to Knucks. 

Apparently, Knucks was much more forthright with his wife than his mining partners.  His ankle was broken, he could feel bone grinding in it, and was in excruciating pain.  Stacie wanted to call an ambulance.  B.B. told her we could be back to the truck in about an hour, and would take Knucks straight to the hospital.  She agreed to our plan. 

     With our new priority, we quickly set the claim marker, marked the map, and headed down the trail. At the spot Knucks fell, we could smell smoke.  Less than one hundred yards farther down the trail, sat Knucks and Timmy, by a warming fire.

     Knucks waved.  “Hi guys.  Get it staked?”

     B.B. and I stood in stunned silence.  The silence was abruptly broken with a string of colorful phrases, most of which were metaphorical in nature and made in reference to the injured party.  Our exclamations would have continued, had Knucks not nodded toward Timmy.

     “Oh... sorry.”

     “No problem,” Timmy assured us, “you oughta hear the sixth graders at school.  I guess lots of kids have dads with gold claims.” 

     When pressed for an explanation as to why he hadn’t told us how bad off he was, Knucks excused his omission by stating he was not going to be the one to keep us from staking the claim.

     “Tried to make it back to the truck,” he explained, “but Timmy just isn’t big enough to take my full weight, and I can’t stand on my left leg at all.”

     We discussed our options.  Building a travois or skid seemed to be the best idea, but none of us had been smart enough to bring along a saw.  The game plan became a simple one of B.B. and I carrying Knucks while Timmy shuttled the packs.

     Knucks is not a small man, standing a head taller than both B.B. and me.  Our efforts to carry him were comparable to Munchkins rescuing the Tinman.  To our credit, we only dropped him once.  The biggest problem was his dangling bad leg.

     “POYNOR!  You kick that leg one more time, and I’m gonna do a Tyson to your ear!”

     “B.B., you take this side for awhile.”

     “Nuh-uh, this is my strong side.”

     During one of our frequent rests, it was decided the trail was icy and slick enough to drag Knucks.  We lashed him to his pack, wrapped him in an army poncho, tied on some rope, and mushed away.  Progress was swift with both of us dragging him.  We found that even the dips on the trail were easy, if we built up a little steam.

     “Wait a minute!” Knucks called from behind as we picked up speed on a downward slope.

     “No way, Knucks, we’re on a roll.”

     Our progress jerked to a halt, and Knucks let out a roar of pain.  We turned to find him off the side of the trail, hanging like a giant pickle off the steep bank leading to the creek.

     It was, indeed, fortunate that Knucks was wrapped tightly in the poncho.  Had his arms been free, someone might have been hurt as we dragged him back onto the trail.

     Once back on the trail, Knucks spoke to us softly.  “Unwrap me. I’ll crawl.”

     There was a moment’s hesitation.  “Whatcha think, B.B.?”

     “I dunno...  Could be a trick, but we can outrun him.”

     “Really,” Knucks pleaded, “I don’t want you to save me anymore.  It would hurt less to crawl.”

     Three hours later, after crawling the last half mile of the trail, Knucks was in the care of the emergency room staff.  B.B. and I hung around to hear the diagnosis.

     Stacie, who had been waiting at the hospital for over two hours, came out to give us a report.  Knucks hadn’t told her where he was when they had talked on the cell phone.

      “What took so long?”

     We shrugged.  “You know how proud Knucks is... insisted on crawling.  Is it broken?”

     “Definitely.  They’re going to pin the break.  He’s sedated, so he’s not making a lot of sense.  He said to say thanks, and that he only hoped he could repay you guys in kind.”

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