I hunted an old park yesterday with a buddy, Todd, who runs a Minelab. Not sure which machine it is, but when he's swinging it, the tones from his headphones sounds like someone's playing a flute.
We worked for a while, with no luck, and then I saw him waving to me from across a field. I walked over to where he stood.
"What do you get here?" he asked, pulling his digger out of the ground. I passed my old Fisher over the spot a few times. Every fourth or fifth pass, the Fisher gave off a faint chirp.
"Something deep," I said. "Might be a coin. Might be a nail."
Todd dropped to the ground and cut a huge plug. He passed the Minelab over the hole and listened to the same fluty tone.
"Man, it's deep," he said. "I love these deep signals."
He kept digging as I walked away to resume my own hunt. Every few minutes, I'd glance his way. The pile of dirt around him grew bigger and bigger. Soon, he disappeared behind it.
After another 30 minutes, I walked back over to the hole. Todd knelt in the bottom of it, digging like a rat terrier.
"I'm getting closer!" he said. "Why don't you go get us some sandwiches?"
I walked across the park to my car and drove to Dairy Queen for burgers. By the time I got back, Todd had transformed the hole he was digging. He'd hauled over some old railroad ties from the nearby Katy Trail, using them to shore up the walls of the excavation. And he'd rigged a rope-and-pulley system to haul buckets of dirt to the surface.
When he finished eating his burger, I lowered a lantern to him on a rope, and he got back to digging. Ten minutes later, I heard his yell echo up from the pit. "I've got it with my pinpointer," he shouted.
There was a last flurry of activity as dirt sprayed from the depths. Then Todd scrambled to the surface. His hands bled from the digging, and his nails were mostly missing. He kissed his Minelab and lay it on the ground.
"Here it is," he said, showing me a small blackened object. "I think it's a dime. Let's get this dirt off of it."
He scrubbed the object and held it up to the sun.
"Son of a *&@(#+!" he cursed. "It's CLAD!"
We worked for a while, with no luck, and then I saw him waving to me from across a field. I walked over to where he stood.
"What do you get here?" he asked, pulling his digger out of the ground. I passed my old Fisher over the spot a few times. Every fourth or fifth pass, the Fisher gave off a faint chirp.
"Something deep," I said. "Might be a coin. Might be a nail."
Todd dropped to the ground and cut a huge plug. He passed the Minelab over the hole and listened to the same fluty tone.
"Man, it's deep," he said. "I love these deep signals."
He kept digging as I walked away to resume my own hunt. Every few minutes, I'd glance his way. The pile of dirt around him grew bigger and bigger. Soon, he disappeared behind it.
After another 30 minutes, I walked back over to the hole. Todd knelt in the bottom of it, digging like a rat terrier.
"I'm getting closer!" he said. "Why don't you go get us some sandwiches?"
I walked across the park to my car and drove to Dairy Queen for burgers. By the time I got back, Todd had transformed the hole he was digging. He'd hauled over some old railroad ties from the nearby Katy Trail, using them to shore up the walls of the excavation. And he'd rigged a rope-and-pulley system to haul buckets of dirt to the surface.
When he finished eating his burger, I lowered a lantern to him on a rope, and he got back to digging. Ten minutes later, I heard his yell echo up from the pit. "I've got it with my pinpointer," he shouted.
There was a last flurry of activity as dirt sprayed from the depths. Then Todd scrambled to the surface. His hands bled from the digging, and his nails were mostly missing. He kissed his Minelab and lay it on the ground.
"Here it is," he said, showing me a small blackened object. "I think it's a dime. Let's get this dirt off of it."
He scrubbed the object and held it up to the sun.
"Son of a *&@(#+!" he cursed. "It's CLAD!"
