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Golden Grams Of Goodness: Nugget Shooting Stories


Lanny

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3 hours ago, phrunt said:

They're doing an OK job of eradicating the Pines but the Briar Rose and Thyme the Europeans and Chinese miners introduced is doing a damn fine job of taking over gold country! It's pretty hard to get your coil in between the Thyme bushes and the Rose have big damn thorns that like to stab you to death. I do like the smell of the Thyme though ?

 

That really stinks. We have lots of invasive starlings, but they've never stopped me from chasing the gold, but they sure do make a mess. Hey, maybe I could train flocks of them to act as a collective drone to spot likely looking gold locations?:wink:  Maybe that way, they'd be of some use. lol

All the best,

Lanny

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Golden Bonanza Days, Part 4:

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My son and I kept at it, swinging the coils, gathering the signals, and depositing them in the pans. In retrospect, I adopted this “speed-panning” system a couple of years ago while working a target-rich area, and now I use it regularly if a spot proves good for continuing gold production; I no longer waste time isolating each and every target captured in the scoop.

On a related note, (in the fall of the year, or early spring) when the days are short, I don’t have much of an option to sort and sift targets as I have to quickly cover as much ground as possible to avoid the dark and the cold. So, every target goes from the scoop straight into the plastic pans. This approach allows me to maximize my time on site, which means that sometimes I’ll pan by flashlight or take the pans back to camp to process the next day. So, when I’m detecting alone, it’s an efficient time saver, but when I have someone to pan for me, I can maximize even more time!

To elaborate a bit more on the speed-detecting/speed-panning process, we weren’t ripping across the bedrock in race mode, we were carefully investigating every bump or whisper that broke the threshold. The only element of speed involved was how quickly we were able to collect and dump targets without having to isolate them.

A couple of times while swinging the coil, I heard multiple targets in one sweep (this happened to my son as well). Exciting stuff indeed when there’s more than one nugget in that coil pass! The best we did on that outing was three nuggets in one sweep. (Tip: I always use a super-magnet on an extendable wand to quickly eliminate ferrous trash, which saves even more time wasted on individual target isolation.)

To get back to my gold tale, my wife came walking carefully toward me cradling a gold pan, and what a smile! This is a good sign, and man you should have seen the nice nuggets, their gold colour sharply contrasted against the deep-green. Over the two days, she repeated this ritual numerous times.

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As I was using the small sniper coil on the Gold Racer, and having chosen a more traditional section of bedrock (a softer one the machines were able to work easier), the nuggets in my pans were smaller, nothing much over two grams, with the exception of on five-gram piece that startled me. However, my son’s pan had lots of beefy pieces, but nothing over seven grams. 


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After my son finished working his sloped cliff (that’s exactly what it was), he wandered down to detect the south end of the excavation where there were two pools of water, separated from each other by a ridge of hard bedrock. So, I jumped his claim by wandering over to his cliff-face honey-hole to detect for leftovers. Using my Gold Racer, I reached up as far as I could to swing the coil across a sort of rounded knob, one that bumped out slightly from the bedrock slope. That nasty little spot held a signal!

Well, this caused me lots of problems because now I had to see what the signal was. After pinpointing a small area just above the knob, I left the detector at the bottom and clawed my way up, barely hanging on by the tips of my boots. I saw a small V in the bedrock that held rusted, cemented material. (With ancient, intact material like this, it’s a great sign that gold may be present.) Swinging the pick, I would get a couple of shots in, but then the pounding motion would jar me loose from the precarious knob, and I’d undertake a controlled, downward crash. I did this over and over again, until at last I broke out a chunk of bedrock with rusty, cemented material attached.

So, that’s how I recovered a lonely 1.5gram nugget my son had missed. I kept at my crazy stretching to detect tactic, and coupled it with my sketchy footing routine until I’d captured six more small nuggets (from a gram to half a gram in weight). All of the were nuggets trapped in similar, small depressions. (I had to use a sledge and chisel to break out some targets, as some were cemented in, while others were jammed tight in cracks.) On a related note, I lost track of how many bruises I collected (I felt them all though for the next few days), and I probably left enough hide from my arms to do a skin graft! The crazy things we do for gold . . .

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As I was closing my gold bottle, my son gave a shout from the south end of the cut, and with my climbing days over, off I went to see what he’d discovered.

To be continued:

All the best,

Lanny

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9 hours ago, phrunt said:

Great post as always Lanny, you are living the dream!  What is that pole next to your Gold Bug Pro in that photo, is it your magnetic stick?

Hi Simon, that's the extendable aluminum wand that has a super-magnet  (about the size of one of our quarters, and about half an inch thick) embedded in the tip, so it's very light, but very powerful for quickly grabbing ferrous trash, a real time saver when I'm working old areas or modern ones mined with big equipment. It's way better than dragging a heavy pick through the dirt or across exposed bedrock.

I haven't been able to locate another one of those great little wands since . . .

All the best,

Lanny

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Golden Bonanza Days, Part 5:

My son was digging like a wild man at a spot just past the bedrock hump that split the two pools of water. As I wandered over, I could see why he was working there.

On the right-hand side of the hump (facing west), working with the 25-inch Estwing, geo/paleo rock pick (that’s one fantastic pick if you’re looking for a pick that will go all day and never let you down), he was uncovering a long ledge of bedrock that stepped out about eight inches from the intact channel wall (the bedrock ran under the edge of the wall then rose up quickly [I could see places where the teeth of the excavator bucket had cut into the steeply rising bedrock where it angled off under the channel material into the wall]). The edge of the ledge of bedrock then dropped about another foot in the cut into a wide bedrock trough of a different color and hardness. The combination of channel wall, shelf, and trough generated the perfect conditions for the excavator bucket to skip from the wall, off the shelf, and down into the trough.

The trough had been cut down into and cleaned well by the excavator as the rock there was softer, but the eight-inch shelf above it was tougher stuff, part of a transition zone, and being located at the foot of the wall of the face, it was still covered by intact material, but hidden by some slump that had slid down to bury the shelf. Moreover, the placer miners were not going any farther into the face as the bedrock was rising steeply to match the slope of the side of the mountain, so what was left of the channel would never be worked, no profit margin.

However, that little shelf was something else, and I was proud my son had found it on his own (he’d been detecting along, got a soft signal in what looked like ordinary, yellowish-orange channel material, but the pick soon hit solid bedrock underneath as he chased the target, so more digging exposed the shelf.

My son was working the spot by uncovering a section about two yards long, then he’d grab the Gold Bug Pro and scan the bedrock shelf, but also the junction where the bedrock joined the face. He was getting lots of small nuggets and pickers, some down in little gutters and cracks in that shelf, and some from the intact channel material at the foot of the wall where it was rising up, two pay zones. How can you beat that? Furthermore, by wife had moved over to one of the bedrock pools nearby, and he was throwing scoops of target-rich dirt into two plastic pans for her. 

That’s why he’d called me over, to see that little bedrock ledge of honey that he’d found, but I didn’t want to jump his claim, so I left him working his spot, and I wandered down to the end of the trough, following a good stream of seepage water that followed the gentle, downward slope of the trough until it met a hump of harder bedrock that rose up.

To be continued:

All the best, and thanks for tagging along,

Lanny

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Golden Bonanza Days, Finale: (I will include some general tips in this section for those that are still learning about nugget shooting.)

A small stream of clear water ran down that gentle slope over small pieces of broken, black and reddish bedrock salted with medium pebbles and smaller stones. With no intact, original material remaining, the spot didn’t look promising; however, I’ve found nuggets playing hide and seek in settings like this before.

In retrospect, I remember way back, when I first started chasing nuggets, a successful Old-timer told me, “Lanny, water and gold are good friends.” (I really didn’t understand what he meant then, but I do now. Water follows trough and gutters; it drops into cracks and crevices, and it drains downward into low spots in the bedrock. Guess what else loves to do the same thing?)

Learning what he meant, I’ve followed running or trickling water back up into bedrock that was covered in channel, and it’s led me to gold. I’ve also followed water downslope as it hugs bedrock contours, and as it dives under intact material, all with the same golden results. To be frank, I’ve also followed it and found nothing, but that’s part of the experience too: success never comes for me without failures along the way. Regardless, learning that water and gold are good friends was a remarkable tip.

Knowing the relationship of water to gold on bedrock, I scanned the area with the Gold Racer. Knowing that gold loves the opportunity to drop in water when it’s moved by machinery, I’ve recovered quite a few sassy nuggets in this way, and I put two small nuggets (the biggest being just over two grams) into my jar. Moreover, the Racer screamed on both targets due to the thin layer of pebbles and broken bedrock.

I worked my way up from the low spot leaving the water behind, and carefully detected every transition zone of hardness and color change in the bedrock. Each little fold in the rock; every crack, crevice, and friable section; all slips and faults, including numerous gutters and troughs, got scanned. As a result, lot of signals went into my gold pans for my wife to work down.

At this point in the day, the sun was high overhead without a cloud in that alpine-blue sky. Tiny orange and brown spotted butterflies, with smaller squadrons of blue and white ones, were flitting back and forth from seeps in the dark bedrock. Large, lazy, black-bodied flies, with iridescent blue and green highlights, lumbered by us while performing slow, corkscrewing aerobatics.

No wind stirred the setting, and it was getting warm, so I stripped off a layer of clothing, and as I did so, my brain reminded me it was time for a break: muscle fatigue was setting in, my stomach was starting to grumble, and I was thirsty.

Our bottled water was cached in one of the small streams of ice-cold seepage water, so it was perfectly chilled. We ate our traditional mining lunch (meat and cheese sandwiches, a piece of fruit, some chocolate pudding for desert). After eating, we all had a nice rest.

TIP: The five-gallon bucket my wife takes along makes a great panning-pool seat that saves the back muscles: moreover, anytime there’s panning to be done, if a seat [rock, bucket, bedrock ledge, etc.] can be found, muscle stress and fatigue are reduced.

Why take a rest when there’s gold to be found? Taking a gold-hunting break lets the conscious brain rest, and then the subconscious fires up and quietly analyzes the day’s global input for processing. Next, the subconscious brain delivers suggestions to the refreshed conscious brain for recognition. (TIP: I can’t overemphasize how critical it is to take breaks to keep the mind alert: rushing without breaks severely compromises productivity.)

With a rested brain, my subconscious popped the suggestion to “Go low and slow” over the previously worked northern end of the excavation. I quickly realized the bottom of the north cut needed just that process. I would head back with the Gold Racer to scrub the bedrock floor. (My son was still working his honey-ledge, so my wife stayed to pan.)

The bedrock floor had dips and rolling rises of hard rock (some bull quartz too), with occasional flatter areas of softer formations. My son had already hit these areas with the Gold Bug Pro, after working his rich rise of bedrock, but he’d made only standard passes through the bottom.

Firing up the Gold Racer, I scrubbed the coil slowly across the bedrock. I soon had a signal. I kept repeating this low-and-slow scrubbing process which netted a steady stream of pickers and nuggets for my bottle, with most targets trapped in cracks and seams that held almost no accompanying material. After finishing the bedrock, I went to the crazy areas (the places where you’d have to be crazy to look), and picked up some nuggets weighing under two grams that were obviously been redeposited by machinery action. (This tactic has produced enough gold that it’s part of my routine now when I work disturbed ground, either that mined by the Old-timers or by modern methods.)

Using the same techniques outlined above, the next day produced more nuggets as well.

 

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It’s true, this may have been a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and we certainly left with heavy gold bottles, but the wonderful memories of family fun over those two golden bonanza days was the greater treasure.

All the best,

Lanny

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On 3/12/2019 at 11:22 AM, kiwijw said:

Oh Lanny.....what else can I say. You are the master when it comes to the written word. Love it & love your gold finds. Thank you for the journey. I was with you every step of the way.:wub: I needed a rest & a lay down to after that chocolate pudding. :laugh:

Very best of luck to you my friend.

JW :smile:

Thanks for the kind compliments, and thanks for the friendship as well. I'm glad you enjoyed the story, and I appreciate you taking the time to drop in.

I'll try to get around to posting another story when I get a chance.

All the best,

Lanny

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Now, for something different, Flashback Friday Entry:

(This is a true story, although I have taken some liberties in enhancing some details, but I have not exaggerated any of the facts about the gold.)

Before I start this story, I’ll need to provide a bit of background. I was chasing the gold in the mid 1990-s one summer, in a wilderness area far to the north of where I currently live. While there, I worked with some large-scale placer miners, helping out whenever and wherever I could. In return, as the miners were a wealth of knowledge about the new-to-me area, they gave me valuable tips on where to look for gold in that heavily glaciated region. They also let me tag along as they excavated to bedrock so I could see firsthand the local variables of gold deposition. However, as any of you that chase the gold well know, even with tips from the locals, it’s still possible to find trouble while looking for gold, and that trip was no exception.


Story Title: Gettin’ High On Placer Diggin’s

Sorry in advance to those of you into illegal or licensed substances, or those of you hardy enough to have actually smoked gold, or had it ground finely enough to inject or snort, because this tale does not deal with banned chemicals, licensed stimulants, or hallucinogenic substances. (Except I do think I have hallucinated while dreaming about gold in the past, especially during our long winters.) This story deals with the mind-altering effects of a metal. However, this prospecting tale itself is nonetheless mind-altering and reading it is not without risk.

One summer, when the snows had melted and the swollen rivers had dropped enough to allow travel, I headed up North to the gold-fields. Up north means a sixteen-hour drive from my home. But, why drive sixteen hours when there are other gold fields much closer? 

Well, there’s far less people that’s why, and there’s coarser gold. As for population, there are less than thirty souls. As for the gold, it’s chunky and knobby. On a related note, some of the local boys dig test-pits right in their front yards, then shovel the dirt into a small high-banker onsite, and they get good gold.

But, I digress again, and as you'll see, I'm pretty good at digressing. 

So, to summarize, less people, that’s good, right? But bugs? Bad! There are tens of millions of nasty, blood-sucking, winged vampires! There’s no way to hide from, or to outrun them. The bears, by comparison, are less of a concern, mainly because they can’t fly. But, because the bears are huge, smelly, and can be cranky (kind of like me after too long in the bush) they do deserve some respect.

In retrospect, I was in an area of low mountains with fresh, crystalline streams, surrounded by thick stands of deep-green boreal forest. In the low places, mysterious swamps nestled into the hollows and were bordered by countless mounds of glacial till, leavings from the miles-thick ancient glaciers that once bound the land in perpetual winter. 

The moving glaciers generated havoc, and the ancient, glacial meltwater produced numerous, titanic rivers, and some placer excavations have exposed seven or eight overlapping and intersecting stream deposits. In contrast, the frozen glaciers were dozers on insane steroids, cutting deep down or deep into the original bedrock, then pushing sections of channels helter-skelter, or orphaning sections of channel high above the present streambeds. It was one of these orphaned sections that this story is written about. 

One day, I was sitting near the wash-plant fixing a broken six-inch pump. Having been at it a while, I took a break. Looking across the river, I noticed something high up on the opposite slope. A line of boulders and river rock ran in a well-defined line along its side. The line indicated an ancient riverbed resting atop the underlying black slate bedrock. It was roughly sixty feet above the modern-day river, and sections of that high channel had sloughed off, exposing a bit of face. 

Because of this, I scanned the area with my binoculars to gather more information. Clearly, the channel rested on a bedrock rim, while the river-run itself was covered by eighty or so feet of boulder clay, which was then topped by thick forest. 

All at once, my pea-sized brain was hammered by a giant, golden brainwave . . . I had to cross the river to sample that channel!

No argument or thought of personal safety holds me back if there's a shot at getting gold! As hot fever had fired my resolve, I had to act.

I grabbed a five-gallon (20-liter) plastic pail, shovel, pry/digging bar, and a small sledge; these items all fit neatly inside the bucket. Next, I shouldered into my prospecting backpack. (I keep all of my essentials in the backpack for easy transport. Nonetheless, when fully loaded, it weighs just a tad under a fully loaded B-52 bomber.) However, rather than worry about the gear in my backpack, I should have chucked it out and made room for a back-up brain instead. As will be seen, a spare brain would have saved me a lot of trouble that day . . .

Regardless, all packed up, I made my way down to the river. Now, in Canada, even in mid-summer (which it was), the rivers that far north in B.C. NEVER get warm. In fact, if you dunk your head, you get instant brain-freeze! Ignoring rational thinking, I had the clever idea to delicately pick my way across the stream in my rubber boots, and ballet-like, I flitted from rock to rock. Yet somehow, I lost control. Disaster struck! Prospector, pail, and pack plunged below the surface. (Any comments uttered after surfacing will not be printed here in order to protect the innocent.)

In spite of being wet and cold, I fully enjoyed the rest of the crossing (that’s a huge lie!). I felt somewhat refreshed (another whopper) after dragging my cold, soggy carcass out of the water. On a brighter note, after dumping eighty or so pounds of ice-water from each boot, it was easier to walk.

So, threading through the poplars and aspens beside the river, I then headed up the slope until I hit a new obstacle: boulder clay. This is the stuff I mentioned earlier, a nasty mixture of tan to yellowish clay liberally dosed with boulders that was abandoned whenever and wherever the lazy glaciers wished. 

Boulder clay sloughs or oozes down hillsides when it's wet, and later it dries into bomb-proof concrete, though not quite as soft as concrete. As well, getting a toehold on it is the devil. Regardless, I somehow cut some steps with my shovel, and through stubborn dedication, I progressed a third of the distance upslope finding a v-shaped wash filled with cobbles and larger rocks, ones birthed from the channel and boulder clay above. The v-shaped wash held a nest of ill-tempered branches, dead limbs, and exposed roots that blocked my way. However, even with my squishy, soggy socks and boots, I navigated Mother Nature’s hazards. 

I continued upslope and worked my way into some sheltering pines. At that elevation, the smell of the pines is a wondrous thing; it's a smell I'll always associate with the true sense of freedom only to be enjoyed in the mountain environment while out chasing the gold. 

At last, I reached the high placer diggin's, the coveted bedrock rim with its ancient channel. Eagerly, I went to work. (I need to provide a little description of the worksite here: Imagine how tricky it is to rest one rubber boot on a three-inch ledge of bedrock, as the other boot powers the shovel, all while trying to maintain enough balance to avoid a tumble down the mountain. Imagine as well using the pick and bar in such tight quarters, while trying to carve out an excavation, one running three feet into the face of the boulder clay in an attempt to expose the bedrock.

Success arrived when I exposed the underlying black slate of the high channel. Then, pulling my sniping tools from my backpack, I cleaned every little crevice, cranny, and dip or gutter in the slate and dropped the collections into my bucket. In addition, I added some oxidized reddish-orange dirt to my bucket as well.

Not relishing the long haul down to the river with a small load, and wanting a good test sample, I loaded that bucket as heavy as I could in case I only made one trip. So, with the bucket filled, I tossed my tools over the edge to a landing of sorts, lifted the bucket, and turned around. Instantly, I realized something shocking; that return slope looked a lot steeper than it had on the way up! What mind-altering substance had possessed me to get where I was anyway?

Clearly, some moron had deluded himself into scrambling to a place no sane person ever would. Moreover, I get myself into such fixes by denying the existence of the laws of physics, and probability, etc. I override and defeat all laws, and any stored wisdom when I'm gold crazy. Yet, I carry on in happy oblivion until I realize far too late what I've done. Regardless of my denial of scientific laws, etc., one law never surrenders to my delusions, and that law, as we shall see, is the irrefutable law of gravity!

So, there I was, faced with a problem. I had to go down, no option, because I couldn't go up a vertical wall of boulder clay regardless of how high I was on gold-fever delirium. Deciding on a better course of action, I took the first step down. (This in spite of my brain trying too late to warn me of some impending doom. Come to think of it, I often override my brain's warnings to court danger while chasing gold.)

However, the first step really wasn't that bad. I just leaned into the hill and put all of my weight back on my boot heel. Miraculously, it held me in place, and the eight-thousand-pound bucket of gravel and I took another step forward. (Could it be that the bucket was so heavy because of its high gold content? Or, was I just an idiot that had severely overloaded it?)

I kept at it, leaning and stepping, and soon found myself in the branches and cobbles that littered the earlier mentioned wash. I took several more steps but then a malicious root or scheming branch snagged my boot. Well, that bucket just kicked out in front of me like it was rocket-boosted. (At about twice the speed of light, Sir Isaac Newton’s law had instant and complete control.)

Immediately my brain switched to its salvation-panic mode as I yanked myself back as hard as I could, the bucket jerking back toward me. 

However, the problem was, my feet no longer cared what I was doing, as in trying to right myself, they chose instead to betray me by heading down the mountain. The effects of gravity increased in intensity as I picked up speed.

Now, when viewed from the other side of the canyon, it must have looked as if someone had shot and wounded a strange forest creature, some ugly beast, a raging bull-moose perhaps, or some other smelly, cantankerous critter (a classification I could easily qualify for after weeks in the bush!). It also must have looked as if that crazed creature was hurtling down the slope to a certain and speedy demise.

The real truth, however, is that instead of being out of control, I was magnificently in control, in fact, most supremely so. Even with my rubber boots throwing off more smoke than an Alaskan smudge fire, the accompanying smoke was a planned effect to keep the bugs at bay. However, keeping the smoke pouring from those hot boots while simultaneously attempting to apply my brakes among the boulders proved too tricky. In addition, the fact that the three gold pans in my backpack were absorbing more shock than a crash-test-dummy at impact was only a minor annoyance. As well, bashing off the face of the boulder clay was merely a slight test of my prospecting mettle, so to speak.

At last, still breathing (though hot and ragged breaths those breaths were), I came to a sudden stop. Some friendly tree branches gracefully halted my ballet-like plunge. (It's rumoured a visiting Russian judge, observing from across the river, gave me a 9 out of 10!)

Now, for those with a sense of the divine in nature, this was the perfect moment. The moment that finds the human at one with the mountain (and miraculously still alive). However, more remarkable than my survival was that the dirt had not spilled from my bucket! Yes, that is the wonder in this high placer tale—not a stone was lost from the bucket, not a single grain of sand! 

So, with pay-dirt still intact, I somehow made my joints regain function, more or less (more pain and less function!). However, with renewed confidence, I set off once again. The only obstacle remaining was the sullen boulder clay.

At some point, you'd think the brain would revolt, refusing to power the muscles required for descent, especially after a such a brush with imminent extinction, all perpetrated by some ambitious idiot bent on chasing dirt! But no, the brain can always be overridden! I've located the master switch to disarm it. I've used it many times to stop logical thought, yet I have somehow survived to tell this tale. (This is proof that life is full of mysteries, ones not easily solved by rational thought.)

At any rate, about a dozen steps down, the clay, somewhat wet from a seep, remembered one of its admirable qualities, the slicker than greased Teflon quality, and off I went again. This time it was only a playful, sort of jarring bashing, with the odd bone-numbing wallop thrown in for variety. It lasted for a mere twenty or so feet, then I came to a feather-like stop on the gravel below, the contents of the bucket still intact.

Although amazed at the miraculous luck required to save such a valuable cargo, I took a break and picked a pan full of golf ball-sized gravel out of my mouth. Next I pushed several teeth back into their sockets, then replaced my left eyeball. After that, I checked to see what the crooked protrusion was that seemed to be attached to my head. Finding that it was my neck, and finding that it was still attached to my shoulders, I set off to the river to pan the dirt!

Three flakes, in five gallons. . . . You can't make this stuff up.

I guess there's a lesson to be learned here, but far be it from me to get preachy, or to force my hard-earned wisdom on any of you. I'll let you figure out the drug-induced dangers of gettin’ high while chasing placer diggin’s.

All the best,

Lanny

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Love it...…...more so because of the digressing.

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On 3/15/2019 at 6:04 PM, Jim_Alaska said:

Another winner Lanny. Laughed all the way through it.  

Jim, you've always been a good friend, and a great supporter.

I'm glad you enjoyed the story, and thanks for leaving a note.

All the best,

Lanny

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