Warning Signs

 

So many red flags, yet Peter chose to ignore them all—a yellow symbol glowing brightly on the dashboard, the weather forecaster imploring people to prepare for an imminent storm, and a “No Trespassing” sign bearing skull and crossbones symbols. Everything seemed trivial, until it was too late to avoid his current predicament.

Peter owed everyone, from his landlord to the local bookie, and they all wanted their money now. His minimum wage job, even with overtime, wasn’t enough to keep the debt collectors at bay: However, he had a plan to resolve all his financial missteps. The plan involved driving his 1998 Jeep to a local mountain range, locating an abandoned gold mine he had heard of, and digging out some gold. The mine had been closed since 1898, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t enough gold left to save him from his impending financial doom. Gold is currently selling for $1,511.00 an ounce, so if he gathered 4 to 5 ounces, he would be home free.

Saturday, Peter’s one and only day off, was overcast and breezy as he set off toward the mountains in his dilapidated Jeep. After an hour of driving, an engine warning light flashed to life on the Jeep’s dash. Peter had seen this before and chose to ignore it; he didn’t have the money for repairs anyway. He turned onto a dirt road that, according to an old map he had copied from the library, would take him to the mine. The road ran out at the same time the Jeep quit running.

Timing is everything, thought Peter as he shook his head and climbed out of his disabled ride. He grabbed a pick and shovel, placed them over one shoulder, stuffed a plastic garbage bag in one pants pocket, a flashlight in the other, and strode off in the direction of the mine. The hike was difficult. The trail had eroded over time and was now barely passable. During his trek up the mountain Peter noticed the sky darkening and the wind increasing in velocity. He remembered watching the weather report before going to bed. The forecaster was more animated than normal as he warned viewers of the approaching storm. Peter remembered thinking; those guys will say anything to increase their ratings. Besides, he had to go today, it was his only day off. Peter trudged on.

It took another 35 minutes to reach what had once been the mouth of the mine. Standing guard at the entrance was a rotting wooden sign showing skull and crossbones and the words No Trespassing. Peter stepped past the sign to inspect the partially collapsed opening. Before entering, he made his way to a nearby mountain stream for a cold refreshing drink. He had drunk from streams before, but didn’t recall any of those having almond-flavored water. Thirst quenched, he proceeded into the mine.

Peter’s assumption was confirmed when not more than 50 yards in, the beam from his flashlight revealed small flecks of glimmering gold. He set to work, swinging the pick and dislodging small quantities of gold. It was hard dusty work, and Peter made several trips to the stream to quench his thirst. He spent the better part of the day laboring in the mine, finally securing what he hoped was enough gold to erase his debt.

Just as Peter emerged, the sky was ripped apart by a flash of blinding light, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. Rain pummeled the earth as more lightning split surrounding trees, and gale force winds snapped others like toothpicks. Peter retreated back into the shaft, seeking shelter from the maelstrom. The gentle mountain stream morphed into an angry river, depositing silt and debris into the mine, covering Peter from head to toe in mud. The storm lasted for several hours until retreating back into the evening sky. Not willing to risk a trek down the mountain in the dark, Peter spent the night in the mine.

Sunlight chased away the gloom of night, and Peter emerged from his shelter damp and covered in what miners call tailings (ore residue). His stomach felt a little unsettled and his head ached, but he dismissed the symptoms as a lack of food and sleep. Peter picked up the bag containing almost 5 pounds of gold, abandoned his tools, and walked down the mountain. On the way he passed the Jeep with a splintered tree embedded in the roof. The more he walked the sicker he became. He finally reached the paved road and collapsed in an unconscious heap on the centerline.

Peter regained consciousness in an unfamiliar bed surrounded by strangers wearing scrubs. He told the attending physician where he had spent the night. An elderly man in the other bed of the semiprivate room interrupted Peter’s story.

“I remember my Granddaddy talking about that mine when I was a boy. He said they closed it down not because it ran out of gold, but because it was loaded with arsenic. Everyone who worked there died.”

From his hospital bed Peter engaged the services of an attorney to convert the gold into cash. Then he instructed the lawyer to pay all his bills, even the bookie, and make arrangements at a funeral home. Peter died later that week from arsenic poisoning, but he was finally debt-free.