Moments in Time is a collection of recovered newspaper briefs and other publications, compiled by local historian, Steve Hathcock, offering a look back at the history of the Rio Grande Valley.
Steve Hathcock is a local historian and a regular columnist for the Port Isabel South Padre Press. He has spent many years collecting and sharing the history of the Rio Grande Valley, as well as treasure hunting and formerly owning an Island-based bookstore.
When it comes to metal detecting, common sense dictates that your best odds lie exactly where the crowds gather. If you want to find what people have lost, you have to go where they congregate.
I make it a habit to pore over the upcoming calendar of events in the local newspaper. My eyes are always scanning for specific target-rich environments: music festivals, summer carnivals, church picnics, county rodeos, and any outdoor gathering that draws a crowd.
Your absolute prime hunting spots are always going to be situated around the concession stands, the ticket booths, and the grassy perimeters surrounding the bandstands where the evening concerts take place. Think about the physical mechanics of what happens in those specific zones. These are the frantic, high-traffic areas where people are constantly pulling folded bills and loose change out of their pockets to buy a cold drink or a corn dog. They are the spots where folks are unfolding lawn chairs, spreading out thick blankets, sitting back, or lying down to do a bit of late-night stargazing. As they shift around, stretch out, or reach into their pockets while relaxing, jewelry and loose coins naturally work their way out and slip quietly down into the turf.
Now, while the lush, grassy areas mentioned above are undoubtedly your most lucrative targets, an experienced hunter knows never to overlook the paved surfaces. Take a slow, deliberate walk across the blacktop and look closely for large structural cracks or sharp drop-offs along the margins. When a heavy downpour rolls through, rainwater rushes across the asphalt, sweeping light items right along with it. If there has been a good, steady rain, dropped earrings, lost charms, and heavy pendants will frequently wash straight off the hardtop and end up deposited perfectly in the soft dirt alongside a blacktopped parking area—especially one that features a good, steep slope for drainage.
I vividly remember hunting the grounds of the old Port Isabel High School just after the buildings were completely demolished about twenty years ago. Because I was familiar with the original layout of the campus, I didn’t waste time wandering blindly; I was able to pinpoint the exact zones of high student traffic. I paid special attention to where the bicycle racks used to stand. From there, I set up a meticulous grid pattern, working my way outward from the core area where the kids actually parked their bikes. Then, I concentrated heavily on the specific area where they would have mounted or dismounted their rides. This is where loose coins or school jewelry had a tendency to slip cleanly out of a students pocket during the daily scramble. That old school site proved to be an absolute goldmine, yielding dozens of vintage silver coins, early wheat pennies, and discarded religious medals. I also managed to pull up four or five silver friendship rings and several matching bracelets.
One of the oldest and most intriguing coins I recovered that week was so completely encrusted in hard, petrified dirt that at first glance, I couldn’t even begin to make out the face, let alone the date. I brought it home and let it soak in a jar of warm, soapy water for a couple of days. Slowly but surely, the stubborn crust began to slough off. When I finally wiped the surface clean, I was thrilled to decipher the bold words “United States of America” flanking a distinct piece of history: an old American “2 Cents” piece minted in 1865. Even scratched and worn, that single coin carried a collector’s value of about nine dollars, but the thrill of pulling it from the schoolyard dirt was worth far more.
Every now and then, treasure hunting takes an unexpected turn into personal recovery work. Once, I found myself helping a local fisherman track down his lost wedding band. The man had been cast fishing along the bank of a creek and had laid his ring down on his heavy utility tarp for safekeeping while he fished. Later on, engrossed in his catch, he completely forgot the ring was resting there. That is, until he picked up the tarp and gave it a hard shake to clear off the debris.
“I saw it hit the water. It made the exact same kind of sharp, pooching sound a walleye pike makes when it breaks the surface,” the man told me, his face long with regret.
He seemed entirely unsure that I would ever be able to find the ring in the moving water, and if I’m being completely honest, I had my serious doubts too. The current was steady, but I kept my focus and worked my way methodically down to a spot where the creek flowed over a flat shelf of solid rock. At that ledge, the water dropped about five feet down, forming a wide, quiet pool that curved downstream for about twenty-five yards before disappearing entirely around a sharp bend under the thick cover of an overhanging willow tree. I figured if the ring had travelled, the physics of the pool would drop it right at the bottom of the shelf.
I waded in, swept my detector, and hit the absolute mother-lode! In the course of just two hours of careful hunting in that pool, I didn’t just find his missing wedding band; I pulled up about a hundred lost coins, including a highly coveted 1931-D Lincoln wheat penny, numerous heavy lead fishing sinkers, a small mountain of discarded vintage beer cans, and even a completely submerged old car tire.
Recalling the wildly successful scene later on, the fisherman—who had graciously and happily paid my recovery fee for returning his ring—couldn’t help but shake his head and bemoan my incredible luck to the guys gathered around.
“If there were the same kind of legal limits set on treasure hunting and lying as there are on fishing,” he grinned, clapping me on the shoulder, “Steve Hathcock would be serving a life sentence!”