I’m off again to look for Forrest’s chest. This time back to New Mexico. I’ll tell you more about my “go to” spots a little further on…
I have 17 wonderful days to explore. But it takes 2.5 long days of driving to get there from here. So subtract 5 days from the 17 for travel. I like the drive though. I am from the generation that loves to get in my truck and drive off into new vistas and old towns. Stay off the freeways as much as possible. Stop along the way in mom & pop diners and test their apple pie. Nothing quite makes me happier than traveling down a two lane blacktop on my way to who cares. It’s like a metaphor for life I suppose. The future is all ahead of you with turns and twists and surprises galore. The present is on each side. Grasslands blossom into woodlands which evolve into mountains and trout streams and finally into wide main streets with curious place names like Dinosaur and Goliath and Mumps and Digger and Shack. Towns the developers haven’t reinvented yet. Towns that have escaped the call of Walmart and Burger King. Places proud of their history of bad guys in black hats and working women in low-cut, gingham dresses. Every mile there’s something or someone new. Traveling on the road is one of life’s fabulous offerings. I live for adventure…even small ones.
I just got my GMC van with 267, 000 miles, serviced and pronounced fit enough. This trip will put another 5-6K on it. I’m looking forward to checking out my new spots. They match the poem pretty well. I’ve had all winter to consider them. All of my spots are within 100 miles of Taos…except one. All are in or through canyons or streets named Canyon. There are Brown ideas with homes in the vicinity that mark the place to put-in. Some are remote, down twisty, red stained government roads amongst mountain scenery and pinyon forest. Another is not very far from the center of a small tourist town with several mom & pop apple pies to try. They are each unique, requiring a different interpretation of the clues in Forrest’s poem to find. Some I know are near blazes…of various types. Others will require looking for blazes once I get there. One blaze is on a stone carving of a bigger than life-sized stallion. Another is near an entirely different blaze than I have ever considered before.
I’m stoked.
Let me tell you about one place. Not far from Elizabethtown. In a lovely, historic and accessible area. Following the clues in the poem will get you there…except the blaze. I’ll look for that when I get my boots on the rolling mountain scenery. I’ve rejected this spot several times because it seemed so unlikely. Brown was the hardest part. But right now it all falls together. I know several others who have looked in Elizabethtown itself, but this is not their spot.It’s near Elizabethtown but not in it. Whether the chest is secreted there or not, I don’t know. But even if it is, even if this is the exact place where Forrest hid his chest two or three years ago…I may not find it. I might pass right over it without recognizing it. I could miss it. Lets face it, my chances of finding Forrest’s hidey place are miserably low…but I love the chase.
And, of course I am still curious about this headstone near the Red River. Could it be the “put-in” spot?
Dal….
I believe Forrest hid his treasure in one of two areas…albeit these are large areas, more like regions than pinpointed spots.
My first guess is a spot along a place I call Sabre Creek less than 200 miles from Santa Fe. Home of Brown is found there with no attachment to trout or hotels or bears. My second choice is a much bigger area in or around Yellowstone National Park…no surprise there. Half the known world believes that Forrest secreted that old bronze chest somewhere around this country’s first national park. After all, Forrest is on record as saying that the place he hid that chest is special to him and anyone that has read his book knows what fun he had around there. As a kid Forrest spent a lot of summers fishing, hunting, socializing and exploring in Yellowstone and nearby areas. “Where warm waters halt” could be a reference to the well known geysers that spew heated waters around the park and attract tourists by the millions each year….or not.
One thing we do know is that it’s in the mountains. Forest has said many times that its “in the mountains”….and therein rests my conundrum.
Round about March I get crazy about getting out and looking for that chest. I spend the winter months thinking about where it could be. Reading and rereading everything I can about Forrest. Dissecting his poem and hoping to come across some piece of trivial information I’ve overlooked til now. I get real antsy to apply my new ideas in the field. But there’s a big problem. His treasure is in the mountains.
My own home is not in the mountains. Instead it’s just above sea level on a small island in Washington’s Salish Sea. Our winters are very mild. Very little if any snow ever falls here even though I’m about a thousand miles north of Santa Fe. In January and February the mercury hovers at about 45 degrees. We have terrific gardens and a wide variety of plants because hard freezes are so rare. This is all well and good for exploring around Puget Sound but if one has decided to head into the mountains to look for Forrest’s chest, one had better be mindful of the fact that winter at 7,000 feet is much harder and lasts much longer than where I hang out. My decision to explore Yellowstone in April tested my ability to cope with a lingering winter in the Yellowstone region.
April is spring. Everyone knows that. Here in the lowlands, the daffodils are blooming, I’ve been cutting my fast growing lawn for a month and the spring salmon runs are in full-tilt boogie. Six hundred miles south and east, smack in the middle of the Rockies sprawls Yellowstone at about 7,000 feet in altitude. I find it hard to believe that at home its 57 degrees and here, in West Yellowstone, its 17 degrees and the place has about a foot of snow on the ground. But that’s not the bad news. The bad news is that I have 24 hours to get my exploring done because the weather service warns that a winter storm is on the way and it will dump about two more feet of snow where I am parked. That gives me one day to get “exploring” out of my system before my winter wimp factor sets in and I head for the lowland coast like Speed Racer.
As I climb into my sleeping bag under a red and black Hudson Bay blanket for the night I am comforted by the fact that the difference between nighttime and daytime temps here will be about 35 degrees. It will get up to nearly 50 degrees tomorrow at 1pm. That’s a temperature I can function in. Good bicycle riding weather. That’s important because the only way I can get into the park tomorrow is on a bicycle. Well that’s not precisely true. I can make my choice between bicycling, walking, jogging, roller blades, or roller skis.The road is clear of snow up to Madison Park but cars and motorcycles are not allowed in yet. Any foot or non-motorized vehicle is allowed on the plowed roads. I choose bicycle because walking would take too long and roller blades would probably kill me.
I am actually looking forward to it. It will be quiet…serene…no cars or trucks, no motorcycles to spoil the natural sounds. It’s the only time of year when this part of Yellowstone is free of motor noise. Bicycles can have the whole road. In the summer Yellowstone is an endless cacophonous parade of ponderous vacation vehicles and in winter the snowmobiles and snow busses take over. But in between, for about a month from mid-March to mid-April its bicycles only from the West entrance to Madison Junction and even beyond as the roads are cleared.
I’m kind of excited about what the park might be like, absent of motors. I wonder too if the wildlife notices or cares. Do they look forward to this brief period between winter motors and summer crowds?… A respite. I brought my field recorder and microphone along just in case. Maybe I can record Yellowstone in its serene state…as wild and noiseless as it’s likely to get…streams, geysers, bubbling mud, bison snorting, elk bellowing, wolves howling, sans the ubiquitous automobile.
I am not an expert on park distances. But I recollect from driving around here last summer that the ride from the west gate up to Madison Junction is about 10 miles. Twenty miles round-trip. Plus a few mile hike because the area I’m interested in is east of the junction but I’ll have to hoof it beyond Madison Junction because that’s as far as the road is cleared right now. I don’t remember any serious hills. I think I can do this comfortably…even in my “less than superb” physical condition.
Unfortunately, I made a slight miscalculation. Its actually more like 15 miles one way. But I don’t figure that out until the next day when I’ve peddled 10 miles and find myself only two thirds of way there. Bummer!
And another miscalculation. The hike in, once I peddle to Madison Junction, is all but impossible. That old trapper and story teller Jim Bridger could have made it, no sweat. But I am many generations and bags of red licorice and forced air heating removed from Jim or any of his ilk. My life is not physically demanding and I am nowhere near an experienced back country traveler. Once off the bike and in snow I am about as competent at making my way safely across the valley and to my destination as a door hinge. But I am stupid enough to try.
At the end of the plowed road I decide to head across the valley and onto the ridge. The snow is not deep but there is a lot of runoff and I can hear water gurgling and rushing under the snow. The whole area is a flooded river of icy water moving downhill under a thin layer of crusty snow and ice. My feet punch through the snow layer as I walk. They get soaked. In fact the further I march toward the slope the more soaked I become. Even once I start up hill its no different. Walking in this stuff is exhausting. It takes me nearly two hours to walk across the valley and up the slope to the ridge,
At one point I break through the snow and find myself up to my chest in a frigid, blue and white snow hole. I can feel ice cold water rushing up past my knees. The water wants to swallow me…pull me in under the snow. Its a struggle to extricate myself and in the process I am now completely drenched. My clothing is soaked through. I am also exhausted from the effort of postholing uphill. I have walked less than a mile. Its been nearly two hours since I left my bike at the junction. I am no where near my destination. I am cold and wet. I am not a happy camper. It’s now after 1pm and the temperature is plummeting. So is my body temperature. I pull my little bag of raisins from my soaked coat pocket and finish them off. Then I turn and head back to the junction. Cold, tired, soaked and defeated. I’m falling through the snow at about every fourth step. Just as I did on the way in. Only now its much harder to pull myself back on top of the snow. I am exhausted. My only consolation is that now I am headed downhill.
I come up with a bad plan. I decide I should try rolling on top of the snow. My little feet go right through but my body won’t. If I lay down on top of the snow and just start rolling I can probably make pretty good time back toward the junction. Less effort. No postholing. Maybe I’m delirious. I give it a try. I lay down on the snow with my belly facing the junction. I tuck my elbows into my chest and cross my ankles. I hurl my body downhill. Its a combination of rolling and sliding. Gravity wants to pull my fat head down hill first. I try fighting gravity and struggle to remain parallel to the slope. Its not working. My speed is picking up. I am on the verge of losing control…no, that’s wrong. I have lost control. I am now in a free fall slide and roll. I remember that there were trees at the bottom. I am not certain where I am or where the trees are. My eyes are closed to keep things from flying into them. I don’t dare open them. In addition to not being in control I am also beginning to panic about the trees. It seems like I have been rolling and sliding for a whole minute. Where am I? Fear has taken my mind off being cold.
I am trying to keep my head up. I spread my legs and try digging my toes into the snow to slow myself down. I am now bouncing up and down like a beach ball. Snow is filling up every cavity between my clothes and my skin but I can feel myself slowing down. Its working. I can feel that I am in control again. If my toes don’t rip off I should do okay. I decide to stop this foolishness before I kill myself. I dig my toes in hard and slide to a complete stop. My eyes are closed. My face is crusted with snow. My coat is packed with snow. My boots are stuffed with snow. My hands are rubbed raw and hurt like the devil. My chin is scraped. My toes are sore. My insides feel like I put them in a blender…but other than that I am fine. I open my eyes and see where I am at. I have come straight down the slope about 400 meters and have come to a halt no more than ten feet directly in front of a tree. I lay there for a second and say thanks to whoever is listening. I have slid about a quarter mile in just a couple of minutes. It took me 45 minutes to walk that same line just a while ago. I am achey and cold again but I didn’t slam into any trees. I am done with sliding. I pry myself upright. Its only a short limp back to my bike. My pack. My recorder. More raisins.
The ride back is torturous. I am frigid and shivering. By the time I get back to West Yellowstone I am nearly frozen solid.
In the end, I caved. I broke out the credit card and paid for a room with a thermostat. I cranked it up to about 212 degrees, took a long, hot shower, crawled into a soft clean bed and thought about how tough those early explorers must have been. Guys who traveled these mountains day in and day out winter and summer…with no raisins.
dal…
a
I received a letter recently from Stephan…a fellow searcher whom I accused of not being able to find his backside with both hands. He took my comment very well. I’m not sure if the tables had been turned I would have responded as civilly. He writes about life in his neck of the woods and the location of a blaze that might point to the treasure. He also adds an interesting yarn about confronting Forrest which I am certain is tongue-in-cheek. Finally…look closely at the two photos Stephan has agreed to share with us for clues to the treasure and to Stephan….
Enjoy!
Dal…
——————
a
a
Hi Dal,
Stephan here, aka Stephan Of Dubious Pants-less Attire, or as my fellow pirates call me, Stephan, Our-Supreme, If Somewhat Less Than Acute (ie Obtuse), Buccaneer-in-Chief. I am actually the bona-fide and de-facto leader of a desperate and scabrous gang of treasure hunters, roaming far and wide over the hinterlands of our great Southwest in search of Forrest Fenn’s Fabulous Treasure. We delight in laying waste to the hearts of beautiful young mountain maids whilst also shaking down unsuspecting school lads for their lunch money.
And in all seriousness, you write an excellent blog. Mr. Fenn told me you are a fine writer, and I must agree.
I didn’t tell you, but we call ourselves the Dark Velvet Knights of Rio Chamita. But since we are actually PIRATES only thinly disguised as knights, our impeccable code of honor requires that we volley back at you, sir, a blistering broadside in response to some recent remarks you made in that thar blog o’ yers about Stephan The-Magnificent-Kind-Of.
First of all, we are all fully capable of both finding and donning our pants, at least some of the time. Unless we happened to spend a riotous evening the night before playing backgammon and drinking lemon seltzer. Then all bets are off. You see, as soon as we pull out our boards and starting throwing the dice, the comely lasses thereabouts just can’t resist our sinister smiles as we casually and carelessly flick our wrists, all devil-may-care-like. And of course all the men fear us, as they stand agog while we quaff un-godly amounts of lemon seltzer far into the wee hours of the morning. After that, it is indeed difficult to even find one’s pants, let alone don them. So I must admit that you have us there.
But you see, a very curious thing happened one day after just such a licentious evening. We arose late, our gang, and yes we were frightful to behold. Pants were strewn everywhere, and some of us have yet to figure out what that second trouser is for, so I leave it to your imagination. It was winter, quite cold, and so we regaled ourselves with porterhouse steaks and steamed spinach before setting out into the frigid dawn. We decided pants-less was best, given our natural inclination for honest penance after wanton debauchery. And soon, or course, I felt icicles forming relentlessly on my knobby knees.
We decided our best course of action was to confront this Forrest Fenn fellow directly, so we trundled ourselves into the Collected Works Bookstore, and calmly waited as we pretended to be interested in all dem hoity-toity books they got in thar. That took some gumption, I can tell you, because it seems that pants-less attire must needs attract plentiful attention. But we were unswayed, and at last we spied a ten-gallon hat, and we knew that the Texas Gentleman would soon be ours.
Yep, he did put up quite a fight, knocking all the framed Oliphant Cartoons off the wall, but soon he was subdued, and as the barista under-study wailed, we spirited him off in our trusty ’82 Honda hatchback.
We had a room ready for Mr. Fenn, and I can tell you, surrounded by desperate blackguards disguised as knights, poor Mr. Fenn was quite at his wits ends at first. You see, we had taken special care to hang the most atrocious modern art floor-to-ceiling in our little interrogation room, and we had Garth Brooks blaring on the speakers. We knew that Mr. Fenn, as a Texas man, grew up listening to the likes of Hank Williams Sr. and Johnny Cash, so we figured some modern country music rubbish might really rub him the wrong way. And certainly all that awful art would make him crack like an egg.
Boy, were we wrong. That intrepid gentleman didn’t even flinch. So we gathered in a corner and decided that truly onerous measures were in order. So out came the fried-pineapple pie. Mr. Fenn looked wary at first, but after a couple of slices, we knew we had him. He started muttering something about warm water, and brown trout, and we took careful notes. Soon we had Mr. Fenn safely back in Santa Fe, and he gave us hearty congratulations on our baking abilities as we sped off into the frosty mountains with our hard-won clues.
Well, it wasn’t long before we found ourselves staggering around in the middle of nowhere, in thigh-deep snowdrifts. Now, for the uninitiated, I don’t recommend that you do this without pants. But we, bold adventurers all, were undaunted.
The day waned, and lo, a cry of triumph rang out from Pierre le Moche, my stalwart, if somewhat difficult to look at, lieutenant (I’m partial to the French, you see) He pointed, trembling. And the attached photo is part of what he saw…
Well, Dal, I can tell you that FF is accompanied by some other very interesting carving, nicely and precisely grouped. The carving isn’t that old, and not that new, and there isn’t any other carving around anywhere. You see, it is a very remote spot. I might bet my entire vintage pants collection that you would be interested to know what the other carving said. But that will have to wait. You can be sure that I carefully and clearly solved all clues in the poem, in a way that even all those school lads we frisked could understand. And if my solution turns out to be wrong, I will give you all my pants if you don’t agree that all of my clues and deductions fit perfectly.
And by the way, that email of mine which you posted was only a small part of the story of that particular day…
Nope, I haven’t found the treasure, but there is still lots of snow in the high country, and pants-less pirates do after all prefer the warm spring sun on their knobby knees.
Best wishes to you and truly, I do admire your blog.
Stephan
PS That other photo is me with a couple of yellowtail tuna. It’s from my pirate-knight apprentice days. I thought you might like it as well.
If she seemed unconventional when I first spotted her it was only because of the green rubber mud boots that she wore with her pink dress. I had only the faintest idea then what kind of incredible character she would turn out to be.
a
I was in Portland attending the Cascade Mountain Video Show. It’s the kind of event where a conference center is turned into a giant showroom for a hundred or so video equipment manufacturers. They bring their latest cameras, switchers, tripods, jibs, remote heads and lighting instruments. Video geeks are attracted to these things like crows to roadkill. We stand together in small groups huddled around tables, eyes glazed, while sales reps show off the latest 3D effects software or newest large sensor camera. Its not unlike going to a Home & Garden show and watching a kitchen tool expert show off the latest beet slicer/dicer. Of course you get wrapped up in the moment. Have to buy one. So you buy the beet slicer/dicer and bring it home only to find out that it takes actual skill to use. Same thing at our show in Portland except the gizmos cost $30K or more and the crowds are generally smaller because these toys appeal to only a select crowd of video nerds. Most of us don’t actually buy things at the show. We make buying decisions later when the excitement of the moment has faded and we can realistically assess our needs.
The attendees are predominantly male. I’m not sure why. Maybe women in the industry get their product information in a different way. The salesmen wear suits and ties. The attendees all look like they just walked in from the golf club. Khaki pants, Polo shirts and loafers are de rigueur. Even better if you have a windbreaker with your logo. The whole room smells like a mix between Ralph Lauren cologne and some cheap hotel shampoo. So you can imagine what a curious sight Madeline would be in her green, calf length mud boots, pink girly dress over a blue t-shirt and bright yellow watch cap pulled down low covering her ears. Not a slave to fashion trends, she kinda stood out.
I knew who she was right away.
a
Dal,
My name is Madeline and I have been reading your blog. I am interested in Forrest’s treasure and have been out looking a few times. I expect to go out again when the snow finally blows away. I wrote this about my last search. You can put this in your blog if you want.
I think that I shall never see
A treasure half as big as me.
I walked around the woods all day,
I felt like the guy from Hudson Bay.
I thought I saw it once for sure
Turned out to be a rock obscure.
Really got my blood a-pumpin
Thought for sure I’d found a big bronze somethin.
But nevermind that I left poor
I had delusions of granduer
I really am much better off
Oh what the hell, please don’t scoff
I am headed there once again
I can’t give up like a lost hen
I must pursue, I must come thru
When I meet Fenn I’ll say thank you
Madeline-
Ha! Thanks for the poem
Very clever. You should send it to Forrest. He is a fan of poetry.
So where are you going to look next?
dal…
a
Dal,
I’m not sure. Maybe the same place. Just because I didn’t trip over it does not mean its not there. I looked near ———–(redacted by dal).
All the clues seem to fit plus Forrest seems to have a great sense of humor and I think this place is clever enough to avoid the scrutiny of very many searchers. Have you looked there? Do you know if others have? When are you going out again?
a
Madeline-
I have looked near there and I have heard from one other person who has searched near there as well. I agree it seems a likely spot. Pinpointing the exact location once you’re there is a bit harder. It will take some time to thoroughly search in every nook and cranny.
I am headed out in late spring. Probably May. What about you?
dal…
Dal,
I was there late in the fall. Got chased out by snow. I want to go there earlier this year. Its so high up that winter lasts a good long time though. I am from Portland and by May around here its summer. Heading back into winter is always a bit depressing as well as chilling. It’s hard to look when my fingers and toes are freezing. Do you ever get to Oregon? I have photos of the places I searched. If you want we could share information about that area. Do you have photos of the places you have looked?
Madeline-
I am headed to Portland for a trade show next week. I have GPS tracks and photos. Sharing would be good. Can we trade files?
dal…
Dal,
I can meet you here. Name the place and time. Can’t trade files. I have actual photos from my drugstore. What are GPS tracks? Do I need them? I don’t have digital anything except my old iBook.
Madeline-
The Cascade Mountain Video Show is at the World Forestry Center, near the Zoo. How about 3PM on the 17th?
dal…
Dal,
I can meet you there. Is it a big event? How will I find you?
Madeline-
A few hundred people will be there but by 3pm the crowds will be diminishing. You can call my cell at ——(redacted by dal).
Dal,
I don’t have a cell phone. I have a dog. Is this a dress-up event?
Madeline-
Not for me. Its mostly middle aged guys wearing khaki trousers and polo shirts that say CBS. I’ll be wearing my best jeans and a t-shirt that doesn’t say anything.
dal…
Dal,
How have I missed this event all these years? Okay, I guarantee you’ll know its me when you see me. I’ll be wearing green boots.
So that was it. That was all the correspondence we had before we actually met. A person would have to be a slobbering, anthropophobic not to want to meet Madeline. But honestly, corresponding with her did not nearly prepare me for the real girl.
Madeline looked to be 30ish. Small at about 5’2”. Dark mysterious eyes and pale delicate skin. She was skinny as can be. If she weighed 90lbs I would have been surprised. Her teeth were perfectly straight and brilliant white. There was a small scar on her nose that was probably left over from a piercing many years earlier. Her cheekbones were high and it gave her face a sculpted look. When she talked she looked directly into my eyes and when I talked she listened closely. She seemed comfortable in her own skin and much more sensitive than my initial take from across the room.
We shook hands on the floor of the video show. Her grip was light but not mushy. There was strength there. We started right in about Forrest’s treasure and continued yapping for about a half hour, standing in the same spot. The show began to wrap up around us. Vendors started carrying out cases of expensive video equipment, signage and briefcases full of brochures and business cards.
English was Madeline’s second language. Some sort of delicate accent was buried deeply in the rhythms of her speech and the endings of her words but I could not tell what her first language might be.
“I think we better get out of here.” I said.
“Do you have your pictures and PGS tracks?” She asked.
“GPS, and yes, I do.” I said.
“Okay, my pictures and maps are in my trailer. I’m in the lot out front. We can talk there.”
Madeline led the way out the door to the lot. Few vehicles were left. My white truck was in the middle. A few blue sedans were sprinkled around and in the back sat a red, 1950ish, GMC pick-up, in mint…I mean MINT condition. Madeline was walking right toward it.
As if the truck was not a 10 all by itself, it was attached to a little, red & white, round travel trailer, also vintage and immaculately restored. It had a nameplate that read Shasta on the side.
“This is a beautiful rig.” I said.
“Thanks.” She said. “I restored them myself.”
I walked over to the truck and looked in the cab. It looked like it just came out of the showroom. There was a blanket folded neatly on the passenger seat and an off white plastic Jesus stuck on the metal dash.
“Both the truck and the trailer?” I asked.
“Yep. Bet you’re surprised a 92lb chick could do that.” She said as she turned the key in the trailer door and pushed it open.
I turned back toward the trailer. She pulled a lever inside the door and a step unfolded from under the trailer. She held the door open for me.
“As a matter of fact I stand in complete astonishment whenever I meet anyone who can restore old trucks. I wish I had those skills.” I said. “I am envious not only of the vehicles but also of the talent.”
I stepped inside. It was the cutest darn thing you ever saw. Checkered cafe curtains on the windows. A black and white linoleum floor and a cozy kitchen with a booth. A bunk bed was at the hitch end and a small room that I imagined was the bath was carved out of the floor space. There was a comfy chair, a wool throw rug and a built-in lamp and end table. An Irish Setter slipped off the chair and came over to great me.
“That’s Red.” She said. “Red, this is Dal.”
“Hiya Red.” I said. Red offered her paw. I pumped it once and smiled at her.
“You can have the chair sweetie.” Madeline said to Red. “We’re going to use the kitchen and talk for awhile.”
Red jumped back in the chair, rotated around a few times and finally settled with her head on the arm so she could keep an eye on me I suppose.
The space was small, maybe 80 square feet. probably less cramped for a 92lb, 5’2” person. It was also immaculate. Nothing was messy.
“This is beautiful.” I said. I hoped it sounded as sincere as it was.
“Thanks.” She said. “Red and I live in it.”
She motioned toward the booth.
“Have a seat.”
I slid in to one side of the booth and took my laptop out of my computer bag.
“Truly?” I asked.
Madeline slipped in on the other side.
“Its our home.” She said. We travel around a lot but even when we’re back in Portland this is our home.”
“So you stay at campgrounds?” I asked.
“When we are out on the road we do. I own a nice lot just outside of town. I landscaped it and have a veggie garden and some fruit trees and a driveway where we park when we’re home. But we still live in the trailer. I drew up some plans for a small house I’m going to build on the lot. But so far I have not been over to the county Planning Department to get permits…Maybe this year I’ll start…Maybe next year. Would you like some tea?” She asked.
“Sure.” I said. “A conventional wood frame house?” I asked.
“Not really.” She said. She got up and took a kettle out of a cupboard and filled it with water from the tiny sink. She put it on the two burner stove, turned a burner on and lit it with a lighter from a drawer under the stove. “I have some ideas for alternative, low impact housing. It’ll be a challenge to get Planning to hand over a permit. My ideas are a little ahead of the ‘classic home’ curve.”
While she was up I took secretive glances at a black and white photo on the wall next to the light switch. It had caught my eye when I walked in but I didn’t want to stare at it. It was a disturbing photo of what appeared to be a dead, teenage girl laying on the street. Her clothes were ripped off her body. Blood was pooled around her head on the concrete. Her mouth was smashed and I could see her teeth were missing. There were several gaping slash wounds on her body around and on her breasts. There was a broken beer bottle on the ground between her bare legs. Her eyes were open. It looked like a police crime scene photo. Printed on the bottom of the photo was a number and a date, 26/12/96. The photo was an anomaly. Horribly out of place against the cafe curtains and hobbit-like, perfectly neat, little trailer. I didn’t know what to make of it. “Not my business.” I said to myself.
When she sat down at her place in the booth again Madeline brought a box of photos and took off her yellow watch cap and placed it on the seat next to her. To my utter amazement her head was shaved. I tried not to gawk. A large red and blue scar traveled from just above her right ear across and back to the base of her skull. Other than lashes and brows she had no hair at all. I tried not to show any sign of surprise even though I was off my guard completely.
“Not my business.” I said to myself again.
I turned my laptop around so Madeline could see the screen. I had a topo map of the area she and I had both searched, displayed on the screen.
“Oh good she said. Can you zoom in to the area near the river below the falls?”
On we went. We must have exchanged ideas and knowledge about that area for the better part of an hour. We both consumed two cups of green tea. Red slept on the chair the whole time.
By now I was no longer fixated on her shaved head. I’d become used to the idea. She looked as normal as anyone looked to me. But the disturbing photo was vexing. I could not ignore it. Every time I looked up it was right in front of me. I was tired of it.
As I thanked Madeline for sharing information and for the tea I slid out and zipped up my jacket. She went over to the door to let me out. I pointed at the photo.
“That’s you, isn’t it.” I said.
“It is.” She said. “Not one of my prouder moments.”
“You lived.” I said, stating the obvious.
“Barely.” She said. I keep it there to remind me what’s wrong with drugs and child prostitution.”
“Where was that taken.” I asked.
“Quebec.” She said
“I admire what you’ve accomplished.” I said.
“Thanks.” She said.
I meant it.
dal….
If you haven’t ordered your copy of Forrest’s book yet…maybe you should before they’re all gone.
“Wonderful”, “Exquisite” and “Beautiful” are just some of the attributes judges wielded to acknowledge Forrest’s memoir, The Thrill of the Chase.
The Thrill of the Chase by Forrest Fenn
These spirited accolades came from judges in the 19th Annual Writer’s Digest Awards. One judge wrote that the book is “exceptionally creative”…”life mingled with a hidden treasure”. Another wrote that the story is “exciting” and that Forrest’s interaction with the reader is a good idea “for younger audiences to appreciate”.
I may not qualify as one of his book’s younger readers but I found it compelling and fascinating. I read the entire book, cover to cover, in one sitting. I think it’s fair to say I was enthralled…and I’m not even talking about the chapter that describes his treasure hunt. Forrest’s life is fascinating and his writing style has been described as humorous, folksy and lovely. It’s also a “must read” for anyone looking for his treasure.
The book also garnered a tie for first place in the National Indie Excellence Book Awards in the ”Memoir” division.
And the awards just keep on coming because Margie Goldsmith won second place for a fascinating Huffington Post article she wrote about Forrest and his book…and, of course, the treasure. Her story is titled “A $2million Treasure Hunt in Santa Fe.
If you’d like to read Margie’s story click here.
If you’d like to read an excerpt from Forrest’s book click here.
And if you’d like to purchase the book click here.
Kudos to Margie and Forrest.
dal…
a
I was reading Richard Saunier’s blog about searching for Forrest’s treasure. I noticed he had posted an article about the nine clues that Forrest has said are in his poem. The question Richard poses is what lines constitute the nine clues? I’ve had a similar conversation with friends and searchers about what nine parts of the poem Forrest counts as clues. It’s sort of like counting angels on the head of a pin I guess. I mean it’s an academic question more than a practical one. What does it matter if there are nine or five or fifteen clues…as long as you can identify them as clues and follow them to the treasure. But since Richard started this I figure I should jump in..Even though it looks to me like there are more than nine clues too…
So here goes:
The Thrill of the Chase By Forrest Fenn As I have gone alone in there And with my treasures bold, I can keep my secret where, And hint of riches new and old. CLUE #1 Begin it where warm waters halt CLUE #2 And take it in the canyon down, CLUE #3 Not far, but too far to walk. CLUE #4 Put in below the home of Brown. CLUE #5 From there it’s no place for the meek, CLUE #6 The end is ever drawing nigh; CLUE #7 There’ll be no paddle up your creek, CLUE #7a Just heavy loads and water high. CLUE #8 If you’ve been wise and found the blaze, CLUE #9 Look quickly down, your quest to cease, But tarry scant with marvel gaze, Just take the chest and go in peace. So why is it that I must go And leave my trove for all to seek? The answers I already know, I’ve done it tired and now I’m weak. So hear me all and listen good, CLUE #9a Your effort will be worth the cold. CLUE #9b If you are brave and in the wood I give you title to the gold.Thank you Forrest-
Dal…
Aside from the black pirate patch over his left eye and the spar varnished peg leg he looked perfectly normal. I saw him in the parking lot in front of the rock shop in Eagle Nest, New Mexico.
I can’t pass up a good rock shop. The guys that run them are generally old timers who know more about the immediate countryside than a whole team of Wikipedia editors. I was in the area looking for “warm water halting” and “canyons down”. I spent three days on the Cimarron below Eagle Nest dam and didn’t find any treasure to speak of, at least not what I started out looking for. I did recover an Oris Chronograph watch that was laying in about two feet of fast moving river water, trapped by a boulder. Beautiful Swiss made timepiece. Titanium case. Probably fell off a fisher’s vest or out of a pocket. Who wears watches these days? The Oris was running fine. These things can withstand half a mile of water on top of them. The Cimarron’s 24 inches was not a threat. The crystal wasn’t even scratched. It looked brand new. I shoved it in my pocket and kept looking for a bigger treasure.
It was later that afternoon when I stopped at the rock shop. The guy with the wooden leg jumped around to the back of his dusty old Land Cruiser and pulled out a cardboard box of plain looking rocks. He picked it up with both hands and shoved the back door of the Cruiser shut with his peg. He looked to be about 50 and fit. A ring of dark hair and beard framed his pale face. He was wearing a military issue field jacket in woodland camo and even though it was about 35 degrees outside he was wearing green shorts and one, well-worn leather work boot on his right foot. The whole effect reminded me of Mickey Mouse’s arch-nemesis, Peg Leg Pete. There was a bumper sticker on the back of the cruiser that read “keep the hell off my butt”. I followed him into the shop, but not too close.
When I got in, his beat-up box was on the counter next to the register. The shop was warm, not large but had a lot of open space. I said “hi” as I squeezed past the peg leg guy. He said “Hi, how’r the fish bitein?”
“I don’t know.” I said. “I haven’t been fishing.”
“Really, wasn’t that your white GMC down along the Cimarron this afternoon?”
“Yep, That was mine but I was just walking along the river.”
“Long walk. Your truck was there when I drove by at 6 this morning and it was still there when I drove by again at 5 this afternoon.”
“Its a pretty river.” I said
“It is this time of year before the hoards show up.” He replied.
“I take it your not a big fan of tourists.” I said.
“We need em.” He said stoically. “God bless em and their credit cards.”
“But?” I said.
“No buts.” He said. They come here from Texas and Colorado and they buy gas and eat at the cafe. They buy crap from Red’s across the street and occasionally they stop in here and buy a rock or two.”
“But?” I repeated.
“But they’re a pain in the butt. They clog up the roads and drive up the price of gas, punch potholes in the secondaries and make a huge mess out at the park.I need em…I hate em…such is life”
“So you probably don’t work for the Chamber.” I said.
“Naw!” He said and turned toward the door behind the register and yelled, “Shiela, you around? Got two customers out here. One might actually buy somethin!”.
From the back a woman’s voice yelled back, “Well don’t let him leave. I’ll be right there.”
I glanced around the shop. Plenty to look at. It was a good old fashioned shop. No giant tubs of garishly stained Brazilian quartz here. In fact, everything appeared to be of near local origin. There were neatly organized containers of nickel, jasper, amethyst, galena, feldspar, meershaum, fluorite, perlite, mica, agate, turquoise, hematite, quartz crystals and copper. Large sparkling geodes, fire opals, chalcedony roses, meteorites, fossils and ancient petrified wood slices made stunning displays. There were polished gems and raw minerals but no crystal balls or the other ridiculous toys that fill-up what often passes for a rock shop these days. Sheila had nice big tags attached to the front of each bin that told the name of the material, it’s chemical make-up and had a map that showed where it came from. Most were from the southwest but there were a couple of rocks from Arkansas and a tub of polished Petosky stones from Michigan. What wasn’t rock was made of wood. Wide planked, dark wood floors were scattered with Navajo wool rugs. Clear, varnished knotty pine walls gave the place a cabinesque warmth. Photos of long-gone specimen miners and collectors were hung neatly on the walls. Everything was clean and dusted. There were some geology and mining books in the corner, a few gold pans and some locally made jewelry in a showcase by the counter, but mostly the shop’s space was taken up by rocks, gems, minerals and the peg legged guy. There was a small pot-bellied stove in the corner by the books and maps. Two, red overstuffed club chairs invited me to be comfortable. The fire radiated a pleasant, juniper scented warmth around the room. The whole place felt cozy and welcoming.
Shiela came out from the back juggling three steaming mugs of coffee and set them down on the counter then ducked into the back again and yelled, “I saw you boys pull in and thought you could use a hot coffee on a cold day like this.” She returned a second later with honey in a plastic squeeze bottle shaped like a bear, a paper carton of skim milk and a few napkins and spoons.
Shiela looked about 50 and had a model’s slender body. She had natural grey hair, shoulder length, with a pink satin bow stylishly attached over her left ear and bangs that came down to just above her cobalt blue eyes. She was wearing a vintage Pendelton wool jacket over a blue turtleneck, a pair of snug fitting, faded jeans, matching blue wool socks and simple black clogs. Aside from the bow, her only garnishments were a pair of hand made turquoise pendent earrings and a thin band of copper on her right wrist. Feminine yet practical.
I took a mug of coffee and said, “I’m Dal, thanks for the coffee.”
“Your welcome. I’m Sheila.”
Peg leg looked at me and said, “I’m Jake.” Then turned to Sheila and said, “Thanks.” and took a sip.
I was a little disappointed that his name wasn’t Pete but Jake was pretty good too.
“So if you’re not fishin what are you doin around here this time of year.” Jake asked.
“Freezin his buns off, probably.” Sheila replied.
We all chuckled.
“I’m trying to figure out where Forrest Fenn hid a chest of gold and gems.” I said.
Sheila put down her coffee mug and said, “THEE Forrest Fenn?…from Santa Fe?”
Jake said, “Who’s Forrest Fenn?”
Sheila answered, “He’s that art dealer from Santa Fe that kept alligators in a pond at his gallery and was always doing something to shake up the town. He wrote a couple of gorgeous and very expensive books on Santa Fe artists. Oh…come on Jake. You remember him. He bought that ruin down south.”
Jake was trying to remember. He had his one eye closed and was leaning a little toward Sheila. She turned to me. Took a sip of her coffee and said, “I was in high school and worked on Canyon Road. I thought he was the most interesting person in the whole wide world.”
Jake asked, “Was that the guy that was a pilot in Vietnam?”
Sheila and I both said “Yes.”
“Oh yeah.” Jake said, “I remember his place. He’s an interesting dude.” and pulled his mug back up to his mouth.
“ I loved his gallery.” Sheila said. “When I was working on Canyon Road, the Fenn Gallery, around the corner, was the wildest collection of expensive fine art and books, old arrowheads and ancient pottery in town. I wanted to work there in the worst way. Winding hallways leading to different rooms. Very lovely. Very exotic. I could spend hours in there.”
“So what’s this about treasure?” Asked Jake.
“Well Forrest took about 22lbs of gold and gemstones and put them into a 20lb old bronze chest and hid the whole thing. He invited anyone to go looking for it. That’s what I’m doing.”
“Wow!” Said Sheila,
“How do you know where to look?” Asked Jake.
“He wrote a poem that has nine clues to where he hid it.” I said as I reached into my pocket and took out a copy of the poem I keep there. I placed the poem on the counter. Sheila grabbed it first and started reading it aloud.
When she was finished Jake asked, “How do you know there are nine clues in there?”
“He’s said as much.” I said. “And he’s written and said a few other things about where the treasure is located too.”
“So you think it’s around here?” Sheila asked.
“I think it could be.” I said. “But there are lots of places it could be. This is just one possibility. I have a list of places I’ve looked and more where I want to look.
There was a short silence while Jake stared at the poem.
“I see how the Cimarron fits the poem, except for the part about being brave. There isn’t much scary or bad about that little stream.”
“Yeah.” I said. “That’s the line that makes a lot of places not work out. But you don’t know til you go there and see.”
“How did you get the poem?” Sheila asked.
“Thats the easy part.” I said. “Just go to Forrest’s web site. He has information there and links to interviews he’s given with the media about it.
Sooo…not to change the subject but what’s in the box?” I asked.
“Thunder Eggs.” Said Jake. He picked one out and handed it to me. “On the inside is Apache picture jasper. I get these from down near Deming. Nothing much to rave about like this but when you slice them up you get really spectacular scenes.”
Sheila held up a piece of already cut and polished jasper from the counter so I could see what Jake was talking about.
What I saw was a pink and red agate like material that appeared to show a desert scene with foothills dotted in green poplars. A yellow sun glistened on the left. It was very cool.
“That’s very cool.” I said.
“Tell you what.” Said Jake. I’ll trade you a thunder egg for one of your search spots.” He looked me straight in the eyes.
“I don’t think so” I said. “But tell you what. I’ll trade you the exact GPS location where you find these eggs for one of my search spots.” I looked him back straight in the eye.
“Deal.” He said.
I went to the van and copied a set of coordinates from my computer. I brought them into the shop and handed them to Jake. “The top one is the starting point…where warm waters halt.” I said. “The bottom set is my best guess about where the chest is by following the clues in the poem from that starting spot.”
“Good enough.” Said Jake and he handed me Sheila’s business card with the coordinates for the location of the eggs written on it.
“Perfect!” I said. “One more favor though. Do you have a loupe back there Sheila?”
Sheila reached for her loupe and handed it to me.I took the Oris out of my pocket. Flipped it over so I could see the back of the case and checked it out with the magnifier.
“Expensive watch.” Said Jake.
“I know. I found it in the river and it has an engraving on the back. Looks like a name, date and phone number. Date’s probably when they got it. Last year.” I said.
“Can I look at it?” Asked Sheila.
I handed it to her. She eyed it closely and hefted it. Took a small tool and tapped it on the crystal.
“Not a fake. Its the real McCoy.” She said.
“Whew-ee!” Said Jake. “That’s a 3 or 4 grand watch. Bet the person that lost it is pissed. I know a guy in Red River that’ll buy that from you.”
“No thanks.” I said. “I’ll probably hang onto it for awhile anyway.”
I put the watch back in my pocket and said goodbye, finished up the remains of my cup of coffee and headed out to the truck, jumped in, buckled up and pulled away. I drove about a mile west before I pulled off the road, grabbed my cell and called the phone number engraved on the back of the watch.
dal…
Stephanie, who is a regular visitor to this blog, decided to share some of her adventures looking for Forrest’s gold and even a couple of photos. Thank you Stephanie!
So, who am I….I’m a 44 year old female and I live in the Midwest…pretty much, right between Chicago and Milwaukee…20+ hours from any search area. I’m happily married to my husband for over 20 years now and have a 16 year old daughter and a 12 year old son. Probably not the type that Forrest originally thought would consider trekking out after his treasure. Hope it was a good surprise though that I was *smile*. The first few trips, I didn’t even get to go. I had maps and ideas and bundled them all up with my husband and son and sent them off on a plane out west. It was my son’s first plane ride(he loved it). If you know anything about young boys….computers and game systems are pretty much a staple in their lives. I couldn’t believe the adventure he was having and was lucky with the technology to Skype with them most evenings to hear about it. They took a train ride through the mountains and had lunch on a deserted mountain top and saw things and talked to people on that trip that they never would have otherwise. To me it was such a gift that Forrest gave to our family by starting us out on a path like this. The strangest thing happened on this trip too. While they were walking a zillion miles into and out of a an area to see a bridge you couldn’t get to by car….they looked down on the ground and found gold coins(photo attached..ok, just $1 coins, but gold to a young boy). That is the freakiest thing to me. Can you just imagine my son when he’s up in age telling this story to the next generation? Forrest invited my husband and son to meet with him too. I’m sooo jealous. Hoping I’ll have a chance at some point to get that lucky.
So, we’ve made a total of 7 trips so far. I was lucky enough to go on two of them and if you’re from the Midwest and have never gone out that way…you’ll be overwhelmed with emotion seeing the landscape. I never thought much of mountains before. I figured pictures summed it up for me..but, not even close. Saying all that…I do have a wee bit of a fear of them. While waking up one super early morning, we decided to get a head start on the hunt. This time we had driven out west and so we weren’t quite there yet. We start driving through the mountains just south of Antonito Colorado. I saw this beautiful lake down in the mountains and all the sudden it looks like we’re going to drive right into the lake. I’m a bit of a excitable person and there might have been a word or two that I said when I realized it wasn’t a lake at all, but dense fog. Now, that might not seem so bad…..but when you’re driving 70 miles an hour on the side of a mountain in dense fog. Well, for this girl…freaked me out!! My husband just laughed. He’s always loved driving and has driven down mountains in semi’s without breaks. Yeah, I think that was the story he told me that was supposed to make me feel better for being such a wimp.
I get occasional email from folks out there who wonder how important the book (Thrill of the Chase) is in finding Forrest’s treasure. Why they write asking me about this is always a surprise. I mean it’s not like I’ve figured out all the hints and found the treasure. Seems like a better option would be to go right to the source and ask the only guy who really knows the answer to that question.
It turns out that many folks do. Forrest shared a couple of emails with me on this topic so I can share them with you. That way we all have the same information. It’s one way of getting the word out. So here goes…
This is a note sent to him just a couple of weeks ago. Names have been changed so no one will yell at me.
Dear Mr. Fenn,
We are a group of avid elderly bridge players in San Diego who after reading your book hope to find your treasure. We are not into poetry as much as the memoir. We realize the clues are in the poem, but were wondering if there isn’t at least one clue in each chapter.
Thank you for a great book
Sincerely,
Emily
Forrest’s succinct response:
Emily,
All of the information you need to find the treasure is in the poem. The chapters in my book have very subtle hints but are not deliberately placed to aid the seeker. Good luck in the search. f
In the past, Forrest has stated that the poem has all the information a person needs to find the treasure. But this email adds clarity to that message by saying that the book isn’t necessary. Its clues are subtle and apparently unintentional. He didn’t even deliberately place clues to the treasure in the book. Maybe that’s true but I think anyone searching for the treasure would be foolish not to know as much as possible about the man that hid it. There are most certainly clues in that book not only to the treasure but also to the interests, likes and dislikes of Forrest who made this great hunt possible. Besides, some money from each book goes to help someone with cancer pay their bills…
My advice is..get the book…and read it cover to cover…
Maybe we all need to take the approach of this writer.
Dear Mr. Fenn
In my last email I thanked you for writing this book but did not really explain why I felt this way. I believe everyone must work hard for the things they want in life but everyone needs a dream to hang on to. I lost my husband several years ago and although my sons are grown men I want them to learn its ok to have a dream,
I have shared my book with them as well as I belong to a group that is working on the book.
For me its does not matter if I find the treasure It’s more about the fun of the hunt.
I will not lie finding the treasure would make my life easier, as well as give me a chance to improve our small town one room library. But then that all falls in to the dream. But as I said before Thank You for writing the book and putting a dream out there.
Sincerely
Betty
Forrest say’s that letters like this one above make it all worthwhile for him.They probably make it a lot more worthwhile than letters like the following.
Dear Mr. Fenn,
You would not believe the day I just had, after staying up all night studying your memoir. After having stayed up all night the night before.
I decided to go and get my bearings and follow my hunch, and lo, the river was not snowed in. There followed two trips to the summit above your spot looking for water high (I was thinking springs) followed by a dunking in the river, before I realized the folly of my ways. No matter how fit anyone may be, those two trips to the high-country ridge had my heart pounding and the sweat pouring. I saw a deer kill, and I swear I felt a mountain lion…
Needless to say, this has been an utterly unbelievable journey, filled with twists and turns and stupefying synchronicities. No movie could ever do it justice. I found your missing ball of string, in pieces I am sorry to say! I am stout-hearted, but I found myself fearful when it came to extracting your chest from the spot on the bank. I don’t want to damage anything, because I ‘ll probably have to use a pick on the rocks. If I can prove to you decisively that I know the exact spot, will you help me with the logistics?
I am sitting where some of your story began. My cell is ###-#### if you care to call.
Thank you for the white knuckles!
Stephan
Forrest’s reply:
You’ve got me scared now because I was hoping the chest would not be found for at least a couple of years. I don’t dare call you for fear of giving you a coordinate or some other useful clue. Please let me know if you find the treasure. f
Am I the only person that senses the sarcasm in Forrest’s response? I’m pretty sure he doesn’t trust this guy to find his britches with both hands. Forrest, of course, enjoys playing with him as if he were a trout.
There are a lot folks who truly appreciate what Forrest has done not only with his treasure…but also with his life. As in this note from Jim.
Forrest,
Wow a fighter pilot. Must have been scary times. I hate seeing our nation suffering now too. Hey I wanted to ask u kind of a favor. If u can’t do it I understand. But I would Rilke to send you a check to your shop and maybe you can sign your book and send it to me? The reason is how much you inspire me, also so I can tell the story to my son and when he’s older we can go on the adventure together. That would be neat wouldn’t it? Well if you don’t wanna do that it’s ok, I’ll buy your book anyways. But I thought its worth a try to ask. talk to ya soon. I hope.
Jim
Finally, this lovely quote from Forrest. I think it explains why he hid the treasure in the first place.
If I cannot enrich those with whom I interact each day and cause them to be better for my having passed their view, then I have wasted my turn. That I succeed in that endeavor is not as important as it is for me to make a solid try. For if the try is sincere I have succeeded in whatever failure resulted.
Like Betty wrote..He’s giving us all a dream with the Thrill of the Chase…
dal…
Every once in awhile I get an email from someone out there who has complete confidence in their ability to find Forrest’s gold. Such was the case with a couple I’ll call Janice and Ray who contacted me last summer.
I had been out in New Mexico for several weeks eliminating a number of potential hiding places while following hints in the poem, same as everybody else who’s looking for the treasure I suppose. I generally make a list of places I want to check out before I leave home. I order the list by my excitement level. The places I’m crazy about are at the top of the list. By the time I get to the bottom I’m looking at places that have a lot of flaws. Places so unlikely that no one else would consider them. Places it’s pretty hard to be enthusiastic about but “due diligence” requires that I take a look since I’m in the neighborhood anyway.
While I was out I got an email from someone new to me who was interested in meeting up if I was going to be near Ojo Caliente, New Mexico in two days. Janice wrote me that she, and her boyfriend Ray, were coming in from Los Angeles, had been reading my blog and wondered if we could meet up at the hot springs for lunch. Janice wrote that they knew where the treasure was and were headed out to get it and take it home. Janice thought maybe I’d like to go out with them to write a final story in my blog about them finding the treasure. There was no hedging her bets or use of the words “possibly” or “maybe” in her mail. Just straight forward “We’re going to go get it.”
Wow! How could I pass that up?
My first thought was that they had a lot of hutzpah. I mean by Forrest’s guess there might be close to a thousand folks out looking for his chest and very few that I knew of had the audacity to not only state that they knew exactly where it was, but also invite a witness along to “record” their find.
My second thought was that I only had two days to figure out where they were going and beat them there.
Ojo Caliente is a small town and also a fancy resort in the small town. The resort and the town are built around a bubbling hot spring that has been a source of “healing waters” for Indians and the rest of us since before recorded history. The spring started out as a free and public place but is now under ownership of the spa/resort where you can go to get yourself pampered, soaked, pummeled and re-strung. The resort puts up a striking facade of lovely adobe, pine and stone. The gardens are well tended. The accommodations are for the most part reasonably priced and very nicely appointed. If you want to avoid the resort itself there is one or possibly two Bohemian places you can stay for a less regimented but none-the-less exotic experience on the other side of the road.
It didn’t seem like a likely place for Forrest to hide his chest. But what do I know? I started by looking at the springs itself and then spreading out. I walked those hills day and night for 48 hours trying to understand how on earth this place could match any verse in the poem beyond the first. Sure, warm water at the spring..but then what? No canyon…No creek…No places I needed to be brave to explore. Hardly anything that could be considered a “wood”. At the end of two days I was exhausted, frustrated and, of course, treasureless.
About an hour before the appointed lunch I paid for a shower at the Inn and put on my cleanest shirt and jeans. Then I went out in the parking lot and scanned the vehicles for California plates. You can tell a lot about people by the vehicle they drive. I saw it right away. A glistening, black, pimped out Humvee with white wall tires, spinner wheels and a few thousand dollars in hand painted flames growing along the sides. It was the only California plated vehicle in the lot. I tried hard to find another one. No luck! Bummer!
Everyone has a line in the sand they won’t cross. Mine is the Humvee. Possibly the most over priced, over rated and under performing vehicle turned out in this country since the Dodge Challanger. I understand the desire to associate with military vehicles. I still can’t get over my lust for a Willys MB. But that was a practical vehicle and the idea was to keep it practical not to make it look like a strumpet on steroids. Don’t get me started on the senseless, nincompoop, military wannabes who buy these things.
Okay..that’s out of my system now.
Anyway, in spite of my misgivings about Janice and Ray’s vehicle selection I decided to keep an open mind about their ability to find the treasure. They were apparently wealthy enough to buy a $90K vehicle and add $17K in accessories. They were also smart enough to be wealthy enough to afford the American Dream. Maybe I was the nincompoop. Besides, they were obviously going to be interesting characters and by now you must know that I value those who achieve uniqueness in a world that seems to go out of its way to eliminate individuality and creativity. So, in spite of my misgivings about their transportation choice I was keen on meeting them.
Just before the appointed hour I went into the old hotel and took a window booth where I could monitor the entire room. The place looked like it could hold about 60 diners and there were only about 20 of us in there. I told the Maitre’d that Janice and Ray would be looking for me, ordered a diet Pepsi, leaned back and absorbed the ambiance of the restored historic structure.
Two gulps after my Pepsi arrived I saw a couple walk inside from the desert sun. Their eyes urgently trying to adjust to the comparative darkness of the lounge. The petite woman was dressed in khaki shorts with cargo pockets and a forest green tee that had a small wren-like figure embroidered in white just below her left shoulder. Her thick dark hair was cut short and framed her attractive brown face in what might have been called a Page Boy years ago. I don’t know what it’s called today. She had a tan canvas bag slung over her shoulder. She was completely devoid of jewelry. A no-nonesense gal. The maitre’d pointed them at my table. Bright red flip-flops made a shuffling noise as Janice walked deliberately toward me across the plank floor. Ray was about ten feet behind Janice and his gaze was fixed on my table. He was a good foot and a half taller than his companion and the fashion difference between them was stark. Ray was wearing diamond stud earrings, a fat gold chain necklace with a 5 inch silver cross at his neck, a thick twist of what appeared to be gold and platinum around his left wrist and an understated Phillipe Dufour timepiece on his right. He was wearing a complete Lakers basketball home uniform (number 17) and a pair of bright red, unlaced Nike Air something-or-others that made his feet look huge and his shins look skinny. His dark hair was close cropped, more like a five o’clock shadow than a hairstyle. Perhaps his most striking fashion accessory was a series of Chinese characters boldly tattooed across his dark forehead in elegant black calligraphy. I was guessing that the Humvee was his and not hers.
Aside from the same colored footwear the two appeared to have nothing else in common. If I had to guess I would figure Janice for about 28 and Ray about 16….maybe 18. Neither of them was carrying an ice axe.
I slid out and stood up to greet them. Ray didn’t bother saying hi. He just slid into the booth and slumped into the corner. Janice shook my hand and said “Hi, glad to meet you. Really glad you could meet us.”
We both sat and Janice asked how to pronounce my name.
“Day’-el”. I said. “No ‘e’ but pronounced as if there was one.”
“Thats unusual”. She said. “Is that a family name?”
“No.” I said. “Its not even the name my family gave me. I just sort of slipped into it.”
“I had one of those too. Janice said. “My given name was Bitsy…not Betsy but Bitsy. It was fine until middle school. Then when all the girls are developing boobs and you’re not, any name that rhymes with “itsy” can make your life a nightmare.”
Girls do that too?” I asked.
I glanced at her chest. Given the conversation it seemed fitting. I thought everything looked size appropriate. But people are often their own worst critics.
“Probably more so.” She said. “Being smaller is more evident on girls than on boys.”
I smiled and turned to Ray. He was staring out the window. His long legs were stretched out in the booth so his feet could rest on the seat on my side. Those big red Nike’s looked like they were brand new. Not even the soles were dirty.
“Ray.” I said. “Interesting country isn’t it? Have you been out here before?”
Janice jumped right in. “He won’t answer you. He doesn’t talk to anyone. He can’t hear. He’s deaf since he was a toddler. Severe ear infection left him that way.”
I kept on looking at him. Trying to decide what I thought about that.
I turned toward Janice.
“Does he talk to you?” I asked.
“No. Ray writes me letters and cards and notes. He’s very communicative. He knows he doesn’t sound normal when he talks. Its embarrassing for him. So he just stays mute. We sign each other but he won’t do that in public either.”
I looked back at Ray.
“He doesn’t like to stand out.” She said.
I laughed.
“What?” she said.
“Well, if he doesn’t want to stand out around here he should get a pair of jeans and a cotton shirt with a collar…and cowboy boots would be a good choice.”
She laughed. “At home he blends in.”
“Where do you live..in Staples Center?” I asked.
“Young black men like to dress that way.” She said.
I could hear stress in her voice and knew I was crossing one of her lines. It probably wouldn’t be a good time for me to bring up their Humvee either. Anyway, what I know about the fashion interests of guys Ray’s age..black, white or any other color…verged on nothing. Finally, I really didn’t care what fashion trends people followed. At home Ray was probably just another guy. Around here he was unique and I was the guy preaching unique…Ray was preaching ‘blend-in’. I needed to change the subject.
The waiter saved me by dropping by to ask if Ray and Janice wanted anything to drink. Janice ordered iced tea and a Coke for Ray.
“So how did you get interested in Forrest’s treasure?” I asked.
“Emm. She said. “That’s Rays doing. He reads everything. He came across Forrest’s blog and the book. We ordered a copy and then he found your blog and he started spending all his time trying to figure out where it could be.”
“I do the same thing.” I said.
She laughed.
“Have you looked other places?” I asked
The waiter brought their drinks. Ray didn’t seem to notice his Coke. Janice squeezed the lemon into her tea. Took a long swig and then tapped Ray on the shoulder and pushed his Coke closer. Ray looked over at his glass and pulled it the rest of the way to his end of the table then returned to staring through the window.
“No, this is where Ray says it is. No reason to look anywhere else.”
The waiter came back and took our lunch order. Janice ordered Ray a burger. I ordered a Frito pie and Janice agreed to try a pie too. Although she did think the concept was pretty funny. “Why not just call them nachos?” She asked no one in particular.
We talked through lunch about the treasure mostly. Why Forrest hid it. How many people might be out looking for it. The different places people were looking. All speculation of course since neither of us knew anything.
Ray quietly eyed his burger like it might have hidden vegetables in it.
Janice, it turns out, runs a pet boutique in Malibu and her clients include some of LA’s wealthiest citizens.
“What’s a pet boutique?” I asked.
She looked at me like I was from a different planet.
“I live on a small island.” I said. “We don’t have any pet boutiques…that I’m aware of.”
“Its like a spa for pets. We style their hair, trim their nails, give them a shampoo, brush their teeth, make them smell pretty and care for them while their owners are gone.” She said.
“Brush their teeth?. I said.
“We fuss over them. Its probably not a business you’d be good at.” She said.
“The list of things I wouldn’t be good at is more or less infinite.” I said.
She laughed.
“It pays very good money. Ray is a dog walker. He gets along fine with the dogs. He can handle ten dogs at a time. They never fight.” She said this with a great deal of pride.
At some point the waiter cleared the table. Janice thought the Frito pie was okay and Ray wolfed down his burger in about three bites.
“So that’s your hand tooled Humvee out in the lot?” I asked.
“Mr. Nosey.” She responded. “Its Ray’s. Like I said, dog walking in Malibu pays good money.”
I decided to change the subject again.
“When are you going to go get the treasure?” I asked.
“Soon as we’re through here. Ray is excited about getting it.”
“Sounds good.” I said.
“We have to clear our bags out of the room and we’ll meet you out front in twenty minutes. Okay?”
“Perfect.” I said.
“Lunch is on us.” She said as she gathered up her bag. They paid the bill at the bar and then exited the way they came in. I watched them head toward one of the old cabins and thought quietly about their baffling life while I finished my diet Pepsi and set out a tip.
It was about Noon when I left the building. I headed to the truck and gathered up my camera, hat and ice axe. I wondered if I was going to need water. If we were driving or walking. I wasn’t going to ride in the Humvee. If we were driving I’d follow in my truck. I closed the van up and leaned against it while I waited for them to show.
About two minutes later I saw Janice headed my way. She was wearing the same outfit she had worn at lunch including the red flip flops… sans the bag. To my utter surprise Ray was dressed completely different. He had on a black plain ball cap and a black tee and a pair of black jeans. No cowboy boots but he did have on a pair of dark brown, leather work boots and the laces were tied. All the jewelry was gone. As he got closer he did a spin around and grinned at me. Janice laughed. I did too. Neither of them were carrying a shovel or ice axe.
“Looks good.” I said and gave Ray a thumbs up. I turned and looked down at Janice’s feet. I’m not sure you’ll want to walk around out here in those I said, pointing at the flip-flops. Not much protection for your feet and there are cactus, sharp rocks and even snakes around here.
“I’ll be fine.” She responded. “ohh…I forgot to tell you.” Janice said. “Ray is a lip reader.”
“Great.” I said. “Thanks for telling me that before I made a fool of myself’”
Janice laughed. “By the way. Ray says that if you ever come to Malibu you’d probably be arrested for vagrancy in that shirt and jeans.”
“Maybe I could stop in at your place and get my nails trimmed and a shampoo.” I said.
“We don’t do mutts.” Janice said.
I laughed. Janice laughed. Ray grinned.
Janice said that we were very close to the spot Ray had in mind. We didn’t need water or vehicles. With that, we started walking down the dusty drive toward the main road. At the street we turned right and walked a few hundred feet before crossing the highway toward the community cemetery.
I had a bad feeling as we walked through the gate into the burial ground. Ray walked directly over to one of the headstones as if he’d been here before and pointed at it. I walked over to take a look. The man buried there had the last name “Brown” as in “below the home of Brown”.
“Okay…what now?” I asked. I was hoping that what I was thinking was not what Ray intended. “Do you think its buried here in this mans grave?”
Ray nodded yes.
“Thats where it is.” Added Janice.
“Lets think about this for a second.” I said. “First, look around. Forrest hid the treasure less than two years ago. Old man Brown here has been dead since 1958. So the treasure could not have been buried with the body. Further, there is nothing in this cemetery that’s been disturbed in the past two years. No recent holes have been dug. Its all well cared for and its all uniform. Nobody buried anything in this cemetery recently. Second, I’ve met Forrest. I cannot believe there is any way he would dishonor anyone’s grave to hide his treasure. Not even possible.” I said. “Third, I don’t see how any of the hints in the poem could lead you to this spot. I’ve been thinking about it for two days now and this place…or any place in Ojo Caliente just is not possible. Finally, I don’t even think Forrest buried it. He never said he buried it. He said he ‘hid’ it…not buried it. Imagine if this was your relative’s grave. Would you want some yokels digging it up on a whim? I don’t think so. To dig here would be morally reprehensible as well as illegal.”
“So even though we know its here you are not going to dig it up?” Janice asked.
“No way.” I said. “And its not here.”
I stopped. I waited for an argument. None came.
Ray turned and calmly walked back out the gate.
“Okay, I win.” Said Janice.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
Ray said you’d dig up a grave. I said not.”
“What are you talking about?” I repeated.
“It was just a bet.” Janice said. “Ray figured you’d have no problem digging in a cemetery if that’s where the gold was. I said ‘no way’. I won. We’re through here. You pass the morality test. Ray loses a hundred bucks.”
She turned and walked away through the cemetery gate.
I watched her walk. Dumbfounded.
I ran after her. When I caught up I said. “You came all the way out here from LA just on a lousy hundred dollar bet?”
“Of course not.” She said. “Lied about coming from L.A. We were shopping in Santa Fe. Read the story about the treasure on the internet. Found your blog. Ray wanted to bet on what a guy like you would do if the treasure was in a grave. We contacted you. Dragged you out here…”
“I was not that far away…” I interrupted. Trying to prop up my pride.
“Listen.” She said. “Ray figured you’d dig up the grave because that’s what he would have done. Ray’s religion is about money. Not about death and dying.”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “Ray walks dogs for a living.”
Janice stopped and turned toward me. She looked a tad venomous around the eyes.
“Do you know what he makes ‘walking dogs’ Dal? She asked. It was a rhetorical question. I did not answer. “He makes more than what is in that chest in a single year. Ray is not a dog walker Dal. Ray is THE dog walker.He can make a thousand bucks an hour all day long.” Then she turned and walked away down the highway.
I slowly walked back toward my truck. I felt like a sucker. I was pretty certain I had just been taken advantage of. But I wasn’t sure how. I got a free lunch. I didn’t lose any money. I didn’t lose anything really. Maybe a little self respect. I felt like a white rat being tested by egg-head researchers. I stopped and considered my position.
I saw the Humvee pull out of the drive, onto the hardtop and head toward me. I couldn’t tell if I was angry or not. I saluted them as they went by. I pointed my mouth at the windshield and said “Thanks for the lunch.” The Humvee’s tinted glass prevented me from seeing if they waved back.
“Interesting people.” I thought. “I should have ordered a more expensive lunch.”
dal…
One of the enormous pleasures of looking for Forrest’s treasure is the unique characters you meet along the way. I’m not sure why the hunt attracts more people who take a different path through life but it sure makes the hunt interesting. Maybe you just have to be a little peculiar to believe that a poem will lead you to a hidden cache of gold and gems.
It’s still autumn and I’m catching a hot breakfast at a cafe in Montana before I head back outside where it’s a crispy 22 degrees. Last night the temperature plummeted to 12 degrees. Can’t keep any water in the van with me. No snow yet.
I know I’m not the only Fenn treasure hunter out here. There is a guy sitting alone in a booth with a copy of “Thrill of the Chase” in front of him. He’s not looking at it. He’s ogling the young, black outfitted waitresses as they flit around pouring coffee, taking orders and carrying platters of eggs and bacon to their customers. Most everyone in here is part of a group of 3 or 4 or more. Probably locals. The waitress watcher and me are the single exceptions.
There is something not quite centered about him. His hair looks a little too thick. His skin is just a little too pink and his eyes are just a little too far apart on his round head. His eyebrows are thin, as if he drew them on with a pencil. He looks like a cartoon of himself. Like he’s a Muppet. He’s wearing turquoise polyester running pants with dual, yellow side stripes and lime green sneakers. He has a canary yellow hoody that reads “Kansas” in bright red letters and he’s wearing a knitted scarf with so many colors in it that I can’t possibly list them all. He looks like he was dressed by the ladies over at Goodwill…the color blind ones. He doesn’t look like he’s from around here. All the locals are dressed for hunting season. I am trying to figure out what this guy’s story is. Trying to put him in one of the neat categories almost everyone seems to fit in. But it’s not working. He’s definitely different. Interesting in a serial killer sort of way.
What the heck! I decide to go over to his booth and find out about him. My problem is that I’m just too curious. I can’t let a character like this move through my day without finding out what his story is. It’s a personality flaw. I can’t stop myself. I take my coat from the back of the chair, my glass of water and menu and head over toward his booth. His brain is so focused on a waitress clearing off a table across from him that he doesn’t see me coming. I land at the end of the booth and toss my jacket on the empty seat and slide in.
“Hi, the waitress asked if I could sit over here to make room for the folks waiting by the door.” I lied and pointed at the line by the door to reinforce my story. “Hope this is okay with you. If it isn’t I can still run back and grab my table.”
“No, this is fine. Glad for the company. Make yourself at home.” As he pulled Forrest’s book back toward his side of the table.
He spoke with an Eastern European accent. Fluent English…just a thick accent.
“So are you from around here.” I asked.
“No.” He said with a bigger than required grin. “I’m from Kansas. What about you?”
“I’m from Washington State. My name’s Dal.” I reached across the table and offered my hand.
He took my hand very firmly and shook it once and let go. His hand was small and very soft. “I’m Lynn. Glad to meet you.”
“Are you on vacation?” I asked, trying to see if I could start him on the topic of treasure hunting.
“Not really.” he said. I’m here at the request of my church congregation.
“No kidding.” I said. “Are you attending a conference here?”
“Actually, I’m trying to raise some funds.”
“Really?” I said. “This town doesn’t look like a particularly ripe market for big donations especially for a church in Kansas.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.” Lynn said. “You just have to make it easy for people to donate these days and they will.”
The waitress with a name tag that read “Your server… Becky” stepped up. “Are you gentleman ready to order?”
I ordered the Hometown. Two eggs sunnyside up, three link sausages, homefries and white toast and a tall orange juice.
Lynn ordered oatmeal but he called it porridge.
“So are you a priest, minister, reverend, ThD?” I asked.
“I am a minister.” Lynn replied.
“I was an ordained priest in the Catholic church but gave it up…gave up Catholicism actually and started over fresh with some principles that I think are more equalitarian in nature.
“What’s your church?” I asked.
“Drive-Thru Church of God.” He replied.
“Pardon?” I said.
“It’s the Drive-Thru Church of God.” He said again..slower this time. “I know, I get that look a lot.” He said as he pointed at my face.
“So is this a church you can drive into, like a drive-in theatre?” I asked.
“Used to be.” Lynn replied. “But my parishioners wanted something a little less intrusive in their lives. I mean driving up to the church and not having to get out of your car is a good idea. The disabled like it and people who want to come to church in their jeans and t-shirts like it. Some people even come in their pajamas. Just pack up the whole family in their night clothes and head to church. It’s very American.”
“Hard to see how anything could be more equalitarian than that. But now you have something different?” I asked.
“Oh yes”. Said Lynn. “Now I have a dozen APM machines in small booths across Kansas. Sort of like a drive-thru coffee stand but no barista.”
“APM?”
“Yeah, Automatic Prayer Machine. A parishioner simply pulls up to the window. Puts her credit card in the machine. It’s like an automated teller machine. The device recognizes her by name. Asks how much she would like to contribute. She enters an amount. The machine charges that amount to her card and gives her a nice printed receipt and prayer that will fit into her Bible and she’s off to work or the soccer field or where ever…and oh..one of the special things we do in our church is that we believe Holy Water and contrition can absolve one’s small sins so we have a spritzer built in and If you say you are sorry for your sins you can press a button, get spritzed and forgiven. For an extra small fee the machine will hand you a DVD of my latest sermon.”
I was lost for words. I suspect my mouth was open as I listened. I was drawing mental pictures of soccer moms being forgiven for whatever sins soccer moms commit.
Finally…”So this actually has a following?” I asked.
“Oh heavens yes. We have about 15,000 parishioners all across Kansas..these are folks who attend drive-thru services once a week or more. We also get the occasional interested passer by..and a few who are regular but only come by a couple of times a year.
“Like any church.” I said.
“Pretty much.” said Lynn.
“This must heat up the more conventional church goers.” I said
“Ohhh…yes…but you know every new technology is viewed with skepticism by religious groups. They usually come around…except the Pope. He still won’t permit women priests.”
“It’s only been 2000 years I said. Give him some time.”
Lynn laughed.
“Actually, I don’t read much about women who want to be Catholic Priests. Is there really a lot of pressure on the church to make that change?”
“Oh heck yes.” Decried Lynn. “The parishioners want it. Nuns would benefit from it. It’s probably the second or third most iterated complaint about the church from Catholics.”
“Well. I don’t get around much in Catholic circles so I really wouldn’t know but still, I have never run into any women who have expressed that opinion.”
Lynn laughed again. He put his elbows on the table, leaned forward and said “Well your listening to one right now.”
It took me a second to figure out what he meant.
“You’re a woman?” I asked.
“Not any more but I used to be.” He let that sink into my skull for a beat or two.
“I grew up as a girl in the Ukraine. I wanted to be a Catholic priest in the worst way. So, when I was 20 I had a sex change. I mean what difference would it make since I was going to be taking a vow of celibacy anyway? I moved to Canada where I was accepted for theological studies with the Franciscans in Ontario. Six years later I was assigned to my first parish in Alberta where things went very well until I admitted to having a sex change to the Bishop. In short I was excommunicated and given a hard time by Canadian Immigration for lying about my gender. I moved to Kansas and have been saving souls and making friends ever since. Got my US citizenship about five years ago.”
“Wow…that’s a story.” I said. “Are you looking to expand your church into Montana?”
“Not right now.” Lynn said. We’re in the middle of a capital fund raising event. We want to build six more APMs in Kansas in the next year. But they cost about two hundred thousand each. The annual costs take care of themselves once you have one up in a good location. So my parishioners bought this book and sent me out here to find a million in gold this guy hid out here someplace.”
Lynn slid Forrest’s book toward me.
“We’re competitors.” I said.
I slid the book back toward him.
“You have a church in Kansas too?” he asked.
I laughed. “No.” I said. “I mean I’m out here looking for Forrest’s treasure too.”
The conversation moved toward the treasure. Breakfast arrived. We ate and talked. Lynn had some interesting ideas about where Forrest might have hidden his chest including looking inside a few churches. He showed me a couple of places in the book where his congregation felt Forrest was paraphrasing the Psalms.
After the dishes were cleared away and the bills were settled Lynn took out his business/church card and handed it to me.
“Just so you know, you don’t have to be in Kansas to give money to our church.” He said. “You can call that 800 number any time of the day or night with your credit card and donate.”
“Thanks.” I said as I took his card. “I feel much closer to god.”
Lynn laughed.
I like Lynn. He is certainly on a different path but a fascinating guy and a clever entrepreneur. I’ve met more than a few interesting people since I started looking for the treasure but I’m not sure any have a story as good as Lynn’s.
dal…
a
I know how we can make extra money while we’re out in the boondocks hunting for a bronze chest…Considerable extra money. One of the guys looking for Forrest’s treasure told him he collected $16K for something he found laying around in New Mexico. I’m not kidding!
Its a rock. Not a very interesting looking rock either. Well…I actually don’t know what it looks like since I didn’t see it but I’ve looked at photos of similar rocks, have seen a few others collected by different individuals and own a small one I found many years ago. They are not exactly pretty rocks. In fact, unless you know what you’re looking at most of us would just step right over the darn things.
A nice example of a meteorite fragment
What makes these particular rocks interesting to collectors is that they are aliens. That is to say, they don’t come from here. By here, I mean planet Earth. They come from outer space and not from good old baby blue. They fall out of the sky and impact our round, known world…splat! They are called meteorites.
If you stay out at night and glance up in the sky you’ve probably seen a shooting star or two..That’s a meteorite..a piece of rock from another world that just blew into our atmosphere and started to burn up. Folks who know a lot more than I ever will about meteorites, tell me that most tend to completely burn up before they can even hit good old Earth. Still, according to Wikipedia, some 500 or so each year make it to impact. A collision with Earth will sometimes cause them to self destruct throwing pieces of themselves all over the place. Shrapnel! Find a good sized chunk and you’ve got a nice little bonus. Smaller ones can just bury themselves where they hit.
They must have noticed their town was in a crater
Sometimes a crater is so big they can fit an entire town inside one. This is the town of Nordlingen in Bavaria, Germany. The town is ancient and for centuries the inhabitants had no idea they were living in a meteorite induced crater.
The meteorite chunk that was found by our fellow searcher weighed 8lbs. It yielded $16K…if my old analog math is still functional in the digital age that’s $2K per lb…and they’re heavy rocks. One of the ways you can begin to tell a meteorite from an authentic Earth rock is by it’s weight. Meteorites tend to be much heavier than you’d expect.
Okay…so how do we find one…?
Lucky for us meteorites have fallen in New Mexico and Montana and Wyoming among other states…other nations. When they hit they can form large or small craters depending on the size of the rock. If they have recently fallen the crater is fresh looking. Over time they erode and blend in. Most of the known fallen meteorites have been mapped. Maybe one has fallen near your house. According to Washington University over 1,500 meteorites are known to have fallen in the USA. 218 of those are in New Mexico. This is nowhere near the assumed total number that scientists predict have hit in the USA. That’s just the known…mapped ones. So there are thousands and thousands more that no one knows about…What are we waiting for?
This website from the University of New Mexico will help you get started.
You don’t need a permit to collect them. You don’t need a license to hunt for them. So far the government isn’t interested in them. All you have to worry about is getting caught trespassing…or finding one so big you can’t carry it out. Immigration laws don’t apply to alien rocks. Be the first in your neighborhood to own a chunk of outer space.
Lets get going!
dal…
Bear with me here…its winter and I can’t go looking for Forrest’s treasure til spring….
Finally, someone in my family has taken an interest in looking for Forrest’s gold with me. His name is Devlin and he’s almost three.
He’s a smart kid and after watching trains on YouTube with him until my brain hurt the other day he listened patiently as his father and I talked about the next place I would be looking for Forrest’s chest of gold. Devlin didn’t interrupt but did seem to be interested..paying attention. When the conversation began to die down Devlin asked, “What’s gold?”
Now, a person can answer that question in a multitude of ways. I considered and then rejected bringing out my Periodic Chart of the Elements. Not because I thought it would confuse him but because my chart is from when I was in high school and it only lists 101 elements. Not the 111 physicists claim today and I really hated showing him an incomplete chart. It could be something he would hold against me for years. I needed another way to explain gold…and I needed it quick because someone almost three has a fairly limited attention span. Kathy and I don’t happen to have any bronze chests filled with gold and jewels laying around the house so an actual treasure chest was not possible. Kathy has a few rings and earrings and things that are gold, but I really didn’t think that would leave him with the kind of impression that I had in mind. So I quickly grabbed an old, heavy, solid brass candlestick. “This”, I announced proudly, “is gold.”
I handed it to Devlin.
“Its heavy.”, he claimed.
“And that’s a good thing.” I explained. “Because the more something made of gold weighs the more valuable it is. And for something to be a treasure it should be valuable.”
“Okay.” He said. And handed the candlestick back to me. Then went over and played with his Thomas The Train set on the living room floor.
I felt as if I’d failed. I hadn’t made the impression on him that I’d hoped for. He didn’t jump up and down as I had imagined and start looking around the house for more treasure. In fact, if anything, it was fair to say that he was uniformly unimpressed. But, I convinced myself I had planted a seed. Some day he would understand the ages old relationship between gold and humans. Some day he would value this early grand lesson in world economics.
A few minutes later Devlin came up to me and asked if I would watch trains with him again. I politely begged off and then he asked if we could go look for the treasure.
I could barely contain myself. Finally, someone in my own family was taking an interest in a treasure hunt. Someone had been bitten by the same little bug that bit me years ago. A comrade…a fellow searcher…an adventurer…albeit a mere almost three year old one.
I began to devise a plan in my head. “Of course.” I said. Lets start looking right after dinner. Okay?”
“Sounds good.” , he said, and went back to playing with Thomas on the floor.
The game was afoot!
I quietly disappeared into the garage where my stash of odd things I can’t bear to toss live. I found my old Boy Scout first aid kit, my ice axe, a couple of white garage rags I hadn’t used yet and some other items important to the outcome of our treasure hunt. I cut up the rags and made a quick trip out to the woods behind our house and then came back to my map collection and dug out a fake pirate treasure map that I got at the Seattle Zoo twenty years ago. It actually shows all the places in the zoo where you can get something to eat and find a restroom. But for my purposes it was perfect. It looks like old, weathered parchment and is illustrated with a pirate head, a sea monster and a fancy compass rose. I took a thick Magic Marker and put a big black “X” on it. I rolled it up and took it back into the house and hid it until after dinner.
Devlin seemed to take forever to finish his dinner. Then a yummy apple pie for dessert, home made by his gramma. Some conversation about who-knows-what. Then there were dishes to be washed. Finally it was over and we could start.
I broke out my map. I showed him the picture of the pirate and told Devlin his name was Alfredo Jose San Cristobel Santa Clara Conquistadoro, a famous and murderous pirate who plundered ships and then burned them to the waterline. I told him it was the only map of buried treasure on Lummi Island in the known world. I told him about the Spanish pirates that used to sail the Salish Sea. I told him about their stolen treasures from far away China and Seattle. Gold and Jewels and sometimes actual shrunken heads. Devlin seemed impressed. I showed him the big black “X”. I announced that the treasure could be found at that spot and we, Devlin and Dal, were going to head out to the deep and dark forest of Lummi Island and find the treasure of Alfredo Jose San Cristobel Santa Clara Conquistadoro.
Devlin and ice axe
I helped Devlin put on his jacket and we went out to the truck. I pointed out my ice axe and told him it was the most important treasure hunting tool a man could have. Devlin agreed. I strapped him into the passenger seat. I put my ice axe between the seats and asked Devlin if he was ready. He was.
We drove on winding dirt roads and through places neither man nor beast had ever traveled before. After about five minutes of relentless and exhausting driving I asked Devlin if he could smell the treasure. He said he could. I knew we were close. I pulled over in my neighbors drive very close to the same woods I had been in before dinner. Devlin and I looked at the woods. We agreed it looked kind of scary. We opened our doors. I helped him out. I grabbed my ice axe. Devlin asked if he could carry it. I showed him how to keep the pointy parts away from his face and off we went, bravely marching into the deep and dark forest in this wild and uninhabited region.
Devlin found the spot where the treasure was buried
Devlin was the first to spot it. A large “X” on the ground evidently made from white cloth torn into strips and pinned to the ground with common box nails. He felt this was the treasure place. I consulted the map. Looked up at the trees and checked the area all around us. I agreed.
Devlin scraped at the dirt with the ice axe directly under the “X”.
“Brilliant”, I thought.
Unearthing the treasure
He found a corner of it almost immediately. A green metal box with a red cross on it and a simple latch. He pulled it out of its hidey place and fiddled with the latch trying to understand its cryptic unlatching mechanism. Finally while holding the box upside down he undid the latch and two items fell out to the forest floor. Devlin lunged at the blue Thomas the Train figure, scooped it up and proudly showed it to me.
“Wow”, I said. “That’s terrific. You’re a lucky lad. I wonder if Alfredo Jose San Cristobel Santa Clara Conquistadoro knew you would be the one to find his treasure and knew you liked Thomas.”
“Probably.”, said Devlin.
“What’s the other thing?” I asked “There on the ground.”
Devlin put Thomas into his jacket pocket and picked up a small shiny coin with uneven edges.
“I don’t know.”, he said and handed it to me.
A
“Its a Spanish Piece of Eight“‘.”, I said. “its very valuable. It probably came from the pocket of Alfredo Jose San Cristobel Santa Clara Conquistadoro.”
Devlin took it and examined it for a mere moment before putting it in his pocket with Thomas.
“Well.” I said. It took two of us to find the treasure. Shouldn’t you split some of the booty with me?”
“Okay.” Devlin agreed and reached into his pocket and handed me the bright blue Thomas the Train. “That’s yours.”, he said.
“Well, wait a minute.”, I said. “Wouldn’t you rather have Thomas than an old silver Piece of Eight?”, I asked.
“No.”, he said. “I already have Thomas at gramma’s.”
It occurred to me that I had just been outwitted by an almost three year old who was now in possession of my precious 16th century Piece of Eight.
We cleaned up the area so no one would know we had been there. Packed up the treasure chest, the ice axe, the cloth and the nails and headed back to the truck. Devlin ran the whole way back with his hand in his jacket pocket.
Apparently, its not that easy to outthink an almost three year old.
dal…
a
You may be wondering why there is a photo of a zebra at the top of this page…I’ll tell you in a minute…
After the story about Forrest’s hidden treasure aired on KOB-TV in New Mexico last summer a lot of new folks joined the search. I’ve heard some grousing from a few early searchers about how this waters down all our chances of finding it. I’ll try to give it a positive spin.
So who is out there looking and why you shouldn’t give a hoot.
Forrest told me in July of 2011 that he figured there were about a hundred folks actively searching for the treasure. After the KOB story that summer, the number seems to have jumped tenfold…maybe more. This is great for book sales and building up the Cancer Victim Fund where profits from the book sales end up. From that perspective its certainly a good thing.
Forrest reported earlier this week that Collected Works had sold over 850 copies of the book. How many of those who purchase the book actually get out of their reading chair and go look…That’s the relevant question, isn’t it. And what about the folks who find the poem and head off without purchasing the book?
Susan Miller recently pointed out on this very blog that soon we’ll be tripping over one another as we search for that bronze chest. Maybe so!
I personally know only a few people who are out looking. Interestingly, although I’ve tried getting my family excited about hunting for the treasure, none of them show the slightest interest. Good thing I don’t depend on selling things to people for my dinner.
Forrest sends me pieces of his email every once in awhile to share on this blog. I find it fascinating the depth and breadth of the personalities that catch gold fever.
Look at this photo of a team that apparently believe its hidden in the water and look pretty well outfitted to find it if it is. Now they just have to find the right water!!! Since they didn’t report finding it, we can assume this was not the right place. If it is in the water they are better prepared then many of us…but how many believe its in water? Raise your hands!
So my point is that this is not likely competition because most of us would not be looking in water like this anyway. Don’t get distracted by numbers.a
And what about these guys? Is this a place you’d be looking? I just don’t think higher numbers necessarily mean higher quality searchers…
Then there is this sweet letter from a young lad who joined the search this summer-
hi Forrest I am a 12 year old boy and I stumbled upon your treasure on the news about two weeks ago I think my 59 year old grandma emailed you the other day about our first adventure looking for your treasure. We went again to day to look for it we came back with no treasure but it was lots of fun. this time I got to wade through the river it was funny because my grandma and I were walking through the river when it started to get higher and higher my grandma started to panic it was funny because she started screaming i’ll never forget that moment once she got out I still kept walking in the river back to the hot springs thanks for hiding the treasure it was a lot of fun spending time with my family. when I was in the car I was reading your book looking for clues and I fell asleep on page 4 thanks again hope you can get back to me.
Ahh yes…the screaming, drowning grandmother routine…that’s always a good way to give your grandson a belly laugh. Yet another person looking in water…maybe there is a trend here. He didn’t get far in the book…page 4.
Forrest did get back…here is his reply-
I’m glad my book puts you to sleep because men your age need a lot of rest. Please put your grandma in a floatation device before you let her in anymore rivers. Grandmas who are willing to go looking for treasures with you are hard to find. f
Have some fun…like the kid above. He’s not steamed about not finding the treasure. He had a good time anyway.
It shouldn’t all be competitive…look…Gadi, our intrepid reporter from KOB-TV was out looking and was kind enough to leave something behind so the next person there would have a snack. He knows somebody else is bound to come looking in the same spots he already checked. So look for a Baby Ruth candy bar duct taped to a road sign. If you find it send me the picture so I can put it on the blog…
This is a very gratifying note from one of those folks that was motivated to get outdoors by Forrest’s book-
My family and I just got back from Taos, looking for the treasure. I have to say Thank you for this hunt. The real treasure was the experiance of spending time outdoors with my family. We got to experiance some beautiful places we never would of know was out there. I have gotten the fishing bug really bad. I do not know how to fly fish, but that is going to change!! If you know a good place or person to learn fly fishing, please let me know. My daughter in law is sight impaired and she had a blast hiking (with the help of my son) the trails and experiencing the outdoors with us. We had such a wonderful time. Of-course we are still hunting (along with a million other people) for the treasure. However, I just want to send you a note telling you that you have opened the door for our family enjoying time and the outdoors together.
Thank you for this treasure!!
Finally there is this story that I heard about Forrest from a very reliable source. A few years ago Forrest was attending an auction of western items. One of the early items up for bid was a pair of outrageous zebra skin cowboy boots. 
Forrest bid on them and won. Then he proceeded to take his favorite boots off, put the zebra boots on and tuck his jeans into the tops of the boots so everyone could see his ridiculous new footwear. He wore them for the rest of the auction in spite of the fact that they were too small for his feet…Forrest understands that life should be fun…and maybe a little discomfort makes the fun even better …
Here’s the bottom line. If hunting for the treasure is making you crazy then I sense you are in it for all the wrong reasons. We all would like to have a spare million or so. But in my opinion this treasure hunt is about interpreting the mysterious poem first. Second, getting outside and trying your interpretation in the real world. Its a puzzle more than a get rich quick scheme. You have an unprecedented opportunity to get to know a very unique individual in Forrest Fenn and you’ll have fantastic stories to tell your grandchildren about treasure hunting. Way down at the bottom of the possibilities is worrying about actually finding the chest. It should be fun. Lots and lots of fun. Don’t worry about the other guys out there. Just enjoy the hunt.
dal…
a
Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson
Ever since Robert Louis Stevenson wrote Treasure Island in the 1880′s western cultures have associated peg legged pirates, foul speaking parrots and treasure maps displaying a big fat “x” with buried treasure. Old west outlaws seem to have also buried their stolen treasure in deep holes.
Lackeys dug a grave-like rectangle in the sandy desert floor and into it went chests of gold, silver, cash, bank notes. All to be retrieved later after the local law lost interest in the hunt. The words “buried” and “treasure” are so commonly spoken together that many of us naturally assume that all treasure is buried. But of course its not.
In Forrest’s poem there is no indication that you’ll need a shovel to get at his treasure. In interviews he always carefully selects his words and deliberately avoids the word “buried” when speaking about the treasure or the chest. Instead he uses the word “hidden”.
I bring this up because the most oft’ repeated statement that I hear falsely attributed to Forrest is that he said he “buried” the treasure. In fact, I have not seen printed or heard in interviews anywhere where Forrest ever said the treasure was buried. More importantly, I’ve heard him correct individuals who have attributed the word “buried” to his description of the chest. “I never said buried.”, He once told a reporter over lunch in Santa Fe.
Forrest’s vigorous denial of using the word “buried” suggests to me that it really is not buried. If it was buried he would not take such strong objection to the word. Of course this is all circumstantial evidence but I believe you won’t need a metal detector to locate it. He hid the chest but did not bury it and if you are in the right location you might have to look around…inside a hollow tree, under a rock, in a cave…who knows…but in my opinion it is not buried.
dal….
I wanted to get one more search under my belt before Montana closed for the winter. Before the colorful autumn landscape turned blue and grey and white. A new spot had been haunting me with dreams of trout and aspen and gold for a couple of weeks now. I needed to walk alone along a mountain stream and take in the scent of autumn in the woods. Look for gold one more time before winter chased me out.
My creek of preference is about 600 miles from my home and after a long drive that started and ended in darkness I woke up the next day about 11 miles downstream from my target. It was a convenient place to pull over. Its where my fast moving creek leaves the dark forest, widens and enters a broader, sunnier stream.
A mile past the turnoff onto a dirt Forest Service road I stopped to watch a single fly fisher rhythmically working the riffles of my creek for lurking Cutthroat. His green line dancing in an old ballet above the water. I walked down to where I could see him clearly but not close enough to bother the fish. I watched him work the stream and waited to see if luck would be his or with my fish. I watched yellow and orange leaves drift off the trees. Listened to the constant splash and gurgle of river life. I feasted on a fat wedge of local sharp cheddar and a sweet Blue Pearmain apple and wondered if Forrest had fished this lovely spot. In the hour or so that I sat there, no fish were caught, but certainly not for lack of persistence by the angler.
As I walked back up to the truck something growled at me off to my left. I jumped. A black and grey furball with teeth stood his ground and stared at me. I slowly raised my camera and got several nice shots of a badger completely unafraid of me. In another moment he scurried off probably deciding that I was not a likely meal.
The place where I hoped to find Forrest’s gold was another ten miles up the road past a deep canyon and near a place where wagons full of settlers once rolled. Before pioneers, indians passed through on a trail barely visible today and not marked on any modern map. In most places the old blaze now rides under a multilane modern highway that moves a thousand lonely drivers between fuel stops each day. But at this spot the surveyors and engineers had placed the concrete thoroughfare twenty-two miles south in order to take advantage of a gentler route requiring fewer bridges and no switchbacks. Wild place saved.
It took about a half-hour to cover the ten miles to where I could park my truck and walk to the nearby spot where pioneers and indians forded this stream as they moved from the crowded East to the newly opened western side of the continental divide. The terrain here is wild and beautiful and the perfect picture of an autumn day in Montana. I grabbed my ice axe and camera and started walking the hundred or so feet to where I hoped to find Forrest’s hidden chest.
From the moment I left the van I could sense someone watching me. It was a strong and unwelcome sensation. Have you ever felt that? To the right of the old trail was a rock outcrop and a ten foot drop down onto more rock below. To my left was a four foot high basalt ledge. Under my feet were the visible carved ruts of hundreds…perhaps thousands of steel rimmed wagon wheels that went by here more than one hundred and fifty years ago. I imagined myself as one of those early trailblazers. Seeing the beauty of this lovely country for the first time.
“Did they camp near here?”, I wondered. I scoured for signs of a camp when off to my right I thought I saw movement. Just a light colored flash. I glanced up and saw nothing. “My imagination”, I figured. The sense of being examined persisted. I ignored my worried brain warning me to leave and returned to scouring the area for signs of an old camp.
Movement again. I jerked my head right and peered into the trees. Nothing. Wary now, I pointed my body in the direction of the movement and looked down at the ground. Not so much to see anything as to look unconcerned about whoever was observing me. The uncomfortable sense of being closely observed was growing. I slowly looked up and that’s when I saw them. Standing still as rocks and looking directly at me. Yellow eyes peering at me from no more than 30 meters away. Behind foliage. Mostly camouflaged.
This was the first time I had ever seen their kind in the wild. I was both intrigued and worried by their presence. I knew nothing about them. I slowly raised the camera, aimed and pressed the shutter button. It was so quiet in the forest that the camera sounded like I was clanging metal garbage can lids together. I was certain they would run. But they did not move. Their eyes were burning holes through my face.
Wolves! If there were two, would there be more? Why did they not care if I saw them? I wanted to see if there were more. I wanted to see if any were at my back or sides but I did not dare turn my back on the two I was facing. They made no noise. They moved no muscles. I gripped my ice axe tightly and turned back up the old trail toward my truck. I never let them out of my sight and they seemed to never let me out of theirs.
By the time I got back to the truck I could no longer see them. I climbed in feeling safer. I started the truck up and moved a bit forward on the road thinking that I might be able to see where they had been standing. About 15 meters up the road I thought I could see the area they had been watching me from. They were nowhere in sight. Did this mean they had moved on? Did this mean they were hiding and waiting? Do wolves attack people? I had seen lots of deer sign in the area. Surely a venison steak was more appealing than an old human ribcage. Maybe they were just as curious about me as I was about them.
I slowly backed up to the spot I had been in earlier, shut down the truck. I convinced myself that I couldn’t leave the area without finishing my search for Forrest’s chest. Wolves or no wolves, I had just driven 600 miles and I was not going to leave before I thoroughly checked out this spot. It was a good spot. Get yourself together Dal!
I decided the wolves should know that although I did not have sharp teeth or claws I did own an ice axe and I could make a lot of noise. So I honked the horn about ten times and then put my Creedence CD in the player, cranked down the windows and cranked up the volume. I made them listen to Fortunate Son, Bad Moon Rising and Have you Ever Seen The Rain. …very, very loud. The sounds of civilization…well the civilized 70′s anyway. Then I sat in the truck and waited…and listened…and put out my feelers. Nothing! I didn’t feel like anyone was watching me anymore. I felt alone again.
I grabbed my ice axe, got out of the truck, slammed the door shut and watched. Nothing. I yelled at them, “I’ve got an ice axe here. You better stay away.” I waved the ice axe over my head for good measure. I watched. I listened. Nothing. I headed back down the old wagon trail toward my creek and my spot. I was very alert. I neither saw nor felt any eyes upon me. They were gone. I was probably just another nutcase tourist they were glad to get away from.
I spent the next two days in that spot. Slept in the truck the first night and on the ground the next. I listened for wolves at night. I heard none…which was disappointing. I thought it would be beautiful to hear wolves howling. My own fault. I should not have tried so hard to scare them off. I decided that I knew nothing about wolves but if I intended to spend time in Montana or Wyoming I should start reading up on them.
I did hear coyotes though. They came up to my camp the second evening to howl at me or the moon or my truck. Coyotes thrive on Creedence!
dal…
“O! Wretched mortals, open your eyes!”
-Leonardo da Vinci
a
Forrest shared this email exchange with me about clues in the book. It may be a question you have also considered. I know from the email I get that the idea has crossed many folk’s minds that maybe Forrest has intentionally filled his book with misleading clues.
So, are some parts of the book hints while others are placed there to deliberately confuse us? Recently a searcher posed this question to Forrest. The question and Forrest’s quick response are below.
The notes have been edited to keep anyone or any location from being identified…
Dear Mr. Fenn,Some of my fondest memories of my father are going out on the weekends and searching for “treasure” although nothing as big as your treasure. You have created a win win opportunity for us. I do have a question for you about something you said in your book, you mention subtle clues sprinkled in the stories. Are there also words sprinkled in the stories that are meant to lead astray? I have an uncanny ability to read into something way beyond that which was intended, and in doing so I have been able to find a place that I can match your poem to. The problem is, is that I have found two other places that fit your poem almost as well and another is formulating in my head. I guess that’s a good thing as it gives us many places to search. I am also curious as to how much work you put into hauling that treasure to its hiding spot. I have seen men of your experience capable of carrying substantial weight quite a long distance.Thank you for taking the time to read this and I hope you will be able to reply, I imagine you get numerous e mails looking for insight. If you feel that I am asking too much, I understand. Thank you for making a life long fantasy a reality and thank you for allowing me to share it with my boys. I hope to contact you soon looking for the key to that box.
Dear ——–,I am glad you are taking your sons into the chase.My book is straight forward and there is nothing that is designed to mislead. I was 79 or 80 when I hid the treasure so you should be able to haul it out with the help of your two sons. I am interested to know where you go and how you fare. Good luck. fIn a follow-up note Forrest added this:I would not have hidden the treasure if I didn’t want everyone to have a fair chance of finding it. faadal…
Doug Preston - photo swiped from the web
Doug Preston is a successful writer in the crime genre. You may have read some of his novels. If not a book of fiction than perhaps you’ve read some of his work as a journalist or columnist or non-fiction writer. He is perhaps as well known for his in depth research as he is for his writing. In addition to crime novels he also writes non-fiction for Smithsonian Magazine and The New Yorker among others.
So…fine Dal but what’s this got to do with the Treasure…which I believe is the point of this blog?
Funny you should ask. Doug and Forrest are good friends. Doug moved to New Mexico about 25 years ago when he took up writing full time. One of his earlier works is my absolute favorite. In 1992 he wrote Cities of Gold: A Journey Across The American Southwest. Its about Coronado’s depraived search for the seven cities of gold. Here’s the best part of that book. Doug actually rode a horse a thousand miles through the southwest while tracing Coronado’s trail. He does a lot of research like that. So why do we care…ahhh haa!
Enter a book he wrote in 2004 titled The Codex. My local Barnes and Noble had several copies. The acknowledgments page will peak your attention.
Doug begins his recognition by mentioning a meeting with Forrest at the Pink Adobe in Santa Fe where Forrest revealed a curious story. Then goes on to say that his fictional character in the book in no way resembles Forrest. “The two men could not be more different.”
But here’s what Forrest revealed to Doug in that meeting …his idea to hide a treasure chest.
Doug used that idea as his theme in The Codex. One wonders what details Forrest might have revealed at that intriguing meeting? And whether Doug incorporated any of them into his story. Might there be clues in The Codex that will help you find the treasure?
The story begins in Santa Fe. The main character is not charming and cordial like our Mr. Fenn. As the plot thickens other geographic regions get pulled into the story.
I guess you’ll have to find out for yourself about clues. But at $8 for the paperback, its a pretty darn good read.
I believe I found more than one useful hint…See what you find!!
dal….
The Eyes of Forrest Fenn
Don’t you hate that?
I do.
It’s a lie. I did not find it. I have no idea any more than you do where it’s located. I just wrote that for the effect it will have on you. If I am right, it demoralized you. Displeased you. Ruined your day. You hate me. You’re finding it hard to forgive me right now.
I apologize!
If it didn’t have that effect on you than you don’t care about looking for it as much as I do. Its not that someone other than me would find it as much as it is that my own hunt would be over and I love looking for the chest.
But I did it for a reason. Albeit a selfish reason. I wanted you…dear readers…to experience how I am going to feel when one of you actually does find it and sends me an email to that effect. I am asking you now, be kind…be generous when you break the news. I am not going to be happy…
On that topic…more than one person has written Forrest trying to scam him into disclosing the possibility of a location. How would you handle it if you were Forrest?
Here’s what happens. Someone writes to Forrest, ”I found it at La Junta.”
How is Forrest going to respond? If he writes back, “No you didn’t because I didn’t put it there.” The person now knows a place not to bother looking. On the other hand, if Forrest writes, “I never thought anyone would find it there because I really hid it good.” Then that person knows to speed to La Junta and start looking in earnest.
How would you answer an email like that?
And while your rolling that around. Here’s a letter from a guy who actually sent this under the heading “TREASURE HAS BEEN FOUND”.
AA
Hi Dal,
I have found the treasure. Home of brown is here:
http://www.elvado.com/trout.html
On the peninsula that jutts out into el vado reservoir is a large abandoned cemetery. The trail was well marked, the map with he blaze signs was carved into the tree behind forrest as he did the kob interview in his garden. If you want to check it out, it is 60 paces due west of the curve in the road on the North side of the cemetery (up the arroyo). I dug in two spots, the fire ant hill 20 paces from the road was a decoy, you needed to follow the blaze (black stones) about 40 paces west to the treasure. The mark for the treasure was an F with three lines instead of two.
Here is another-by the same person..but sent to Forrest rather than me…
Mr Fenn,
So I will tell you the story.
I am a 38 year old veterinary student from Nebraska. I saw the news piece on KOB three weeks ago. Within 3 days I had located the site at El Vado to within about 100 yards. I drove down over labor day weekend and dug it up. Nothing there. I thought and thought. Remembering Shakespeare, I read the poem backwards. I found the site up the canyon south of the monastery on google earth although I did not visit it. The ring the lady who interviews you on PBS was wearing fit the poem as well. I suspect there is more located by the SJ monastery near taos, though I would need to read the poem again. The final treasure is at the Fa Yun monastery main house near Taos. I would need to observe in person, but I found the blaze on the table made of yellow stone. The Golden Buddha, the golden valley below the Buddha, and I suspect whatever is inside the Golden Buddha are parts of the treasure as well. Does the golden buddha weigh 217 pounds? And is it part of the treasure as well? I would hate to go to the monastery and take their Buddha if it was not meant to be taken! In reality, I do not wish to collect these items in person. I will if I must, but I propose this to you… If you would make suitable arrangements for me, I will donate 25% to a cause of your choice, the monks if you prefer. Make a suggestion if you wish.
I must admit that I had suspicion you may have had nefarious intent. Perhaps my imagination is hyper-acute or I am exquisitely intuitive. Regardless, I have stopped obsessing about this. Ask if you are curious, otherwise I shall not elaborate.
You are a master of word craft, and obviously brilliant smart.
Here’s to our health. Let’s talk.
As Forrest would say…please don’t go digging up any monastery grounds..
Dal…
PS- Sorry for the near heart attack Stephanie. It’s still out there….
It took more than an hour to go back the ten dusty miles of red dirt road to the highway toward Coyote. It was about 2pm. It felt like the sun was burning a hole in the roof of my truck. I was sticky and hot and very uncomfortable. I don’t belong in this kind of climate. I kept imagining myself as a turkey all basted up on Thanksgiving and roasting in the oven.
As soon as I hit the asphalt, life got better. First thing I did was roll down the windows and push the accelerator to the floor to move some air around in the cab. This is a northern truck. Good mileage but no air conditioning.
Then things began to go downhill again. Second thing I did was slow way down when I looked in my rear view and saw blue and white flashing lights about twenty feet off my rear bumper. Where on earth did he come from? No trees. No side roads. No buildings to hide behind. “Maybe he’s Apache” I thought to myself. I rolled to a stop. Pulled onto the far right shoulder. Shut the engine down and reached into my back pocket for my wallet.
“Stay in the vehicle! Put your hands on top of the steering wheel and do not move!” A voice yelled from behind my truck. I did what he told me to do. I could see him in my side view. He was big and dressed like a cop. He had taken a regulation, two handed shooting position with his handgun pointed at where he figured my head should be in the truck. He side stepped to his right out of my view and over to the other side of my truck so he could approach me from the passenger side of the GMC. I wondered if he had called this in yet. I also wondered if the county cops around here made all their traffic stops like this. Tough neighborhood!
I didn’t move. I didn’t get smart mouthed. I sat with my hands on the wheel and my eyes forward while he checked me out.
“Any weapons in the vehicle?” he shouted.
“None.”
As he came around to the passenger window he leveled the weapon through the window at my upper torso. He knew enough not to touch the vehicle or put his weapon in through the window. Then he started giving me directions.
“Listen to me and do what I say. Okay?”
“Yep.”
“Put your left hand behind your head and hold it there. Do it slow and easy”
I followed his instructions, slow and easy.
When my hand landed behind my head he gave me the next instruction.
“Slowly move your right hand down to the ignition. Pull the key out and toss the key through your window to the ground.”
I did as he instructed but now my right hand was dangling in the air in front of my chest. I was certain he would want it somewhere else.
“Move your right hand to behind your head just like the left.”
I did as he instructed. He moved closer to the passenger window so he could check out the space next to me for weapons.
“What’s that on the floor next to you.”
I knew what he was talking about and I wondered if it was going to be a source of contention.
“Its my ice axe.”
Just then I heard the second cop running up to my side of the vehicle. The first cop must have called it in.
For a moment they stood at opposite doors. Two guns pointed at my torso and also at one another like one of those Police Academy movies. But I wasn’t laughing.
The cop on my side repositioned himself a little forward so any slug from the first cop’s gun that went through me and the door would miss him. Then the first cop left his position and reappeared on my side with his weapon holstered.
“I’m going to open your door now and when I do you will not move until I tell you too. Okay?”
“Yep.”
“Is your door unlocked?”
“Yep.”
The first cop looked at the second cop. They nodded at one another. My door jerked open and the first cop hauled me out by my elbow, pushed me to the ground and told me to “Get down and stay down!” In my peripheral vision I could see that the second cop had moved toward me and was now holding his weapon about three feet from my head. Then a cadence of instructions and questions.
“Spread your legs. Lock your fingers behind your head. If you move you’re a dead man. What’s your name?”
With my hands behind my head, my face was in the red dirt. I wondered if anyone had stopped here to pee. I hoped not. It felt like my keys were pinned under my right thigh. With my mouth in the dirt I said my name. I felt a knee hit the small of my back with quite a bit of weight. My left arm was wrenched from behind my head and a plastic cuff was locked around my left wrist. Then my right arm was hauled down to meet my left and cuffed to it.
The first cop was now feeling up my backside, torso and legs for anything unusual. He was not being nice about it. I figured these guys were very concerned about weapons but I had no idea why. He pulled my wallet out of my right back pocket. He stood over me and said, “Repeat your name!”
I turned my head to one side and repeated my name.
“Spell it!” he said.
I spelled it trying not to breath in the dirt that was coating my nostrils and mouth.
The big cop looked up from my license. “What kind of name is that?”, he asked.
“Its German.” I said.
I could hear some relief in his voice. Something had happened. I was not who he expected and he was relieved to find that out.
“What are you doing here?” he yelled.
I was afraid of this question. I knew it was coming and I was trying to think of a better answer than the truth. An answer that would not cause any trouble. But I couldn’t come up with one.
“Looking for hidden treasure.” I said.
I felt the knee push hard into the small of my back. The first cop didn’t like that answer. I didn’t think he would.
“I’m going to ask that again!”, he said. “I’m going to pretend that you didn’t say what I think you just said. Don’t be a smart-ass it won’t help you right now. Just tell us the truth. What are you doing here?”
“That is the truth.” I said. I’m looking for hidden treasure. I can prove it.”
There was a pause while the cops considered what I had just said.
I decided to try to get into a more comfortable position.
“Look, can I get up?” I asked. I’m suffocating down here. I don’t have any weapons on me and I’ll answer any questions you want.”
More silence. Not a single car drove by. The highway out here was definately underused.
“I don’t know what you guys are looking for but I’m pretty sure I’m not it. I’m a damn tourist.”
Cop number one grabbed my belt and hoisted me up one handed while I tried to get my legs under me. As soon as I was on my feet he yanked my shirt up to make sure there wasn’t a concealed weapon in my waist. “Got any needles or sharp objects in your pockets?”, he asked.
“Cash and a folding pocket knife is all.” I said.
He put his hands in my pockets, emptied them and turned them inside out. I had about $6 in my left pocket and my pocket knife in my right. He put my things on the hood of the truck and turned back toward me. I spread my legs and he patted me down from the front this time. The second cop holstered his weapon, crossed his arms over his chest and watched. He was smaller than the first cop. About my size but thinner. Maybe 35 years old. His tan uniform had sharp creases. His hair was neatly trimmed and his face was clean shaven. I could smell All Spice after shave on one of them. Their shoulder patches said Rio Arriba County.
The big cop stood up and looked me hard in the face. He was probably over 6 feet tall and must have weighed 250lbs. He was younger. Maybe early twenties. Played football at some high school out here a few years ago. He looked like he worked out. His uniform was just as squared away as the other cop’s except his knees were now stained from the red dirt.
“I’m going to look inside your truck.” he said. “You got a problem with that?”
“Not me.” I said
“Good.” he said as he picked the keys up off the ground and headed to the back doors of my van.
The small cop just stared at me. He didn’t say anything. Just looked at me like I was an infant with a dirty diaper. The All Spice was definitely coming from him.
I found a point on the bridge of his nose and stared right back. I can be just as manly as the next guy.
I could hear the big cop rummaging around in the truck. Nothing back there was going to get me in trouble.
After about two minutes the big cop came back around the front of the truck. He had my ice axe in one hand and something small in his other hand along with my keys. I couldn’t see what it was.
“What did you say this was?” he said as he held up my ice axe.
“Thats an ice axe. Climbers use them when they are traveling on ice. Its an assist and safety tool.”
“Uh-huh.” he said to me and then turned to the other cop. “There’s nothing in there. I think we should uncuff him.”
The smaller cop came toward me. I turned my back to him and raised my hands a little so he could get at the cuffs.
While the smaller cop was fooling with the cuffs the big cop said “So why do you need an ice axe in New Mexico in August?” He was hefting the axe for balance and trying it out while he asked.
“I use it when I’m hiking around.” I said. ”I can poke at places I’d rather not put my fingers.?
“Emm hmm. Where do you get something like this?”
“I don’t know about around here but in Washington you can get them at practically any climbing gear shop.
The smaller cop finally spoke up. His name tag said Vargas. “Where were you coming from when officer Bear pulled you over?”
“Bear! Thats his name…Bear? Officer Bear laughed.
“Call me Griz for short.” he said. “I like your axe.”
“So where were you coming from?” Vargas asked.
“I was coming back from that old trading post about 10 miles back from where I pulled out.” I said
Bear nodded his big head and said “And what were you doing back there?”
“Exactly what I told you before. I was looking for hidden treasure. I thought it might be back there.”
“What do you mean hidden treasure?”
“I can show you. Okay if I get a book out of my truck?”
“Alright.”
I popped the door open and reached into my computer bag between the seats, pulled out Forrest’s book and handed it to Vargas.
“Fellow in Santa Fe decided to hide about a million in gold…”
“A million dollars in gold?..” Bear almost dropped the axe.
“Yeah, about a million and anybody is welcome to go look for it. That’s what I was doing.”
“So its buried around here someplace?” asked Vargas. He started thumbing through the pages as he listened and talked.
“I don’t know where it is. I’ve been looking in a bunch of places including out here. Could be anywhere.”
“But you have good reason to believe its out here, right? You aren’t just flipping a coin to see where you’ll look are you?”
“No I was following some clues that led me out here.”
“What’s this?” Bear asked. He was holding a small stone carving of an animal.
“Can I see it?” I asked while holding out my hand.
I examined it. I had never seen it before. About three inches long. It looked like a dog. It was expertly carved out of a green colored stone. The creature had something that looked a great deal like my ice axe carved out of reddish stone and held onto its midsection with a leather thong. Looked old. Rounded like it had been rubbed a lot. The leather was dark with age. Beautiful marbled stone.
“I guess its a carving of a dog. But I’ve never seen it before. Where did you find it?” I handed it back to him.
“In your van. It was laying on the passenger seat.”
Vargas had stopped thumbing the pages. He found the poem and was studying it closely.
“Well I don’t know where it came from.” I said.
Bear held it up between his thumb and forefinger so Vargas could see it.
“Look at this.” he said to Vargas.
Vargas looked up from the poem, took the sculpture and studied it for a few seconds. “That’s your ice axe.” he said to me and pointed at the object tied to the dog. ”Did you give a ride to an old indian?” he asked.
“Not exactly.” I said. “But, yes there was an old indian by the name of Yellow Hat that was in the truck about an hour ago.”
“Yellow Hat!” boomed Bear. That’s a good one.
“Okay.” I said. “What’s going on?”
“You tell him.” said Bear.
“Well we’ve all been suckered.” said Vargas. That old indian that was in your truck. He’s an Apache trickster. His name is Coyote. This is not a dog. This is a Coyote. You must have been around him for awhile if he carved your ice axe and tied it on.”
“No. Not very long at all. Maybe 20 minutes is all.”
“I don’t think he could have carved your little ice axe in 20 minutes with all that detail.” Vargas said.
I rubbed my eyes. They were suddenly dry and itchy. “No, 20 minutes is all.”
“Well if we ever catch this guy he’s going to be in a world of hurt. This time he called 911 and told the dispatcher that a white van with Washington plates was headed out from the Capa Amarilla road with four bales of Marijuana. Driver’s name was supposed to be Jones. I just got the call from dispatch when you came lurching out of there onto the asphalt and started driving like your butt was on fire.”
Bear added, “He lives back in there somewhere. They’ve been looking for this guy for about 40 years…I kid you not.”
He handed me the sculpture.
Vargas said, “Its an Apache fetish. Its his calling card. First time I’ve ever seen one personalized like that. Its good luck. Carry it with you all the time. You’ll be safe…and…do you know the name of that trading post back there?”
“Nope.” I said.
“Its called Capa Amarilla.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Yellow Hat.” said Vargas.
dal….
Stuck in the wash...
You can ask me why I was looking for Forrest’s treasure in Coyote, New Mexico, but I won’t tell you.
I will say that I was there. Midsummer. Hot. Dry. Dusty.
The arid landscape smelled a little like sage and a lot like sand. The heat was oppressive. The sun was relentless. The vista was endless. Red sand hills with scattered outcroppings of collapsing gray and pink cliff rock. Sage everywhere. The twisting road had deteriorated into a two rut jeep trail and was working its way toward becoming a single rut up ahead. The engine was running strong but my truck was moving slow albeit a little faster than I wanted to go on this beat-up, washed out trail. If I stopped I’d be stuck. Keep moving forward was the only plan I had.
I had to duck my head to keep from smacking it on the roof. Tough on the ball joints. I was being cautious. I kept the speed up. In the past two minutes I had determined that this was not a likely road for Forrest to have driven when he hid his fortune. All I needed was a place wide enough to turn around so I could head back north, 10 miles to the town of Coyote. Grab a cold diet Pepsi and look somewhere else.
Up ahead I could make out one semi-standing building. Roof caved in. The remains of a ranch perhaps. Who would try ranching in this hard country? I remember thinking that I could probably turn around up there. That thought was interrupted when I felt my left rear wheel start to spin freely and the front swerve to the right out of the ruts. I was in a shallow, sandy wash. A little gas. Not too much. The truck was bogging down in the sand. One of those times I wished I had four wheel drive. But I don’t. I shouldn’t be here. But I was.
The truck slowed to its inevitable stop ignoring the fact that its wheels were spinning, It was now a no wheel drive vehicle. Stuck fast. Here I was. I could have turned around a mile back where there was a rusting, burned out hulk of a Dodge truck sitting in a wide spot in the road. But I had instead decided to go forward. I was, once again, nowhere. Buyers remorse. Good going!
I shut the truck down. Took my hands off the wheel and stared at the harsh, bright landscape. I could feel the intense sunlight pounding down on my left ear, left shoulder, left arm. A fly buzzed in the right window and exited the left. It was quiet. I was alone. I took a sip from my water bottle and slowly twisted the cap back onto the bottle while staring through the windshield at nothing really. Other than the dilapidated building about 200 meters ahead there was nothing to look at except undulating hills and multi-colored rock terraces.
Heat was building up in the unmoving air. Dust coated sweat covered my exposed skin. My jeans and t-shirt were soaked. It wasn’t cooling me down. Even my hands were sweating.
I took a deep breath and grabbed my hat and camera. I lifted the door handle, leaned against the door frame with my left shoulder and grabbed my ice axe from between the seats with my right hand. The door opened and I let the momentum carry me outside to the soft red wash. There was no breeze, only heat. I was in sand right up to the tops of my shoes.
Both rear wheels were trapped in the red stuff clear to the rims. Even the differential was down in the sand. The right front wheel was set against rock just high enough to halt the movement of my old truck. Only the left front was clear. It would take some work with a shovel and some rocks or boards to get the GMC moving again. 12 feet back and I’d be on the uneven hardpan. Not badly stuck. Just stuck. I reached inside and grabbed my water bottle, took a gulp, screwed the top back on and tossed the bottle onto the damp driver’s seat as I turned and headed up the hill toward the building.
The old building near Coyote...
As I approached I could see that the crumbling structure was built into the side of a hill. Probably for the extra insulation. My guess was that this baked landscape was hotter than today for much of the summer and just as cold as Moscow in winter. What a challenging place to make a living. The roof was mostly caved in. The adobe was falling away revealing the red bricks and rough wood framing. Solidly built. Darkened and fractured by exposure. At least 100 years old. Maybe much older. Newer additions and repairs. But it wasn’t a house or a barn. It was a store. It had wide multi-paned windows on each side of the center door.
Scattered around the front were boards. Possibly from a once inviting porch or wooden sidewalk. I poked at a couple of them with my axe and flipped them over to see what might be underneath. Nothing.
“Whatcha lookin for?” the voice behind me inquired.
“Jeese!” I nearly jumped out of my skin. The last thing I expected to hear was a voice. I turned quickly and found myself staring directly into the very weathered, very old face of an indian. He was wearing a red and brown striped, long sleeve shirt, quite faded from the sun. A red scarf was wrapped around his neck. His belt buckle was a large bear claw carved in turquoise and laid in a big silver oval. His black pants were a little baggy and he was wearing scuffed black motorcycle boots with large silver side buckles. Patchouli oil scented the air around him. His loose white hair spilled down to his shoulders. In spite of the heat he looked cool and unaffected.
“Its okay friend. I don’t mean ta give ya a heart attack.” he said as he grabbed my free left hand and shook it.
“Scared the bejeezus out of me.” I said.
“Old indian trick.” he said, ”Sorry.”
I could tell that he was trying to keep from laughing.
“My name is David Yellow Hat” His voice was like a loud whisper.
“Your not wearing a hat” I said
“You white guys are damn quick” he said and then moved a little bit to the right so I wouldn’t have to squint into the sun while looking at him. His face was the color of old cordovan leather. He was a bit stooped but otherwise seemed fit. I could see no flab at all on his frame.
“Okay.” I said. “My name is Dal Neitzel.”
“What?” His voice was soft and airy…reassuring.
“Dal Neitzel” I repeated.
“What the heck kinda name is that?” He seemed surprised at my name. Was he expecting someone else? Black eyes searched my own looking for lord knows what.
“Its German”
“What’s it mean” he asked
“I don’t know” I said.
“You white guys!” he said. “So what are ya lookin for with your fancy walkin stick?”
“Snakes I said”
“Snakes? Aint no snakes over here. Then he pointed over my shoulder toward an outcropping about a hundred meters behind me. “Snakes over there where they got places ta hide.”
“This your place?” I asked, pointing with my axe at the old store.
“Sorta.” He said. “Used to be a trading post for the tribe that lived out here. It still belongs to the government I suppose. So I guess I own some of it.”
Yellow Hat turned toward the building and said, “Let me show you something. Come here.” and he carefully walked in through the open front door to the debris filled cavity that was once the interior of the trading post.
I followed him in. We went to the back of the room where two walls and an interior door still stood. As I followed I could see old coffee cans, powdered milk containers, some rotting remnants of flour sacks, a can of nails and other items it would be fun to dig around in. When I caught up to him he pointed at the door jam where there were some marks carved with names and dates.
“See this one down here?” he asked while pointing to a mark barely three feet up the jamb. “Thats Franklin Gower’s height from when he was 2 years old. That mark is from 1853. I knew this guy. He worked here when I was a kid. Pretty old then but I knew him when I was 7 in 1931. He was 80. He used to take his wagon in to Taos to get food for the indians out here in the middle of winter and let me tell ya that was no easy trip.”
“Did you work here?” I asked.
“No but my family lived bout 5 miles west and the kids used to come out here and hang around til old man Gower would give us a penny candy and tell us about our ancestors. He was okay.”
I bent down to examine the names written in red pencil on the frame. Next to the entry for “Frank” I could see it also said March 14, 1853.
“They did that for all the Gower kids right up til there weren’t no more.”
The last date I could see on the jamb was about my height and had the name Frank and 1938 next to it. I rubbed my fingers across the jamb to feel the notches in the wood.
“That one was the last Gower. Another Frank. He was killed landing on the beach at Guadalcanal in ’42. I remember him too.”
“Are you Navajo?” I asked
“You white guys!” he said. “Apache! This is all Apache country round here. Beautiful ain’t it? If you know how, you can live back here pretty good.”
He turned and walked back out the way we came. Bent down and picked up a rusted metal fork. looked it over, dropped it and continued out the door. When we were out he grabbed my left hand again and started pumping it. “Im headed toward town so I better get goin.” He pointed again toward the red rock outcropping. “Snakes over there. If ya see me on the road when yer headed back, gimme a lift will ya?”
“Sure.” I said. “Hey, you want to go over and look at snakes? Then you can ride back with me.”
“No. I seen them snakes before.” He said. “But you be careful. Gotta head out.” And then he turned up the rut and headed out in the direction of my truck.
“Take care David.”
I watched him for a bit. You can always tell a guy who spent life walking rather than driving or riding. Yellow Hat, at nearly 90, had a slow but comfortable pace. His balance was good. He looked fit with only a slight limp as he favored his left foot a bit. I guessed he didn’t even have a drivers license.
It took me about five minutes to walk up to the outcropping. I approached it carefully. Ever watchful for snakes. Although I wanted to see a couple I did not want to be surprised by any. I carefully walked among the broken stone that had peeled off the face of the outcropping. No snakes. I stopped and considered the heat. Probably too hot for them. Probably down in the cool cracks and small caves.
Petroglyphs carved into the red rock wall...
Then I saw them. About a hundred of them. Petroglyphs. Covering the entire flat front of the outcropping. Dozens were snakes but there were also horses and arrows and deer and things I couldn’t identify. Some were beautifully detailed. Many were simple as can be. There were a few dates. One was a drawing of a man in a cowboy hat. Next to it was etched “Frank, 1876″. There were a couple of women in dresses, covered wagons and something that looked like fire coming from the sky on a village. There were stories here. These things always fascinate me. I ran my finger through the deep lines of a warrior on his horse. How old? Some of the carvings had the same dark coloration as the uncarved rock face. Others were lighter…newer? Some could be conquistadors in armor. Some could be spacemen. They were all fantastical and exciting. This place clearly had been used for hundreds of years as some sort of gathering place. Meetings? Hunting? A village?
Then I heard it…or rather became conscience of it. My truck. I heard the engine race. I turned to look but the hills and outcroppings prevented me from seeing it in the wash. I grabbed my ice axe and ran toward the noise. The engine stopped and I heard a door slam shut just before I crested the hill by the trading post. A tad further and I could see it ahead. “That sneaky indian!” I said aloud to only myself. “Good thing it was stuck or I’d be the one walking to town”, I thought.
I couldn’t see anyone around the truck but it had changed positions. It was now facing the way it had come. Not the way I left it with the nose pointed toward the trading post. As I got closer I could see that it was out of the wash. It was back up on the hardpan pointed toward Coyote and ready to go.
I looked for signs of someone. I could see my own footprints in the rut up from the wash. No footprints headed down into it and no footprints around the van. No tire marks where someone might have made a 28 point turn to get the truck turned around. “How did he do that?” I walked around the van. No prints but the ones I had just made. I opened the door and looked inside. There was a stick of cellophane wrapped hard candy in my cup holder. I haven’t bought stick candy in twenty years. I did not put it there. My water bottle was still in the driver’s seat where I tossed it. Keys in the ignition where I left them. How was this possible? It would have been an hours worth of work to extricate the van from that wash. I was a tad unnerved. I stood up on the running board. I could see for about a quarter mile in every direction except for the outcropping. No one was around. No boards were laying around. No rocks. I tossed my axe inside, climbed in, put my camera on the floor between the seats and turned the key. Started right up. I pondered the whole thing one more time. No solution. Then I smelled it. Patchouli oil lightly scented the air in the van….but how…and while we’re at it…why?
dal….
Okay…this is going to surprise some people and annoy others…
As you know I am a big fan of getting out there and having fun while looking for Forrest’s treasure chest. I am not generally into the woo-woo side of looking for treasure. I have little faith in psychics who believe they can conjure up the location of Forrest’s chest just by holding an object he has touched while I fork over some hard earned cash.
However, this doesn’t mean I haven’t tried it. Heck, after the thousands and thousands of hours I have poured into this search I must have tried just about everything at least once, and its all fun. I’m just saying that even though I’ve tried the psychic revelation route, its not on the top of my list of methods. I am suspicious by nature.
Here’s the problem for me. If someone has what they claim to be the perfect solution to finding the treasure, then I am not about to pay them cash money for the service. My friend Dr. Tomorrow is over 90. He’s a futurist and once said to me that he could say anything he wanted too about the future because he probably wouldn’t be around when they figured out he was wrong.
My point is… anybody can claim they know where the treasure is at. But psychics don’t seem to be interested in a deal where they only get paid if they’re correct. Here’s my deal; Psychics do their conjuring and I’ll split the treasure if we find it in the spot they summon up.
So far no psychic has been willing to take me up on that offer. Ignore for a second what this might say about me and concentrate instead on what this says about them. Why would a person turn down a perfectly good split of a treasure worth maybe a million dollars and demand instead a $75 up-front fee? Its clear to me that someone is trying harder to get their hands in my wallet than find the treasure.
But even more strange to me is why on earth anyone who claims they could conjur up the location of the treasure in the first place, just by holding something Forrest has touched, would not simply head out and go get it themselves. What do they need me for? Its true I have an object that Forrest has touched but so does everyone else who bought Forrest’s book. Every “Thrill of the Chase” book is signed. He touched every one. I once did a story on witchcraft and interviewed a self proclaimed witch who related several incidents that demonstrated her spell casting prowess. My last question was whether she had ever used her witchcraft for personal gain. She told me, reluctantly, that on one occasion she had placed a spell on her local gas station attendant to give her a lot of extra saving stamps every time she filled up. So I know that these “unique powers” can be used for personal gain.
But tomfoolery and mysticism exist on lots of levels. On my last trip out I spent some time in a touristy place crowded with what I refer to as woo-woos. If you’re from New Mexico you probably know where I mean. Its a colorful place occupied for the most part by spiritual folks who do a lot of yoga, meditation, chakra balancing and california massage. They don’t drink their coffee black in this neighborhood. Shop space is pretty spendy. Most of the restaurants are vegetarian and its easier to buy a pair of $300 sandals than work boots. If you are into mushroom art, unicorn paintings and quartz crystals this is the place for you.
I’m not. Instead I was walking around the plaza sampling various herbal smells wafting from the inviting storefronts. I was killing time waiting for a local dealership to finish replacing the ball joints on my truck. It was uncomfortably warm for a guy from Washington State…probably near 80 degrees. I found a place that sold cans of diet Pepsi for $3 and reluctantly bought one to stop my eyeballs from drying out.
I am the kind of guy that can feel uncomfortable almost anywhere people hang out. There were a lot of people. I moved over to the shady, less crowded side of the plaza near a “precious gem” store that had some pretty spectacular examples of extracted mother earth in the window. They also had a small book rack and prominently displayed was a colorful paperback by a fellow named David Villanueva who calls himself a metal detectorist. His book is titled “The Successful Treasure Hunter’s Secret Manual”. Who among us could resist that title?
Right away you know its some sort of gimmick. Any book with both the words “successful” and “secret” in its title is trying desperately to appeal to my humanesque base instinct to get rich. Add the phrase “treasure hunter” and my knees start to wobble. Okay, I bought it. I’m a pushover.
One of the techniques that David details is finding gold is by its “aura”. There is a video on the book’s website that tries to demonstrate what this is all about. Basically, everything in the universe is said to emit an aura, humans, my truck, oak trees, muffins and precious metals are all supposedly capable of emitting auras. These auras can be seen by some people without aids (psychics). The rest of us need some sort of aid to see them. In treasure hunting they could be important because even if a treasure is hidden or buried it still emits an aura and if you can see its aura you can find the spot where its hidden. This all makes sense if you believe that things like gold actually do emit auras.
The key to David’s technique is that he discovered that a simple digital camera can see the aura emitted by gold. So, in theory, we could find Forrest’s gold treasure if it was hidden from our view by going to the location and pointing our digital camera at it. If we see the aura we know its there. If not, we go look in another place. This could save you from digging needless holes in the ground, wading foolishly into cold trout streams or crawling into non gold bearing bear dens.
Do I believe in this theory…not a chance!
One person wrote that the only real shortcut to getting rich in the treasure hunting business was to write a book about how to do it. If you do, don’t forget to use the words “successful” and “secret” in the title.
…and ah..does anyone want to buy a slightly used paperback book and digital camera?
dal…
Here’s the deal-
What’s your idea of a fun vacation activity; A or B…or maybe both ?
Napping on some sultry tropical beach while reading a lightweight mystery novel
Searching a stream for hidden treasure in the mountains north of Santa Fe
A
A
A
A
A
A
A
A
A
A
A
A
a
a
a
If you chose “A” I’ll come back to you in a minute.
If you chose “B”..Bully for you because that’s all it takes to head out and look for Forrest’s hidden treasure…
Get in the middle of a lovely place where the nine clues in the poem lead you and enjoy yourself while you search for 22lbs of gold and jewels inside a 20lb bronze chest…now that’s entertainment!!!
Now…you who are drooling over Photo “A”…All you have to do is head out on “B” for awhile…find the treasure and enjoy the rest of your winters napping away on the tropical beach of your choice because you’ll be RICH enough to retire and spend winters exactly where you want…
oh…and nobody likes to be miserly toward their friends…
Your friend, dal…
The treasure has escalated in value by a factor of three in just 8 months….more below…
Margie Goldsmith at work...
Have you read Margie Goldsmith’s blogs and stories on Huffington Post? She has the job we all want. She’s an international travel writer and has visited well over 100 countries as she hunts down fun things to do in exotic locations worldwide.
Shortly after the publication of Forrest’s book, The Thrill of the Chase, in the fall of 2010, Margie was working her way toward Forrest and his story. When she got there she tried her darndest to squeeze some clues out of the Santa Fe legend. You’ll have to read the stories for yourself to see if you think there are clues there.
Since that time she has produced three stories that I am aware of, about the treasure. There might be good information here so read carefully…
k
One from February of 2011 is archived here.
k
The second, from August of 2011 is stashed here.
k
The last is a radio interview that was on KPAM in Portand, OR in mid-September of 2011…its here. Scroll down to the bottom of the page and turn your volume up.
k
I think its interesting how, according to Margie, the treasure has gone from a measly $1mill to $3mill in about 8 months. The truth is, only Forrest knows what its actually worth and he hardly ever uses a number…so its up to speculators to make up a number and that value seems to escalate with each retelling of the tale…but guess what…even if its only worth a crummy $600,000 I won’t be complaining…
dal…
Forrest & Dal (Note how I am trying to stand upslope so as to appear somewhat equal in height)
I’ve been asked more than a few times since I started this blog, how I met Forrest. Well, the truth of the matter is that although I was introduced to Forrest some sixteen or so years ago I didn’t actually meet him until just over a month ago….
I’m a documentary filmmaker by trade. Telling stories on film and video has been my occupation since the Marine Corps made an administrative error casting me into the real-life role of motion picture cameraman. It was a simple human error that probably saved my bacon.
After four years of shooting government film all over the Pacific I headed to college and began working for a series of TV stations, film units and production companies. I started my own video production company in the mid ’80s. I am probably one of the few jarheads who can actually say that I learned a practical trade in the Marine Corps. One that I continue practicing to this day.
In 1986 I was producing Science News stories for CNN as a freelancer. One of the stories I shot was about a team of divers who were hoping to recover a safe from the wreck of the SS Governor in some fairly treacherous water off Washington State’s coast. The story was about the technology of saturation diving these folks were utilizing to search the sunken ship. Later I followed this team filming their adventures on other underwater explorations including searching for a WWII era B-17 aircraft that disappeared in 1947 in Labrador, a Yukon Gold Rush era ship carrying a large shipment of gold that sank in Alaska and a WWII Japanese submarine carrying a shipment of gold that was torpedoed in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Still later, I joined their team and worked for several years in Uruguay locating and then diving on ancient wrecks from Spain, Britain and South America. We salvaged thousands of artifacts including beautiful bronze canons, delicate crystalware, jars, navigational instruments, coins and more until a political realignment in Uruguay made it impossible for the project to continue. The Operations Manager for this expedition was a fellow named Crayton. As a team we all lived together in a rented house in Montevideo and on days when we were not working the wrecks or pulling maintenance on our equipment we often traded stories. Crayton told wonderful stories of his Uncle who lived in Santa Fe and led a fascinating life that wowed even the most jaded team members. This was my introduction to Forrest…
Crayton in his swimsuit...I guess adventuring runs in the family.
As I am sure you’ll agree, Forrest is a fascinating character. So, from time to time I would check on what new thing Forrest was up to by Googling his name or getting an update from Crayton. Such was the case about a year ago when I heard about Forrest’s latest book and the hidden treasure chest.
It was November of 2010 when I started making my plans to go look for the treasure. My search area was likely covered in snow so I decided to wait until spring to head out. I made my first trip out in May of 2011. When I got home, treasure-less, I decided to email Forrest and tell him of my adventure. I had really enjoyed the hunt and saw places I never expected to see on the expedition. I also saw a problem looming. I knew there was a good possibility that Crayton might have mentioned my name to Forrest over the years that we had worked together. I figured that if Forrest knew I was searching and recognized my name he might assume that I was getting inside information from Crayton. I wasn’t but Forrest might not know that. Things began to feel gummy around the edges.
So I created a new email account and took on the name of Mike. This concern of course was all in my head because as Forrest has repeatedly stated “No one knows where the treasure is hidden except me.” In fact, Forrest has specifically said that his friends and family are all welcome to search for the treasure because only Forrest knows where its at.
But at the time none of this registered. So I wrote to Forrest as “Mike”. Forrest wrote back and encouraged me to look more. I made a second trip out in June and again came back treasure-less. On the way home I was already laying plans for my third trip in August. I was certain I knew where it was before I even got home and wrote Forrest telling him where I was going to look and sent along some evidence that this was the right place. He said that if I was near Santa Fe when I came back in August I should let him know and he’d buy me a cool lemonade because its hot out there. I knew that although there was the possibility he was familiar with my name, there was no chance he knew what I looked like so it would be possible for me to meet up with him and remain Mike. I was excited about the possibility of finally getting to meet the legendary Forrest after 15 years of hearing great tales about him.
Then the unexpected happened. Forrest wrote back that a TV news guy (Gadi Schwartz from KOB-TV) wanted to hang out with a hunter and would it be okay if he followed me around when I returned. Yikes!!! Does this mean Forrest thinks I’ll find it? Am I that close? Or does he suspect I am not really Mike and he’s trying to smoke me out? Or is my spot so far away that its no problem for the news guy and the rest of the known world to see my useless spot? If I say I don’t want to have Gadi along will it screw up my email relationship with Forrest?…turmoil. I hate turmoil.
There were all sorts of reasons to stay Mike and all sorts of reasons to fess-up and continue the search as Dal. I was stuck but decided to move the question to the background because I didn’t have to worry about it until I met Gadi in New Mexico.
Just before leaving on my third trip to New Mexico I wrote Gadi and we arranged to meet at a specific time near my search location. I thought about what to do with this “Mike” issue all the way down there. For 30 hours my head was consumed about “Mike vs Dal”. I was careful not to give Gadi my license plate number or even the state I was from. He did not have my cell because that would tell him both my real name and my area code. I brought along a pair of license plates from Michigan and planned to put them on my truck if I decided to meet him as Mike. This whole “Mike” thing was getting ridiculously complicated. I began to feel like I was in an episode of “Weeds”. Crap was piling on faster than I could shovel it off. I decided to wait and see what Gadi was like before I committed to Dal or Mike.
I got to my spot a little early and quickly discovered that it was not as good as it had appeared on paper and Google Earth. I had a couple of back-up spots in mind and headed out to one. The next spot looked better than the first so I decided to take Gadi there. He showed up at the appointed early hour and turned out to be a darn nice guy. We went to a cafe for a cup of coffee and I told him who I was and why I had become Mike. He thought that was a pretty good side bar to his story. He went back and forth about whether he should call me Dal or Mike in his story. I shoved the decision off on him and busied myself with looking for the treasure.
We had a great time. Gadi is a good hunter and fine hiking companion. Of course we didn’t find it. But we had a helluva time looking. As Gadi was climbing in his car to head back down to Santa Fe he decided that I should be Dal in his story. I agreed but asked that he give me time to talk to Forrest about this. I didn’t want Forrest to find out I was lying to him from watching a story on TV. I felt I should tell him myself.
I emailed Forrest and told him that I’d like to take him up on his offer of a lemonade. We agreed on a time and met at the Collected Works Bookstore in downtown Santa Fe. After we got drinks and sat down near a display table that was stacked with Forrest’s books I admitted who I really was and told him the story of why I had concealed my name. Forrest just laughed, shook his head and said it was fine if I wanted to consult with Crayton because Crayton would have no idea where it is. No one does, except Forrest.
From the bookstore Forrest invited me to his office. A few minutes later I was marveling at his vast collection of incredible artifacts. His office is like the museum of the Southwest and being there with Forrest is like being in the Smithsonian with Joseph Henry. He has stories and tales and he’s just easy to be with. The collection of all kinds of items in his office is frankly, breathtaking. I Took some photos, shot a little video of him in his lab cleaning animal bones from San Lazaro Pueblo. Tried to weasel a clue or two out of him and left grateful for the opportunity to visit.
Forrest in his lab..the artifacts here are from his San Lazaro pueblo
Since then we have emailed both during my searches and when I am at home. I’ve stopped trying to pump him for clues. Sometimes he’ll give out what sounds like a clue but upon scrutiny, is not. One of my favorites is in the Margi Goldsmith interview. ”it’s more than 300 miles southwest of Toledo”, he said.
Sounds like a clue doesn’t it? But which Toledo is he referring to? And does that rule out anything to the west of Toledo?
He’s like a magician but instead of white rabbits he can use words to create an illusion. He is a genuine wordsmith.
dal…aka Mike…
g
Stephanie sent this in. I think its a riot.
Winston Churchill is not looking for Forrest Fenn's treasure chest...
Winston said, “It is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key.” Alright, maybe he wasn’t talking about Forrest’s poem but he might as well have been. Its an apt description.
Have you ever written a riddle?
It occurred to me after an email exchange with Bob that I have never tried to write a riddle poem like Forrest’s and if I did I might learn something. Deconstruction is often a good way to learn how something was built. But you need tools to deconstruct a riddle poem and since I never wrote one, I didn’t know how to start.
Bob is out there looking for the treasure and sent along this great article on writing a riddle. Reading it, and trying the exercise gave me additional insight into how a good riddle poem is designed. And besides…it was fun!
The article is intended as a classroom aid for teachers and is made available through Read/Write/Think. Its very appropriate for those of us looking for the treasure chest….or just trying to make sense of Forrest’s poem.
Thanks Read/Write/Think…and thanks Bob….
dal…
My wife is a treasure hunter too. Every Friday and Saturday, while the weather is decent she heads out with her girlfriend. The two of them cheerfully focused on finding valuable goodies. I’m talking about garage sales, estate sales, yard sales and the like. She loves doing this and I have to admit that she often brings back something that even I am interested in. Kathy collects dolls in particular and also, just about anything else. Although much of the material she buys ends up in her booth in an antique shop, some comes home to live with us…and our home is much more interesting because of it.
True West, December 1979
A couple of weeks ago she brought back a stack of old True West magazines. True West is a magazine that celebrates the old west of cowboys, indians, horses and outlaws. The magazine got going in the 1950′s when America was riveted to black & white western melodramas on TV and pulp western novels were regularly published. This was a time when “heading west” still represented part of the American Dream.
Many of the early stories in True West were interviews with old timers who really fought indians and shot buffalo on the open range. The stack Kathy brought back is from the 1970′s. Stunning cover art and intoxicating stories that get a reader thinking about adventure.
As I pursue Forrest’s treasure chest I deem it necessary to read everything I can about the west… particularly anything about New Mexico. So, as I was thumbing through the December 1979 issue I found a story about hiding gold in New Mexico. The title of the story is Queer Caches In The Old West. It was penned by the legendary poet and pulp writer, S. Omar Barker.
It appears that Forrest is not the first to hide his gold out there. (if in fact it actually is in New Mexico rather than some bear cave in Colorado as some would have it) In fact, its nearly a tradition to hide gold if you are from New Mexico and are blessed with any gold to hide.
It seems that the early miners out there predated banks. So the only safe place to stash any gold you might have unearthed was to hide it. While some chose to squirrel away their treasure in the mattress or under the floorboards, others were cunning, even devious in selecting a hiding spot.
One common trick was to head to the town cemetery and bury the gold in an unused spot. Then place a common wooden grave marker over the spot with some made-up name and final words. No one would dig up a grave…would they?
One of my favorite hiding spots from that story was the place selected by a saloon keeper in Elizabethtown, NM. I think that’s a ghost town a little north of Eagles Nest on the Enchanted Circle Scenic Highway. His gold was not discovered until he was long gone and his saloon keeping successor decided to toss out a particularly ratty looking stuffed mountain lion from the tavern. It was awful heavy so he ripped it open and walla…the previous barkeep’s gold.
Which reminds me, has anyone looked closely at that record stuffed Brown trout at Cooper’s El Vado Ranch near Tierra Amarilla? It looks kinda lumpy to me…
dal…..
Forrest in his office reading email...
We’d all like to be able to read some of the email Forrest must get every day. I know I’d like to see where everyone is looking and maybe see if Forrest gives them any additional hints.
Forrest graciously agreed to share some of his voluminous email with this blog.
Some of these notes are very sincere. Others are intended to give him a laugh. A few are quite clever while trying to weasel additional clues. Some are just plainly stupefying.
Comments in black are my own, Forrest simply passed on the email clipping and when appropriate, his response. I have edited some for the sake of clarity and to eliminate any identifying elements.
Some people just need to have their noses rubbed in the clues before they can see them. There was a fellow who was certain he had come up with the correct location for the hidden treasure in the cemetery where Forrest’s parents are buried in Texas. He wrote:
I suspect the treasure is buried behind their gravestone. I can furnish you with the reasoning behind this conclusion. I call it common decency, to ask before I dig.
To which Forrest quickly replied:
The treasure is hidden north of Santa Fe. Texas is south. Please don’t dig up my parent’s graves. f
Some people are certain they have it all figured out and you have to wonder if they are serious…and for that matter, if they ARE serious, what they read in the poem that you missed.
Okay I know the canyon is in Colorado. The treasure box is right underneath a brown bear cave. They protect the gold in the summer so the gold can only be discovered in the winter while the brown bears are hibernating. Heavy loads is the pretty sparkling snow and water is high from the snow. Warm water halts because its down in the canyon where the water gets colder not warm. No paddle up your creek and there is only one creek in Colorado that flows uphill. Hmmm… I’m still thinking but it’s just right there not far. Hmmm????
Do bears live in caves?
Sometimes Forrest does give out additional clues. Here is one we all now know:
The chest is not in Eastern Saskatchewan. Now you owe me. f
That should save us all some time and energy. Here is someone who found a second message in addition to the challenge of finding the hidden chest:
Yesterday I purchased your book and finished it about three hours ago. I paused for a moment and no longer thought about the challenge, but rather the tone in which you wrote your book. Towards the beginning you seem very upbeat and have many things to say but then you taper off into heartfelt thoughts and feelings that really shaped and molded you into the man you are. I appreciated the openness you had in your book. As you pointed out you had a renewed sense of the meaning of life, and for me the meaning was that you finally realized, at age 79, that you were not invincible after all and you wish to experience more things before you go and to never be forgotten. Well, Mr. Fenn, I think you have accomplished that.
I am happily going to accept the challenge, and if one day I figure it out and find your treasure, I will keep your place a secret and leave some treasure of my own. It will be a thrill to be in your chase.
Some try humor as they attempt to unhook a clue or two:
Forrest. I am very fascinated with your treasure hunt poem. I read it over and over but, I haven’t bought the book because I don’t have enough money and my car is broke down. I believe that Home of Brown is the Home of Yogi Bear at the Yellowstone National Park is where the treasure is hidden. The first line is a big hint. You have gone in there alone, so you went into the Brown Bear Cave. Found the Blaze? It’s Yogi!!! I’m not done but, I know I am very close to finding the treasure.But wait!! What’s the deal with this bear cave theme that keeps coming up? What did I miss?
Maybe I should be glad I don’t live near Forrest. He shared this with me… his response to a phone call:
A “neighbor.” whom I do not know called on the phone yesterday and she was maddern hell. She said some guys were digging up her yard because they said I had buried a treasure there. She wanted to know what was going on. I said that I don’t know anything about it but she could buy my book, The Thrill of the Chase and she might give it to them so they would go dig someplace else. She hung up on me. I listened for shots but didn’t hear any. I think I’ll have someone black out my windows. f
There was a fellow whose name I have changed, who contacted Forrest about doing a documentary. Forrest wrote:
Tim, tell me something about yourself and your project. One doc has already aired and another in December. f
To which Tim replied:
Mr. Fenn, Thank you for responding. Our project focuses on the archetypal hero’s journey, and what prompts a man to take that journey, and why taking that journey is so important for each of us. We feel that you are a like-minded individual who understands that it is this mythic journey we must all take which helps to define us, and give our daily lives meaning. Best regards,Forrest’s reply:
Tim, I’m kinda worn out with docs. If you still want to do it after a few months lets talk again. Thanks for asking. fSome people see hidden messages in the stories from the book:
I read again the story “Seventeen Dollars a Square Inch”. I remember that you also mentioned Eric Sloane and numbers in your book. The numbers I see in this story could be coordinates. Cundiyo is at 35 57′ 35″N 105 53′ 51″ W (or 35.95972 N, 105.8975 W Jemez is also at 35 N + Taos is at 36 N + So, I won’t be going north of 36 degrees.Some folks stay in communication with Forrest while they are out searching. This can lead to additional short stories about Forrest’s past. This is his response to someone tromping around in his summer childhood home in West Yellowstone:
You might drive by The Dude Motel on Boundary Street. I built it in 1962 with my brother and brother-in-law. Ronald Reagan stayed with us when he was governor of California. He lost his key late at night when no one was around and couldn’t get in his room so he broke the bathroom window and climbed in. f
Sometimees readers respond in ways that can touch:
Mr. Forest Fenn, Thank you so much for sharing your memories and feelings. Yesterday after watching It’s a Mad, Mad, World with my husband and son, the news came on and there was a segment about the treasure you hid. I must admit the thrill of the chase had me hooked .. but for all the wrong reasons at first. I got busy with my plan to head to Santa Fe to pick up my signed copy and get started. After a long day, a wonderful day driving with my mom, dad, husband, and son we headed back to my home. I read your book late at night and through the smiles and the tears I learned so much, and even a bit about how to face one of my biggest fears. I am so afraid to sift through the memories of fishing trips, playing in sprinklers, and doing all those wonderful things as a youngster because although they were happy times - my heart aches when I relive them. Your book walked me through that and I am so grateful . I know that I will also be a better person because of your writings and though I think I forgive sinners and smile at the homely – I will do it with much more intent! Thank you again ..I was so pleasantly surprised by the wealth gained within those pages… but, I know myself – the thrill of the chase is something I have in me – and by God I think I know where it is at without looking, but I guess most people feel that way. Well it’s been a pleasure reading your book – it’s almost like I know you. May God continue to bless you …. happy trails to you….
Forrest’s reply:
Sharon, words like yours make it all worth while for me. f
Some folks send photos while digging for more clues.
This is where I think it is….and this is how I think you know if it’s been messed with. If these are disturbed, then you know someone was there. Any thoughts?
To which Forrest responded:
Could a 79 year old man move those logs to put a heavy bronze box under them? No one ever called me Clark Kent to my face but some people think I’m from another planet.
Sounds like this guy is asking for a clue to me:
Hello Forrest,
If it is not considered a clue, I would like to ask you for clarification on something about the “Treasure Hunt”. My son and I seem to have a difference of opinion on weather the chest is “Hidden” or “Buried”. If it is not giving away anything, can you enlighten us on this matter, before he runs out to buy a shovel. Thank you!
And this guy:
Just need to ask cause I dont want to go to the wrong mountains. Is it in the jemez?
Some have concerns about their search location:
I saw some pictures online of that area and I think there are rattlesnakes. The Indiana Jones I’m married to doesn’t like the idea of hooking up with one.
Others compose a little poetry of their own:
I think I found your sweet spot & thought “I should drop a line,” To see if my trail is hot… (except for that part with the slime) I’m from central Texas, so I really felt quite at home And into that wood I did go, Went over it with a comb. Thinking it’s not underground – So when you say “water high” Unless it’s already found, Do you mean chest, hip, or thigh? Thanks for the adventure!!Finally this from a tired searcher who had been out for awhile
Inch by holy inch I am finding places it cannot be… I just hope that the moon is not north of Santa Fe…This just in…
I heard from a friend of Forrest’s that he received over 700 emails after that story aired on KOB-TV. The amazing part is that he answered every single one of them. That’s dedication to your fans!!!!
dal…
Sharing the poem with your friends can lead to a lot of questions. One I hear often is “Why is Brown capitalized?”. The short answer is. “Because Forrest wants it capitalized.” Its not a mistake. Its not an oversight. Of these things I am certain. Forrest told me that he wrote that poem years before he actually hid his treasure. He crafted the words over and over again. They are perfect.
Given this, why does Brown need to be capitalized? A proper name…as in, “the Brown family” would certainly be capitalized. There are other instances of capitalization as well. For instance, “Brown salamander”. In this case Brown is not the color of the salamander but rather a common English name for a specific type of salamander. Those who study salamanders or who write about them, generally capitalize the first descriptor. There are other instances where Brown, as a specific descriptor, gets capitalized. I don’t believe Forrest is suggesting that his chest is hidden near the home of Brown salamanders. But I do believe “Brown” is a descriptor and probably has nothing to do with the color “brown”. I’ll leave it to you to research other possibilities on Wikipedia or Google. Use your imagination. Don’t be limited by what you already know. Learn something as you investigate. Forrest wants us to do that. Perhaps because his dad was a school principal….and for goodness sake read his memoir where there are lots of hints to ideas conveyed in the poem.
FORREST FENN’S POEM
The toughest part is finding a place to begin...
As I have gone alone in there
And with my treasures bold,
I can keep my secret where,
And hint of riches new and old.
Begin it where warm waters halt
And take it in the canyon down,
Not far, but too far to walk.
Put in below the home of Brown.
From there it’s no place for the meek,
The end is ever drawing nigh;
There’ll be no paddle up your creek,
Just heavy loads and water high.
If you’ve been wise and found the blaze,
Look quickly down, your quest to cease,
But tarry scant with marvel gaze,
Just take the chest and go in peace.
So why is it that I must go
And leave my trove for all to seek?
The answers I already know,
I’ve done it tired and now I’m weak.
So hear me all and listen good,
Your effort will be worth the cold.
If you are brave and in the wood
I give you title to the gold.
Lets go to the second verse of the poem and look at the line “Begin it where warm waters halt”. What could that mean? Just some possibilities to get you thinking:
Where a hot spring enters a cooler mountain stream
The last house with a hot water heater along a mountain stream
Behind some sort of barrier that stops warm water from going further.
I think there are other possibilities that you will find if you read Forrest’s memoir.
But its an important idea to get right because its where you begin.
Okay, what about a blaze? A blaze is a fire. Its also a trail marker. Sometimes its a trail itself. The Santa Fe Trail could be called a blaze. The person who first marked it out was a trailblazer who blazed the Santa Fe Trail. There are more contemporary meanings as well. Aren’t there several sports teams called the Trail Blazers. One is in Portland. Maybe the treasure is hidden there. (I would be very surprised).
That last verse…what does “in the wood” mean? To me, as a kid that grew up in Michigan “in the wood” means “in the woods”. So I would expect there to be trees around. Others have suggested to me that it means something broader. It means “in the wild”. So it could be in anyplace outside of a human population center. Someone else suggested it could mean in a wooden box. That too could be possible.
Now let me show you a set of applications that I used to find an area. I already thoroughly searched this area and all around it. I didn’t find a thing. But if you think this is the spot…go for it. If you find it there please tell me so I can cry myself to sleep. This was my first search area. My good friend Tom and I headed out to New Mexico in May of 2011. We knew precisely where we were headed because we had been researching and planning most of the winter.
The gorge of the Rio Grande...very intimidating
Begin it where warm waters halt
This is the key line of the poem. If you can find this place everything else will fall into place. I thought we had found it. To me this was the place where the glorious Rio Grande river begins its plunge into the gorge at about the New Mexico/Colorado border. The Rio Grande is the river in New Mexico. All others pale in comparison. If you talk river in NM you have to talk Rio Grande and the “gorge” is the place where that river really takes on it’s New Mexico flavor. I read in an essay written by Tony Hillerman (I think) that up to the gorge, the Rio Grande thru the San Juan Valley in Colorado is shallow and warm. But as it starts its plunge into the Wild Rivers area and the start of the gorge the river becomes cold. Cold enough to sustain a wonderful trout fishery. So this became my starting point…the place where warm water halts.
And take it in the canyon down,
This is obviously the gorge itself. An 800ft deep canyon and wild as wild can be.
Not far, but too far to walk.
This means I travel down the canyon some distance that I (or Forrest) would not want to walk. Hopefully I can drive it.
Put in below the home of Brown.
To me the home of Brown had to be the home of Brown trout. About 12 miles down that gorge is where the Red River joins the Rio Grande and the Red River is a heralded Brown trout fishing stream. 12 miles is way farther than I would walk. So I would “put in” where the Red River ends at the Rio, which is below the home of Brown trout.
From there it’s no place for the meek,
The end is ever drawing nigh;
There’ll be no paddle up your creek,
Just heavy loads and water high.
Access to this point is via one of several trails that plummet 800 feet into the gorge. The gorge itself is supposed to be home to snakes and polecats and all kinds of critters one would rather not put one’s finger in the mouth of. Its a steep trail… not for the meek. Once down there, the river is a torrent. I have heard more than a few stories about fishers who lost their footing in that gorge and were found drowned miles downstream. Experienced paddlers sometimes go down this ranting course of river but they cannot go up it…no paddle up your creek. Additionally, giant boulders broken off from the canyon rim above have landed in the cascade and over millennia been sculpted to polished beauty. These giant beauties dot the river all thru the gorge…heavy loads.
My friend Tom on the rim of the gorge in May of 2011...
If you’ve been wise and found the blaze,
Look quickly down, your quest to cease.
This is the part of the search I could not do from the safety of my laptop. I had to go down into that gorge and look for a blaze. Tom and I descended. We scanned every tree and rock for miles up and down that gorge along both the Red and the Rio looking for a blaze…a mark..on a rock or tree or a signpost. After 3 days of searching….NADA…Nothing…no blaze.
So this is where my search area fell apart. This is where I finally had to admit that I needed to move on to my next potential location.
and on it goes…
Please be aware that I am not suggesting that anything I say here will lead you to a chest full of gold. I am fully aware that I know very little about where Forrest could have hidden his treasure and further, my ideas are only as good as everyone else’s. I only wrote this blog because I want others to begin considering what that poem might mean and where the treasure could be. Someone will find it. Your ideas are just as valid as anyone elses. Go for it…and have lots of fun along the way…
I had a gas in that gorge. It was nearly my ruination getting back up and out but it was a great time and I saw so much that is different from where I live. I met new folks. I saw eagles and osprey and deer. I never saw a single beer can down on that river. It was BEAUTIFUL!
dal….
On Monday and Tuesday KOB-TV ran a two part news story on Forrest and the treasure hunt. Gadi Schwartz was the reporter and he has put together a very nice resource page for treasure hunters HERE.
For some reason they seem to have taken down part one of the story. So I’ve posted the videos on my website. The links are below:
Part one is a great interview with Forrest..pay close attention..you may learn something important.
Part two is Gadi and a crusty, old seasoned treasure hunter out looking for the gold.
CAUTION: HERE BE IDEAS THAT NEVER WORKED-
The usual response I get from folks when I talk about Forrest’s hidden treasure chest and show them his poem is, “What the heck does that poem mean?”
This is usually followed by “I have no idea where to start. Where does warm water halt?“
Then, when I tell them that Forrest has said that it is hidden in the mountains North of Santa Fe, they sort of implode. “That includes Canada,” they say. I agree and add that it also includes the Alps and even the Urals.
This post is intended to help new folks get a handle on how to start thinking about where to look…and just as important..where not to look. Just remember these are my own stupid ideas and none of them have worked for me…yet!
Forrest says that there are nine clues in his poem. I first read it in November of 2010. The same with his memoir “The Thrill of the Chase”. I worked all that winter trying to weave the hints from the poem and the information in the book together into a place where his treasure was hidden.
First I had to make some assumptions about the kind of place where Forrest would hide his treasure. Some of these assumptions are based on information from his book. Others are my own ideas based on who I think Forrest is. Remember, these are just assumptions. Not fact. Nothing I know for certain. Just my own attempt to condense what I have learned about Forrest into information I can use to find the treasure.
Here were my assumptions at the time about where the treasure is hidden:
1. Special place to Forrest
2. Trout related…probably a trout stream or near a trout stream
3. Beautiful place
4. In the mountains North of Santa Fe
5. In a place where it will stay for a thousand years if no one finds it
6. Not on private or tribal land
A great trout stream in the mountains...
Okay, so I am looking for an attractive trout stream. I know it needs to be special to Forrest but there is no way I can gauge what “special to Forrest” really means because I don’t know how he thinks. But I believe that there is a more or less universal standard for beautiful and Forrest was a gallery owner and dealt with images of the west. His definition would probably not be too terribly far from my own. I don’t think he hid his treasure in a dump or an industrial area or off the side of the freeway. I believe its near a stream… a trout stream, and a pretty one.
It also needs to be In the mountains. This is one of my first conundrums because what exactly determines if something is “in the mountains”? To me, all of northern New Mexico is in the mountains. But that does not mean Forrest believes the same. He could mean just the places higher than 8,000 feet. Because I don’t know what precise definition he uses I must accept the widest definition. In my home in western Washington State that would mean everything above about 4,000 feet. In New Mexico, if I apply the same definition, it would mean the entire width of the state above Santa Fe…even Farmington.
In all of North America this could mean anywhere in the Cascades, Rockies, Coast Range, Appalachians, Adirondaks and so forth. But from his book, Thrill of the Chase, I feel I can also eliminate places he doesn’t mention. Like the Adirondaks for instance. In fact, when I read the book there were only a few places that are North of Santa Fe where most of the stories take place.
Even though folks tend to “give-up” when they read that Forrest hid his treasure “somewhere in the mountains North of Santa Fe”, I don’t think its that intimidating. Others feel that such an area is immense…too large to search…and it is. But I think I’m right when I say that you need to read his memoir and when you do you will see that there is no mention of Vancouver, BC or Portland, ME or Geneva, Switzerland. In my opinion you can rule those places out…and many more.
My last assumption is that its in a place where it isn’t likely to be disturbed for awhile. So not a likely place for a tractor to be plowing or the gas company to be laying pipe or the highway department to build a bridge.
Now I have an image of the place I am looking for. Its a pretty trout stream in a relatively remote location on public land….I hope…
Next, I can start applying the hints in the poem and see where they lead…
Oh…by the way..take everything I say with a grain of salt because even though I’ve looked in more than a dozen different places, I have not found it. I don’t think I’m any kind of an expert about finding this treasure. I’m just hoping to give folks who are confused about how to start, a bit of a push.
Continued in Part Two.
dal…..
email me at: dal@lummifilm.com
Firehole River in Yellowstone National Park
I am sitting in one of Forrest’s bathing holes from when he was a kid in West Yellowstone. The Fenn family had no plumbing in their cabin. The best way to get a hot bath was to head to one of the places out here where steaming vents drain into a cold river. This one is on the Firehole River inside the park, about 20 miles from his family’s cabin. In his blog he writes that this was his secret bathing spot.
Its a noisy place with the hot springs gushing steam and boiling water out of a deep blue hole in the bank and the turbulent rush of water in the river. The Firehole is unusually high for early August.
I am sitting here for a few reasons; I am tired after ten days of tromping around in the sticks, if I position myself just right I can warm my butt and cool my heels at the same time, its pretty here…and quiet, I think that Forrest’s treasure might be hidden nearby, and I feel that if I sit here long enough maybe some of how Forrest thinks will be absorbed by my brain.
I close my eyes and feel the swirling warm water press against my sore back. I could doze off except that it takes some effort not to be pushed downstream by the charging river. My bath is a mixture of relaxation and tension. For a moment I drift away into 1942 and am watching trout rise in the water ahead of me. I see Forrest riding his bike toward the river. He is 12 years old. Skippy is with him. The current stirs me from my reverie.
Its evening and the river is reflecting the deep blue of the Wyoming sky and the brilliant orange of a California sunset. The trout are actually rising. The vent is steaming. It feels prehistoric. I close my eyes and begin to drift again into 1942.
Forrest's favorite bathing spot when he was 12 years old
I sense that someone is staring at me. My eyes blink open and I see an attractive young woman standing on the bank. She is wearing a green ball cap that has the Sundance logo on it, a khaki fly-fishing vest with about six zippered pockets over a forest green t-shirt that might be made of silk, expensive khaki hiking shorts with lots of velcro sealed pockets, khaki colored mountaineering boots and knee socks that match her t-shirt and ball cap, and oddly, a bright pink daypack. Her clothes don’t look like they have ever seen sweat. Her hair is tied back in a fluffy ponytail sticking out of her cap that looks like it would probably bounce a lot when she walks. Other than the pack she looks like she just stepped out of an REI catalog. With the pack she looks like she just stepped out of a Hannah Montana movie. I figure her wardrobe set her back at least $750…plus underwear. The boots alone are probably $300. They look like high end La Sportiva boots from Italy. I saw a pair in a window in Jackson once. I didn’t buy them. I am not a mountaineer.
She is standing about five feet from me. Even in the early evening light I can see that her nails are pink and match her daypack.
We stare at one another for a second. When she realizes my eyes are open she yells at me so she can be heard over the rush of water.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking a Bath”, I yell back.
“Is it nice?”
“Well…yes its refreshing. The heat from the spring against my back and the cooler water on my feet. I feel like a king. Its a natural spa.”
She didn’t look like the type to take a bath in a wild, trout ridden stream. She looked like she might be more at home shopping in LaJolla or Paris. She didn’t say anything back right away. Maybe she was thinking.
“Why are you wearing your clothes?”
“I’m doing my laundry at the same time.” In fact I’d been wearing the same clothes for ten days but I figured that was too much information. I still had my jeans and t-shirt and boots on. We were getting clean together. My wallet was on the bank next to my ice axe, near her feet. I’m not the kind of guy that feels the need to be naked very often.
Again she was quiet. I adjusted my position a little because the current had changed slightly and I wanted more hot water against my back. It felt really, really good.
“Nice boots” I said, “Where did you get them?”
“Sedona”
Bingo..I thought.
“Is it legal to be in the river?” She asked.
I never considered the legal question. My park. No sign. “I don’t see why not. This is a National Park. They have signs all over the darn place telling you what you can’t do. None here.”
She thought. I waited.
“I don’t think I’d bathe with all my clothes on.” She yelled.
“Of course not.” I said.
I waited. She thought.
“I think I should come back later when there isn’t anyone around.” She said just before she turned to go back up the trail, probably to her leased, rose Lexus.
“What time?” I yelled after her, but I don’t think she heard me. She kept walking away. Her bouncy ponytail sashaying over her bright pink daypack.
dal…
email me at: dal@lummifilm.com
If you’ve read Forrest’s “Thrill of the Chase” you probably remember the story about him agreeing to put the ashes of his friend and neighbor Olga on Taos Mountain in return for being granted her property at its appraised value. You might also remember that at the last minute Forrest decided while flying over the mountain with her ashes that the mountaintop was too barren and that Olga’s ashes would be much more comfortable down on the side where there are trees and squirrels and chipmunks.
Taos Mountain...or whatever its called
That story left a mark with me as I read it in late 2010 and I decided that one of the places I needed to look for his chest was on the side of Taos mountain. But there were two problems associated with the side of Taos mountain.
First, and most important, there is no Taos Mountain. This I found particularly annoying. There are the Taos Mountain(s)…A range that includes several high peaks, but no Taos Peak or singular such named mountain on any of my maps. Upon further investigation I read that there once was a mountain peak labeled as Taos. It was the highest peak in the Taos Mountains. But it was renamed about 60 years ago. Its now officially named Wheeler Peak.
How sad for Taos Mountain. Once bearer of a proud regional moniker linked to a spectacular native culture and dominant alpine geography…now relegated to promoting a fair-thee-well, minor military botanist who’s exploits can only be recited by those who have climbed to the 13,161 foot summit of Wheeler Peak and read the memorial plaque or those who have looked him up in Wikipedia.
I decided that Forrest and many other locals often referred to Wheeler Peak as Taos Mountain even though all the maps I found used the new appelation rather than the older, more appropriate and dignified, Taos Mountain. I like to think that the mountain appreciated the informal protest against willy-nilly name changing. It was probably orchestrated by a national department of official place namers in Washington, DC who had never been out here but had a mandate from some blow-hard congressman to name something important after Wheeler.
Second, there is no way the clues in the poem, as I understand them, can get me to the side of Wheeler Peak. To begin, there is no canyon which you can follow down to get to Wheeler Peak. Since its the highest peak around it isn’t “down” from anything..except sky.
None-the-less I felt compelled to go to the side of Wheeler Peak and find where the squirrels and chipmunks play and look for Forrest’s chest. Problem was, I only had five days off. and it takes 24hrs of pushing the gas pedal to get there. 24 hours back again. I cannot drive for 24 hours straight. But I can drive for 12 hours straight, take a nap and then drive the other 12.
By my calculations I could drive on days 1&2, hike on days 2&3 and drive back on days 4&5. Maybe end up with about 44lbs of treasure in the back of my truck. Never mind that this could not be the place. Some devious power had taken control of my mind and prevented me from thinking logically about this whole location.
The thing about this that made it sound easy was that I could drive all the way up to 9,000 feet on a Forest Service road and then have to hike up only about 3,000 feet to the side of the mountain over about 7 or 8 miles. There was a particular trail I was interested in that follows a stream up most of the way and then I could cut over to two lakes stocked with trout that I wanted to admire. Stay the night near one of the lakes and then come back down.
As if this idea wasn’t goofy enough I also had to ignore the question of whether Forrest, at 79, would have hiked up this trail with something like a 45lb rock in his backpack. Earlier in my research I had decided to see what a load like Forrest’s chest felt like. I found a pretty good sized rectangular boulder that weighed less…about 40lbs. It was huge and didn’t fit in my pack so l trussed it all up with some rope and wore it like a pack. 40lbs is a lot of weight and something shaped like a treasure chest does not sit against your back very well. Its fairly tortuous for us modern hikers. In the good old days those lean and extra fit explorers would have thought nothing of carrying two 50lb rocks, or a boat or a horse up that trail. I, on the other hand, am not one of those tough, grizzled mountain men of the past. That 40lb rock was really uncomfortable. I was not about to carry it uphill for 7-8 miles and I didn’t think Forrest would either.
In spite of all the reasons why it was senseless to look on the side of Wheeler Peak, I went.
Mount Wheeler area
Once again, I saw beautiful country completely unlike the wet rainforestesque woodlands of my home state. Also unlike the oxygen rich air that I am used too at near sea level. At 12,000 feet the O2 level in the air is considerably less. It affects your ability to work. It makes you breathe harder. It makes you tired quicker. I think it also made me dumber.
And did I mention the temperature swing? The temperature when I started was about 60F. It warmed up to nearly 78F. Pretty nice walking weather. As I ambled next to my stream the spruce and pine forest heated up and smelled sweet like fresh sawn wood as the resin warmend under the bark of tens of thousands of trees. I love that smell.
I brought plenty of water and a jacket. I did not think that I would need a sleeping bag. Instead, in the name of “lightweight” I brought a nylon thermal blanket and a sheet of plastic. Dumb! By 11pm it was 40F and it continued dropping until 4am when my GPS told me it was 31F.
Shivering keeps me awake. Too dark to explore. So I watched the night sky, and what a sky it was. There are no lights to stiffle the view of stars out there. No glare to reduce your eyeful of the heavens. I have never seen so many night objects in the starry, starry sky as I saw that night next to Wheeler Peak. I saw hundreds of falling stars whiz toward earth. I saw constellations I didn’t remember the names of and old friends like Cassiopea and both dippers. I made up a few constellations of my own, like Elephant Jumping Hurdles and Monkey Wearing a Dress. I even watched a satellite cut lazily across the sky. It was simply beautiful…and humbling…and fun.
As soon as light began to flood over the mountain I started exploring again. I was somewhat tired and slow from the constant teeth chattering and lack of sleep. By Noon I was through exploring and headed back down the trail. Of course I found nothing…At 6pm I was back in the truck and headed home. At 7PM I was close to dead so I pulled over for a nap. When I woke-up it was 2am and I still had 23hrs of driving to get home.
I promised myself on the drive back that next time my search areas would have to fit the directions in the poem…at least a little bit….
dal…
email me at: dal@lummifilm.com
What is This Blog About? This blog is for and about those adventurous individuals searching for Forrest Fenn’s hidden treasure. I am hoping we can share our adventures and ideas because, as Forrest has pointed out, the thrill is in the chase (not in the capture). But first a little background for those who are not yet familiar with Forrest’s hidden treasure.
This is the treasure chest Forrest has hidden...find it and its yours
Who is Forrest Fenn? In a nutshell, Forrest Fenn lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico where he started an art gallery, raised a family, collects artifacts, writes books and made a fortune. He has hidden aproximately a million dollars of his fortune in gold and gems in an old world, bronze chest pictured to the left (he paid $20K for the chest alone). The whole shebang is said to weigh about 44lbs and much of the gold is collector’s gold, meaning that its worth much more than the face value of gold alone because of its historical importance. For instance, an ancient Aztec golden amulet is worth much more than the current value of its weight in gold because it is unique, unusual, sought after, special, etc.
That’s crazy! Maybe…Forrest is not a traditional thinker tied to conventional ways of getting things done. If he were, his life would be dull, commonplace, mundane, boring. But his life has been anything but humdrum. He has made his fortune and his reputation by thinking, creating and trading well beyond the bell curve. The hidden treasure is another way for Forrest to enjoy life. In my humble opinion he looks forward to capable individuals out there trying to out-think him and locate his treasure. Its a contest for him. Forrest versus the rest of the world and the winner gets to keep a million dollars. To meet Forrest is to stand in the presence of a very shrewd, competent and competitive fellow. Someone will most certainly find his treasure chest…why not you?…or preferably me?
Who can go after his treasure? Anyone and everyone is invited to go out and look for Forrest’s treasure chest. Even his family because no one knows where its hidden except him. When you find it, Forrest says that “its yours to keep”. How’s that for a “shovel ready” program that will put folks back to work?
Where do I start looking? There are three or possibly four essential items that will help you find where the treasure chest is hidden. Forrest wrote a poem which contains hints and clues. He has published the poem on his website and it has appeared in a number of news stories about the hidden treasure. You can find his poem at the bottom of this page. Forrest also wrote a memoir, The Thrill of the Chase, which is a beautiful hard cover book with plenty of pictures and lots of possible clues to where the treasure chest is hidden. It’s available for $35 only through Collected Works Bookstore in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Finally, so far, we have been able to get information from Forrest himself via email with many who have been searching and taken the time to write him. I also hope this blog will become a source of insight and ideas from others who have already looked and are willing to share their experiences here.
This is Forrest's hard cover memoir...You'll need this...
Caution! There are plenty of speculators, naysayers and misinformed individuals out there including reporters and journalists who have added inaccuracy and conjecture to the trove of hints and clues floating around out in the ether. This is inevitible. As the story is passed from person to person it begins to grow and be embellished and before you know it the facts are hard to find. In truth, what Forrest has said over and over is that only the poem and what he has written in the book contain honest hints and clues that will lead to the treasure…ignore the words that others have put in his mouth. I learned this the hard way.
More caution! Forrest himself is a master of the double entendre. He chooses his words very deliberately. More than once I have run off suffering from the belief that I had brilliant new information about where the gold is hidden… In fact, I did not pay close enough attention to the precision of his words. He specializes in letting you believe something he never said. (I told you he is clever).
Another place to look for clues One other source of reliable information is Forrest’s blog which is on his Old Sante Fe Trading Company website. He occasionally writes about the hidden treasure and in his writings you might just find the puzzle piece you were looking for that will lead you to the treasure. Anyone interested in the treasure should read his website from front to back. Not only will it give you a pretty good picture of just who Forrest is and why he is legend but his real-life stories are entertaining and witty.
Forrest Fenn in Santa Fe
IF YOU KNOW SO MUCH MR. SMARTYPANTS… “Dal, why don’t you go out and find that treasure chest yourself?”. Believe me, I’ve tried. I have made three trips (as of August 2011) from my home in Washington State to the Southwest to look for this hidden treasure. I am planning another this fall. Each time I started out confident that I knew exactly where it was hidden…excited that I would soon be nervously opening a bronze chest chock full of gold coins, gold nuggets, gold figurines, gold bracelets and jewels, so spectacularly heavy that I could barely carry it back to my truck. On the other hand, each time I have come back empty handed, but not empty spirited. I have absolutely wonderful treks that are crammed with little adventures. I have walked marvelous American landscapes. I have slept on the high desert mesa and in river canyons under juniper and pinyon. I have hiked incredible stretches of crystal clear trout streams guarded by tall pine and spruce. I have ambled across alpine parks delicious with spring wildflowers and soaked in natural hot springs to sooth my tired feet. I have been within a few dozen yards of antelope, big horn sheep, elk, mule deer and bear. I have visited pueblos, plazas, canyons, hilltops and forests. I have driven thousands of dusty miles through ochre stained, haltingly beautiful, volcanic topography. I have smelled the desert sage and tasted frito pie. I have been in some of the loveliest country a person can picture. Its been a wonderful experience and I am grateful that Forrest tempted me…dared me… to go out and find his treasure…The Thrill of the Chase.
Now you need to get looking too….
Here is Forrest’s poem with nine clues to a million dollar treasure
dal….
email me at: dal@lummifilm.com
