Fishing for Trout & Treasure in Northern New Mexico

by Dr. Jon Solberg

Buried Treasure

Hidden treasure: these two words had nearly driven us mad, and yet somehow, we strutted coolly and confidently into Santa Fe’s Nedra Matteucci art gallery to fictitiously pose as young professionals looking to buy a $100,000 painting. Really, we were searching for clues to a multi-million-dollar treasure, but after some nonchalant browsing, we were headed off by associate director John Smith, the gray haired and spectacled curator who mysteriously saw right through our little masquerade. 

“Well Sir, not exactly. We are interested in art, but we’re more interested in treasure.”  Honesty’s always the best policy, right?

 “That treasure business has brought us nothing but trouble! It’s nonsense; pure nonsense!  I’ve known Forest Fenn for many years and that man would never give anything away to anyone, especially for free!” He shook his crooked finger wildly in the air as his glasses shook partly off his face and a dozen of his saliva particles came sailing through the air.

 Mr. Smith’s tone and body posture were justified, and he explained that we weren’t the first to scour the gallery for overlooked clues and “X marks the spot.” Others had displayed more bizarre antics and the police had recently been involved with some dubious characters who’d been snooping behind expensive paintings and trying to bribe gallery employees to extract clues. Our excitement dwindled and we suddenly felt ashamed for being involved with the whole fiasco.

 When the conversation came back round to art, Mr. Smith’s true passion shone through and he advised us in a rather fatherly manner: “being a millionaire isn’t a prerequisite to collecting fine ‘original’ art. You should consider browsing local artists, ones whose lack of notoriety makes for more affordable pricing. Then, find a painting you can’t finish looking at and buy it. At least if no one else likes it and it never appreciates, you’ll always appreciate it yourself.” (Perhaps a million dollars worth of free advice?)

 With that, we received a handshake and a business card and left the gallery no richer but wiser for the effort. As we returned to our Jeeps, we chuckled at our misfortune and Jake noted how showing up early had helped us nab prime parking spots which had, in the past hour, become hot commodities and possibly the closest thing to treasure we were likely to find. 

Canyon of the Crescent Moon

The emotional highs and lows of treasure hunting are important stepping-stones on the journey to manhood, but alas, not much buried treasure still exists. True, shipwrecks are explored by submarine sporting millionaires and an occasional archaeologist makes headlines from an all but off-limits war zone, but the common treasure-seeking man has been reduced to a Prius driving geocacher in search of trinkets. Fortunately for those of us without a private submarine or the desire to comb the beach with a metal detector, there is still Forest Fenn’s treasure.

Forest Fenn is a retired art dealer and artifact collector who lives in Sante Fe, NM. His remarkable and entertaining life story can be read in his memoir, entitled The Thrill of the Chase (ISBN 978-0-9670917-9-5), available at www.collectedworksbookstore.com. The book is smattered with colloquialism and wit, including anecdotes from his youth spent fly-fishing in Yellowstone, his 327 combat flight missions in Vietnam, and his battle with cancer that resulted in a doctor virtually assuring him a speedy death. 

For a man who had by no stretch of the imagination “been around the block,” dying of cancer was unacceptable and depressing. As he reflected on “the thrill of the chase” he’d experienced while collecting artifacts, he thought to himself: “why not let others experience this joy too?” And so, into a 12thcentury Romanesque bronze box he placed his most precious stones, pre-Columbian carvings, and more than twenty troy pounds of gold. “I knew exactly where to hide the chest so it would be difficult but not impossible to find. It’s in the mountains somewhere north of Santa Fe.” Fenn’s memoir then boldly taunts the reader in a cryptic, poetic style familiar to those who followed Indiana Jones “Across the desert and through the mountains to the Canyon of the Crescent Moon.”

 Fenn writes:

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.

It is Fenn’s poem, then, that serves as map to the treasure. Anyone who can correctly identify 1) the location where warm water halts, 2) the home of Brown, and 3) the blaze, should be able to find and claim title to the gold. Perhaps, along the route, the other features will become obvious: you must descend a canyon, it may be cold, it may be scary, and it may be wet. Since we’d found no additional clues at the art gallery, we topped off the gas tanks and headed into the mountains north of Santa Fe to find Forest’s treasure.

Where warm waters halt

The evening light was sifting down over the canyon walls when we arrived in the Rio Grande Gorge, near Taos, NM. Art students were poised on John Dunn Bridge and their brushes were working swiftly in brick-reds and oranges to capture the canyon wall’s oxidized iron hue before it faded to gray. Here, the Rio Grande’s flowing water has worked the walls for millennia, exposing ancient basalt flows and fracture zones that bring deep and warm water straight to the surface. Some of the hot springs near John Dunn Bridge can produce water in excess of 100 degrees and Indian folklore speaks of it curing numerous ailments: likely an enticing prospect to an artifact collector dying of cancer. A nearby gravel pit, formerly home to a hydraulic placer gold mine (heavy loads?) received its water by pipeline from high up on the mesa (water high?), and the nearby Rio Hondo is a sure bet to catch trout (Brown trout!) and photograph petroglyphs (the blaze?).

 Our excitement soared and we spent the evening and early twilight hours walking the river’s bank, looking for the bronze box and discussing what we’d actually do with the treasure. After the inky blackness of night made further efforts futile, we drove the steep, gravel switchback road up the canyon wall to the west and made camp on the gorge’s rim, overlooking the distant, twinkling lights of Taos. In the morning, we were abruptly heralded from sleep by a mysterious, billowing chorus of jet engines coming from deep within the canyon. As we stumbled into the early morning sun beams, the night air’s last remaining dust particles hovered in the air, reflecting sunlight like little orange halos, momentarily blurring our vision before clearing to reveal five giant, kaleidoscopic hot air balloons slowly inching their way up and over the canyon walls. We had been greeted with our own private hot air balloon festival and the occupants waved back at us cheerily as we enjoyed a steamy and aromatic pot of French press coffee. 

After breaking camp, we spent the majority of the day fly-fishing and looking for the blaze. As I waded from the Rio Grande and up into the colder waters of Rio Hondo, I felt the water temperature drop, a sure sign, I thought, that the trout would be more abundant and the treasure all but within arm’s grasp.  As I worked the stream, looking for pockets of deeper, cooler water, I found myself wondering if Forest had trudged up this stream toting a box of dry flies or treasure, or perhaps both. And, after each fruitless cast, I found myself cursing the old flies I’d brought along: hand-me-downs, hand-tied by my late Uncle George, which I’d brought along because I was too cheap to buy new, hatch-specific flies at retail price from a local fly shop. Despite our lack of finding any treasure or catching any fish that afternoon, the morning had been spectacular and the evening’s campfire-grilled steak tasted pretty good even without a side of fresh mountain trout. We thus juried the day a success and conceded that the true treasure hunting would begin tomorrow morning.

 The home of Brown

A scenic half-day’s drive east of Taos, through the Sangre de Cristo Mountains and Moreno Valley (Spanish for brown: home of brown?), we found ourselves surrounded by the southern Rocky Mountain’s highest peaks and in the alpine meadow of Eagle’s Nest Reservoir. As the mountains’ cold runoff collects here, the summer sun warms its surface; however, the deep water remains cold and is released through the spillway and into the Cimarron River. Thus, warm water halts at Eagle’s Nest Reservoir, just below the home of brown (Moreno Valley), and we intended to take it in the canyon down, not far but too far to walk.As the water cascades down the Cimarron River, the crowning spectacle is surely the Palisades, a wall of vertically jointed rock which grabs your attention like an eternal blaze and draws it from sky to river much like a rainbow draws the eye down to the proverbial pot of gold (If you’ve been wise and found the blaze, Look quickly down, your quest to cease). The idea of Mr. Fenn watching his bronze box sink to the bottom of his favorite fishing hole beneath the Palisades was certainly metaphoric, and as Jake unpacked his photography gear and I tied on one of George’s caddis flies, we wondered which of the river’s turns and twists would reveal the hidden treasure.

The sun sparkled off the river’s surface and my pupils strained to maximal constriction, hindering my vision and making it difficult to balance as I waded up the river’s rocky, uneven bottom. The riverbank’s lush vegetation served as constant reminder to keep the back-cast short, lest the fly and line become tangled on a branch in a knotted, frustrating heap. On more than one occasion, a suspiciously unnatural glitter of light would penetrate the foliage, grab our attention, and prompt a mad, splashing dash through the river to what we were certain was an exposed corner of the bronze box. By three o’clock, my fish basket contained more brown, sparkly beer bottles and pieces of glittery trash than it did brown trout, and Jake had almost dropped his camera gear in the river on no less than two occasions.

 In the early evening hours, I spotted a Cruise America rental RV parked at a scenic overlook, not 100 feet from where I was fishing. The occupants were taking pictures with their I-phones and cursing about the lack of cell phone reception, which hindered their ability to instantaneously upload to Facebook. Their chatter disrupted the valley and as they loaded back into the RV and disembarked, solitude descended once again over the valley and I suddenly became completely aware of my surroundings: the sight of a few insects hovering just over the water’s surface, the sound of the river flowing over a boulder’s smooth, polished surface, the sweet smell of the river bank’s dewy grass; sights, sounds, and smells surely intangible from the scenic overlook. I pitied the on-lookers and at the same time felt grateful they were just passing through, leaving me to experience solitude on what I felt was exclusively mine and Forest’s section of the river. I remembered what my Uncle George taught me during the first of many fly-casting lessons: the fun in fishing is what you catch when you don’t catch any fish. I decided to stay a bit longer, make a few more cast, and collect some more trash.

 “I’ve done it tired and now I’m weak”

The Valle Vidal.  The “valley of abundant life . . .” seems a fitting place to contemplate the meaning of life when you’ve done it tired and now you’re weak, and perhaps serves as the perfect location to share with others seeking the thrill of the chase. The Valle Vidal is special, lying on the boundary between the west’s high peaks and the east’s broad and scarred plateaus. As we left the pavement of US 64 and traveled west on gravel, Forest Service Road 1950 took us through chaparral covered plateaus, pinion-juniper foothills, and eventually into the ponderosa and aspen covered mountains. This public road travels smack through Ted Turner’s private Vermejo Park Ranch and the Carson National Forest, where many streams are designated Outstanding National Resource Waters and are protected under the federal Clean Water Act. Most of these streams can be reached via Forest Road 1950, which is well maintained (in the summer…) but closed during certain portions of the year to facilitate elk migration and calving. As the road switchbacks up Windy Gap approaching a spectacular formation known as the Rock Wall, incredible views of the eastern Valle Vidal and the Great Plains can be seen to the east with towering mountain vistas looming to the north and west. 

We were in the river again, at the junction of Comanche and Costilla creeks, and hoping our efforts would be worth the cold. Wading to the belt line beneath a 25 million year old rocky outcrop known as Comanche Point, the sunset seemed to light the rocks ablaze with fiery oranges and reds which glowed like the last lights from a dying campfire. I was keeping a half-keen eye out for the bronze box and fighting off the hypnotic trance which is so often induced by the repetitive schlep, shwoosh-shwoosh-shwoosh of the floating fishing line leaving the water, making three turns in the air, and rolling out to present the fly on the water’s surface. I wondered what it looked like from underneath and wondered if Forest had ever wondered the same. As I reflected on our trip, I lamented that I’d spent more time fishing than looking for treasure. All of a sudden, there was a blip from the crystal clear depths and after setting the line, battle commenced between man and trout. As I struggled to land the fish without breaking the line, I lost my balance and the top of my waders dipped below the surface. Icy water poured in and ran down my waders as I struggled to stay upright, eventually regaining my balance and landing the fish on the river’s edge. I removed the hook, shivered, and studied the trout’s beautifully shiny scales, realizing that my efforts had been worth the cold.

In that wet, icy moment of clarity below Comanche Point, I’d found Forest’s treasure, although instead of laying in a bronze box it seemed to lay in the fishing; fishing which I’d accomplished with a left-over box of elk hair caddis flies, hand-tied by my late uncle George before he’d passed away. George had given me my first childhood fly-casting lesson on the banks of Montana’s Boulder River, and I’d missed his funeral two years prior while I was on a plane to Afghanistan.  I never officially got to say goodbye. But today, in the icy waters of the canyon, below the home of Brown, I felt peace in knowing that at least his flies were wet and happy; and so too was I, and so too was he, and so was Forest Fenn.  

I give you title to the gold

And so, our week of treasure hunting ended with a meal of crispy pan seared mountain trout, a snort of Glenfiddich, and the most beautiful, unadulterated, New Mexico starry sky every witnessed by man. We truly had found the title to the gold, and it turned out to be the rainbow itself and not the pot of gold. The museum curator, who’d prophesied that Forest would never give anything away for free, had proved himself incorrect, because Forest had given us the treasure for free, asking only that we share with him in the thrill of the chase. And to Forest’s credit, his treasure was right where he promised we’d find it: in the mountains north of Santa Fe. 

Planning your own Camino del Tosoro (road of treasure) - A few notes from the author

Our Camino del Tosorostarted with a chance meeting at Overland Expo 2013. I had just been introduced to photographer and explorer Jake Quinones when an intoxicated passerby stopped to enjoy the campfire and started blabbing about Fenn’s hidden treasure. Before long, it became obvious that Jake was as interested as I was, and it’s a good thing too, because no one knows northern New Mexico’s backroads like Jake Quinones.  Jake’s first hand knowledge of the state’s scenic backroads comes from years of exploration and route planning for clients of his guiding service, New Mexico Backroads (www.newmexicobackroads.com).  We used topographical maps to pick areas that fit the clues in the poem, and Jake connected the dots with the most scenic and remote backroads trip I’ve ever experienced. Snow and weather come to these parts at odd times, and some of the best roads are actually closed to all traffic according to seasonal wildlife habits. Several stretches we drove had no cell phone or gas service for nearly 100 miles, and during one particular day, we actually encountered not one other vehicle.  Planning your Camino del Tosoro should start with a complete and thorough reading of The Thrill of the Chase, and should be followed up with the procurement of a few topographical maps of any area north of Santa Fe. In reality, this could be in the foothills of New Mexico’s Sangre de Cristo Mountains, a mountain range in Alaska, or anywhere in between, for Forest never specified exactly how far north of Santa Fe one should start looking. Once you’ve laid out a topographical map, chosen a few areas of interest, and filled the gas tank on your rig, all you need to do is set out with a spirit of adventure.