Nothing left to do now but collect my riches.Īs I have gone alone in there And with my treasures bold, I can keep my secret where, And hint of riches new and old.īegin it where warm waters halt And take it in the canyon down, Not far, but too far to walk. I’m also pretty sure I know where its cryptic code points. I’m not sure why I brought the poem-good luck? a sense of security?- because I’ve puzzled over its clues enough that I know the lines by heart. Its hidden clues, he says, lead to a bronze chest filled with millions of dollars worth of gold nuggets, rare coins, gems, and jewelry.
On the seat next to me, under a road atlas and an empty coffee mug, lies the document that catalyzed our impending breakup: a 24-line poem (far right) penned by an 83-year-old New Mexican art dealer and archaeologist named Forrest Fenn. When I haul a treasure chest out of the wilderness, I’ll call the nearest Subaru dealer and have them deliver me a shiny, new all-wheel-drive, for which I’ll hand over a fat gold coin. The Corolla doesn’t know it yet, but our relationship is ending-within a few hours, if everything goes according to plan.
I’m feeling almost guilty about pushing it so hard. My old Toyota Corolla, with its blooming rust spot on the left fender and a collection of dents, trembles as I urge it up a zig-zaggy road into New Mexico’s Sangre de Cristo Mountains.
#ART OF ILLUSION X MARKS THE SPOT FULL#
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