BCJ_SUMMER18 Digital Edition

“The old man put a bracelet in the chest and he wants it back.
He said he’ll buy it back from whoever finds it. If I find it, I’ll give
it to him. And I won’t tell anyone else.”
The reasoning section of my brain asked too many questions
to vocalize so I tossed them to and fro inside my skull and kept
them there. He talked so matter-of-factly, as if this was a normal
conversation between two friends in a grocery store. I strained to
see his eyes behind his shades but couldn’t make them out in the
morning glare. His face was sun-stressed and he donned a neatly
trimmed goatee that I found myself admiring in a strange way, a
look I knew I would fancy for myself at some point in life. He was
well kept and lean and stood even with my 6’2” height, if not a
shade taller. I asked myself why he would divulge such information.
As he talked my gaze was drawn to his shoes repeatedly and
helplessly. Shoes don’t make the man, but I judged his Merrells as
a sign of credibility – as if broken-down Reeboks
would have indicated a crazy. The man was from
Colorado and he had noticed my Idaho plates.
I’d moved to New Mexico in June and had yet to
change them, partial to the Yellowstone cutthroat
that graced the metal. I now made the connection
he had, the one that piqued his curiosity beyond
silence. He suspected another hunter in his
midst, someone perhaps surmising the same answers as his own to
the cryptic verses. Once he asked the question there was no turning
back. He gave me his email address and told me to contact
him if I was interested in learning more. He told me to Google
Fenn and watch his YouTube videos. I asked him why any man
would rid himself of that much wealth. The Blanca native told me
Fenn had more than he needed and that he was inspired to leave
some sort of legacy behind and spark today’s youth to get away
from their texting machines. Lastly, he asked me if I knew of any
waterfalls in the area. I did not.
It was still well before noon, so I finished strapping my boots
and waders to my pack and started the descent of La Junta trail,
oddly the same name as my birthplace in Colorado – one of those
ominous coincidences taken for signs by romantics like myself.
It’s Spanish for “the junction,” a name applied to my homeplace
because of the coming together of the Santa Fe Trail and the Arkansas
River. This trail I hiked down in New Mexico bore the
name, no doubt, because of the merging of the Red and the Rio
Grande. This evoked Norman Mclean’s words, “Eventually, all
things merge into one.”
In a daze with the glory of the canyon, I reached the bottom of
38 | BACKCOUNTRY JOURNAL SUMMER 2018
“I KNOW THE
TREASURE IS WET,”
FOREST FENN ONCE
REVEALED IN AN
INTERVIEW.
the trail and instead of continuing all the way to the confluence,
cut straight south to the Red, anxious to fish. It was cold, but the
Red serves a productive fishery for browns and rainbows even in
the winter because the source spring stays around 48 degrees. I
couldn’t shake Fenn’s treasure from my mind. As I searched the
narrow water for trout lies, my eyes gravitated upwards to the cliff
outcroppings and the benches on the canyon walls. Could someone
climb that with a treasure chest, I wondered. After pulling on
my waders and boots, I tied a nymph rig with a #14 Prince above
a #20 olive Zebra Midge. On the third drift over a submerged
boulder, upstream to a pocket of calm water, my indicator paused
and I set on a small brown. He fought eagerly and soon fell loose,
but I was left satisfied with the promise of a productive day. It had
been a couple months since I felt the tug of a trout and I’d missed
it dearly. I worked my way upstream away from the confluence.
The canyon bottom was treacherous and I struggled
over boulders and deadfall.
“Not far, but too far to walk. What the hell
does that mean?” I asked out loud to the river.
After an hour I was puzzled by the deadness
of my flies. I already had switched between several
midges and had even tried a small BWO as I
was sure I saw a few hatching at mid-day. I saw a
small trout attack the surface beneath a low waterfall, but despite
my efforts I could not trick him.
I sat down for a moment and took a break after snapping my
line on a stump. The sun was dipping and I asked myself what I
would do with a chest full of treasure. Bills, debt, college for my
daughters. Car payments and washing machines. The obligatory,
responsibility traps that make decisions for you. After much
thought and a liter of red Powerade, I reached the conclusion
that once those requirements were met, I would do exactly as I
was doing at that moment. I would fish. Perhaps the destinations
would become more extravagant. At the least, more expensive.
My gear would surely be upgraded, although I’m rather fond of
my 16-year-old Sage, given by my uncle as a high school graduation
present. What else? I could find no answer, and the feeling
gave me significant happiness despite the reality that I’d been fishing
hard for hours and had yet to wet my hands in preparation
for a release. I had hooked only one other fish, and again he’d
wiggled free.
I worked my way back down the river toward the confluence.
I went past my put-in and several hundred yards across a basalt
avalanche slide, down to a series of nice looking pools. I grew tired
Sam Lungren photo
of the backpack I carried. Camera, spotting scope, binoculars,
snacks, GPS, first aid kit, hiking boots, water, extra clothes. Apparently
I was in some sort of transitionary limbo from deer
season to spring hatches. I seem to live in a constant state of
sporting confusion. Should I fish or should I hunt? A sentiment,
I hope, shared by my gatherer ancestors.
Below the home of Brown. The words pierced my psyche.I
worked a couple pools, backtracked and retrieved my pack,
then scrambled upstream again to repeat the process. Later, I
would read that a man had gone missing just a few months
prior in this same canyon, looking for the treasure. As of this
writing, he has not yet been found. Search and Rescue and 50
volunteers scoured the cliffs I fished under. He was the fourth
to die in pursuit of the chest. My first heathenish thought was
that if that many searchers were walking the canyon, surely the
treasure would have been discovered, if it was in fact there. Then
I felt guilty for my lack of empathy. Then again, anyone who
sets out into the wilderness must be prepared for its inevitable
wild. I thought of the massiveness of this gorge and knew it
was well beyond my virgin comprehension. I had not yet even
explored most of the trail system. The damn thing could be anywhere.
Needle in a haystack, I thought. Still I fantasized of an
excursion. But that, of course, would mean sacrificing a fishing
trip – the real crux.
I snagged my line again and waded over to unhook it. When I
reached the devil thicket I noticed a handful of flies snagged on
the limbs, all variations on my #18 Copper John. This gave me
some assurance, immediately followed by a woeful reality. If I was
using the right stuff, this then was most likely as good as it was
going to get. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen much of anything
swimming in the gin-clear water as I walked. Maybe most of the
fish already had headed back into the Rio Grande. My back was
beginning to tire from the pack and the casting. I took a deep
breath and let go the hope of an epic day. I stood in the river and
looked downstream towards the confluence. I could hear the
Rio and could see the canyon walls curving to the south before
my view was blocked by the gorge itself. Not one to quit easily,
I retied my rig with a similar setup – Prince Nymph and Copper
John. I walked upstream in the shallow, boulder-ridden water.
The wind picked up, hindering my roll casts. I patiently poked
through three beautiful pools and approached the final fourth.
Slabs of deep, slow-moving water were broken only by jagged
lines of descending rock or limb, forming the following pool. A
simple but accurate cast behind a large rock and I studied the
indicator. It hesitated and I lifted firmly. Gold flashed through
the clear blue waves. I directed the fish across the current into
my net. Normally, I would have scrambled for my phone, Go-
Pro or DSLR, to prove the day was not in vain. But I took too
long removing the hook and the 10-inch brown was growing
tired. I released the fly, lowered my hand and felt the fish’s stomach
slide from my palm into the darkness of the water. I stood
in the canyon and listened to the wind blow and the river run.
“I know the treasure is wet,” Forest Fenn once revealed in an
interview.
Indeed, it is.
Matt lives in Idaho Falls, Idaho, with his wife and three daughters.
He has given his life to writing because Jim Harrison told him
Matt Martens photo
SUMMER 2018 BACKCOUNTRY JOURNAL | 39