It’s time to wish Forrest Fenn Happy Birthday again. He turns 87 in a few days. Just Wow!
A couple ways to thank him for the Thrill of the Chase? Go here.
From the man himself (via Dal’s site):
SUBMITTED JUNE, 2017 by Forrest When I said the treasure was not hidden in Utah or Idaho it has been my plan to not narrow the search area further. But in the light of a recent accident, and in the interest of safety, I feel it necessary to alter that plan. The treasure chest is…
Forrest Fenn wants to get kids off the couch and out of doors. What does this news say about our culture when “selfie stick” & “hashtag” replace words like “acorn” and “otter”? : (
Sharing this post from Lady Muir:
I was shocked to read the list of nature words removed from the Jr. Oxford Dictionary in the last decade. What follows are excerpts from an essay that explores the intersection between language and life.
Wishing hoping and praying for the safety of Randy and all those out searching for him.
My first visit to New Mexico was brief, less than 24 hours. I came down from Colorado on the dark side of the mountains one night and was glad to arrive (safely) at the hotel in Santa Fe. Not until morning did I try to find Fenn’s place. I had the address. I had GPS. I had an invitation. But. The car was leading me out of town, back into the mountains. The streets were one way this way and that. And narrow. No view. Claustrophobic.
I’d allowed plenty of time but it was fading fast. Aha, I thought. I’ll go to the bookstore. They must know where Forrest lives. When I asked the nice guy behind the counter in Collected Works, he said, “Why don’t you just call him? He’s in the phonebook.” I said just point me in the right direction. I made it on time and there he was, just like he says in the book. to show you care.
I had to head home then, and didn’t explore the mountains north of Santa Fe, or even Santa Fe, for that matter. And between you and me, I was relieved to be out in the open sky again. I’m not a desert person. I don’t get it. Give me green; changing seasons; trees.
Still, when the approval/opportunity came up to return for one of Forrest’s book signings, I jumped at it. Leaving in the midst of harvest? Well, I’d pay the piper later. Short notice, but what did I need to pack, really? Camera, phone, the book to be signed. Good to go.
About halfway to Santa Fe, the climate changes, the trees disappear, the dirt turns red. Very red, and it was flying where the farmers worked it. And of course, it was hot when I left and got hotter the further west I went.
First tourist stop? The Blue Hole I’d read about. It would make living in the desert bearable. Almost. If I scuba dived.
Another thing that makes it bearable, is altitude. (It turns out my car’s GPS does have an altimeter, after all. Wish I’d noticed it on my last trip to the Rocky Mountains, where I was gauging altitude by how short of breath I was.) By the time I hit 6,000 feet above sea level, Santa Fe, in other words, it was a bit cooler and a lot livelier. So. I had two or three days, depending on an incomplete arrangement, to explore the land of enchantment.
First up, the Enchanted Circle Scenic Byway loop around the mountains above Taos. It was by (fortunate) chance that I chose to drive the loop clockwise that Sunday, since there was some sort of mountain bike event and dozens of bikers were taking it counter-clockwise. Nine or ten thousand feet above sea level – I don’t know how they do it. (A couple of them looked like they were wondering if they could do it.) My car didn’t care for the altitude, either. The capless fuel flap didn’t want to give. Thank you, kind station attendant!
And then I thought I’d stop at the Rio Grande Visitor Center on my way back to Santa Fe, but I made a wrong turn and ended up here.
Seriously. Bears, again?
Actually, it wasn’t bears that scared me away.
I stuck to Santa Fe proper on Monday and saw the most amazing “painting” made of found things (think Forrest’s Holiday Ornament Contest) in the New Mexico Museum of Art. Pansy Stockton (1895 – 1972) used things like bark, moss, twigs, and so forth and created beautiful images that from a distance looked finely painted. The one on display was of a waterfall, and the milkweed silk gleamed perfectly as falling water.
As I played tourist, I scouted for parking for the evening event at La Fonda, remembering the difficulty I’d had on my first visit to Santa Fe.
Monday evening was the book signing and the chance to meet some fellow treasure seekers, one of whom brought a box of fabulous French pastries to share!
Arrangements fell into place for Tuesday evening, so I had the day to explore more of the mountains north of Santa Fe.
In particular, the Ski Basin and the Audubon park.
And then, when it was time to head home, I saw the blaze.
What a cool opportunity!
A ranch. Somewhere high in north-western Montana. We’re fly fishing in the baking heat, casting for trout, listening to the trickle of clear spring creeks and glimpsing sleek, fast-moving shapes in the shadows.
It should be relaxing, but I’m distracted. I discovered in a chance conversation with the rancher’s wife earlier in the morning that at least two dinosaurs are entombed in rock on their land and she promised a ride to where the university volunteers are digging – and spending the long scorching summer.
“Yeah, they’re all living up there in the rocks, right beside the rattlers,” said the woman with a real life Jurassic Park on her land. “Someone flew over the ranch in a hang glider years ago and discovered the site and they’ve been working on it on and off ever since.”
The Jeep bounced, rattled and shuddered its way over a track more suited to cowboys…
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For a very cool montage of Forrest Fenn created by Iron Will, see this over on Dal’s blog— http://dalneitzel.com/2015/04/04/scrapbook-one-hundred-thirty-five/#comments
Another winter gone and I haven’t gotten any closer to the solve. Still pondering. . . .
Maybe I need one of these tools:
Winter beaches. Summer beaches.
I have my favorites. If I were a travel writer, I’d tell you about them, but really, I’d rather keep quiet. Nothing like a crowd to dampen the specialness of a secret spot. Just ask Forrest Fenn.
Today’s high will be about 0 degrees Fahrenheit. I’m using my imagination, picturing running on a beach. Well, maybe just strolling. With a metal detector? Since I’m imagining, sure.
(I think I’ll pick up a real one before my next treasure-hunting trip.)
No travel plans this winter, but I’ve gathered lots of memories.
There was a kid who had a grandpa who every morning said “It’s a good day for it.” Didn’t matter if it was hot or cold, sunny or rainy, it was always a good day for something. As often as could be, that might be fishing.
So, today was a good day to make blackberry jam. Much better than heating up the kitchen on the hot, steamy July days when I picked, washed, pulped and put them in the freezer.
(Yes, I know I skipped the Oxford comma. I don’t believe in them.)
Also, I made a pot of tea and sat down to blog. Is it writer’s block? I should be well into a revision at this point, but things have only just now settled down around here.
The bonus of the super cold days — it’s usually sunny. I can get my vitamin D through the window, right? Then, back to work. It’s a good day for it.
Colorful blaze but don’t get excited— it’s in Nevada.
A young Amish boy on his way to work at 4:30am looking at the light show on Fuller Road in Easton, Maine. The image was captured by 61-year-old photographer Paul Cyr
Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2442531/Solar-flare-causes-Northern-Lights-US-Kansas-Maine-Donegal.html#ixzz2gmD0onGL
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