Treasure likes to hide, loves to tell

There’s a rural legend, some say, about an Ore Wagon gushing over with potato rotgut and golden ingots fresh from the smelter, with which fifty years ago a horse distracted by a rainbow toppled down unharmed into Trail Creek’s beaver ponds. Supposedly, all the of gleaming gold was eventually recovered. That is except for two bars. 

Now you don't suppose that if somebody had actually dunked their head underwater and discovered a big bar of bullion, we would have heard about it by now? If that treasure was cheerily plucked up, then it goes against human nature to keep it a secret this long. The finder practically would have had to have told another person. Then that contagion would spread faster than a shaky gold fever codger’s six-shooter ‘wiping out’ Injuns for what’s in them thar hills. After all, even Mark Felt’s throat had to loosen from the depths eventually.*

Apparently, lots of old timers did not invest blind faith into banks, but rather stuffed jars of money under trees and into mattresses. It could be that these guys were really the wise ones when you consider The Black Tuesday market crash of ’29, Savings & Loan fiascos of the 80’s, mysteriously missing royalty payments to American Indians, Enron-like events large and small, defunct retirement funds, Government contractors rife with misconduct and whatever else we’ll soon be faceless with Social Insecurity. Perhaps Geraldo Rivera should contract out a nano-robot crawler to slip under the vault for some sounding echoes to determine how hollow Fort Knox is. 

 

One golden bundle would be perfect though. 

Who could need any more? Maybe it was really found. Perhaps the lucky man dances around a campfire tonight in the White Clouds stretching tall tales over Indian pale ales with D.B. Cooper. It could be that the soft-spoken man you never really considered is privy to a highly regarded secret, just under the facade. He would be glowing so radiantly, that the untamed schoolchildren, not yet indoctrinated over aura denial, would see that he is holding some kind surreptitious ticket. Even then, they would not quite know exactly what the great evolving mystery is, or how deep to optimistically dig. 

These days on modern camping excursions, some parents bury little trinkets captured with Polaroid snapshots testament to great outdoor family times. Then they mark on their Global Positioning units synchronicitis records so when their offspring sprout into later life, they can time-travel back and see paternal power points presented new ways. The truest treats sprinkled amongst these paths less scavenged, are fresh ether communalwith wise elk and great owls.

It seems that this whole new Geocaching craze has gathered enough good karma steam that even the inner terrorists direct their wrath away from such purity. Kind of like when you know that the further you escape from the main drag that people you cross paths with there, will tend to be friendlier. Thoreau-ly chartable concepts like these should be boxed inside the Dow Jones Industrials daily spreadsheets, where brokers could first take and read them as lowly caveman comics. 

A golden ticket in baseball cards is that of 1910 Pittsburgh Pirates shortstop Honus Wagner. Legend has it that “The Flying Dutchman” had sworn off dangers of smoking and requested that his card not be wrapped around packs of cancer sticks, resulting in a breathtaking limited edition. In similar fashion, a dozen years ago in Bellevue, a smart man was meticulously salvaging logs from an old mining paymaster’s house. Giving the interior walls the once over, he discovered inside two stripper cards –preceders of today’s bubble gum cards. A Salt Lake appraiser valued these cards at 500 bucks each. Had those 1881 ladies high-falootenly stepped in to stop the early cigarette presses, by reconsidering the moral values of their skimpy prancing about, would that have ironically raised their worth in smoking cards even higher in some collectors eyes? 

Back to that fabled Trail Creek treasure:

Following late winter storms, stunning double rainbows sometimes adorn themselves over Trail Creek. Perhaps since that stretch is rarely open by Saint Paddy’s day, those fleeting multi-chromes, springing just off the Ides, have so far only misdirected lonesome snowshoers to false moneypits. In a mixed blessing of global warming a Seventeenth of March could soon come along for one of us luckily charmed Leprechauns or Flying Dutchmen when Trail Creek waterfalls dry up before spring revealing that last elusive pot next to a beaver skeleton. Boy Howdy! This could still be just enough legal tender to fetch you a nice cold glass of uncontaminated ice water by then.

*Watergate's Deep Throat revealed his long held secret from Twin Falls, Idaho on Tuesday, May 31, 2005.

Dedicated to Fritz G. –a fascinating seeker of gold and good fortune.