the impossible poem

The quotes in this scrapbook, are to the best recollection a 38-year-old man’s memory can muster. Forgive this sinner.

When I met Forrest Fenn in July of 2009, I was what some would call a ‘young whipper snapper’. My professors loved to hate me. In class, I was the guy in the back row, knee deep in a LOST message board, instead of hearing the regurgitated lecture from the text we allegedly read the night before. When I spoke up, it was only to ask the questions everyone else would not. “Can you explain the water erosion being discovered at the base of the Sphinx and how that does not match the timeline provided of 2400bc(ish)?”. “Ben, why do you ask these things” was the typical response I would get.

When I stood there next to who I would later learn is Forrest Fenn, I noticed right away that he had a guarded intrigue by my declarative stance on the politics of archaeology. “You’re not gonna last long in that racket”. When he learned I received a perfect 6/6 on my GRE essay, and I was choosing not to go to grad school, his body language shifted, and I could tell this old man wanted a story from me. “So, what are y’all digging up there?” Funny story- I replied back.

I breezed through telling this silver haired fox about finding intact Mimbres pottery and being allowed to excavate it myself (it took almost 4.5 days). And then gave him the main course. I told Forrest about halfway through digging my pit house, I smashed what I thought was more pottery with my ax. I looked immediately down and saw teeth. I knew I was up shit creek. The dig immediately halted, and we had to bring in the local shaman to do a reburial ceremony.

The man’s eyes lit up. “Ben, you broke a native American’s skull?” I nodded while sipping my beer and he giggled. I told him some of the more recent misfortunes I faced after this breaking of the skull. (A series of unfortunate events occurred, which maybe I’ll one day talk about.) He didn’t give me an inclination one way or the other if I was “cursed”. But when he learned that I initially avoided the shaman’s reburial ceremony, he said to me “You’re in for it now, son.”

“So, what’s next for you, Ben?” he asked as I was already finishing beer 1. “No idea, wrap this dig up, graduate, and then find my way in the world.” Forrest sat his half drank water on the bar top and shifted his body language towards me and only me. “Well, I have something you might find, and you seem like just the kind of guy who can. I buried a treasure in the Rockies and I’m gonna dare the world to find it.” Yes, past tense, buried- as in already did the deed. Looking back, did he already hide it? I don’t think so. I think he was testing the market at this point in time. He knew I was with a team of archaeologists; with professors, I would come to learn, knew who he was and weren’t too fond of. It was at that moment in the conversation where I told myself ” Ok old man, whatever you say”. I’m pretty sure it came out as something like: “Wow that’s so cool”. For the record I get very mad at myself for my lack of eloquence with someone I wouldn’t even begin to understand until a decade later.

Something about that Forrest reminded me of my sixth-grade teacher. Don’t ask me what it was. But Mr. Chase was the only person who ever made me care about succeeding in school. He was my chess teacher as well. And taught me the art of sacrifice. That “sometimes you have to lose the queen in order to get her back and win with surprise. Always make yourself unpredictable to your enemies.” I don’t know where Mr. Chase is now, but I’m sure I’m one of many students who still remember him to this day. I know Forrest has had that same effect on all of us.

In all my emails and DM’s on discord from searchers trying to solve the impossible poem, there is something no one is thinking of. I think Forrest would enjoy the double omega I have tried to craft. I say tried, because we will find out if I accomplished the task on Aug 22, 2023. Forrest dared us; I’m challenging you.