Somewhere over the rainbow...

Something has been bugging me about Forrest Fenn's poem. Understand that I'm already nuttier than squirrel poop over the whole thing, but there are particular ideas about the poem that serve to make my condition worse. I've written the thought off several times but as it turns out, crazy people have a hard time letting things go...

The word rainbow is mentioned in the intro to the poem..

This poem written by Forrest Fenn contains nine clues that if followed precisely, will lead to the end of his rainbow and the treasure. Happy Hunting

So, there it is--Forrest's rainbow.  And the clues are going to lead me to both his rainbow AND the treasure.   Here's what keeps creeping its way back into my thoughts: The word brown is in the word rainbow. You could even consider it to be the home of brown if you're willing to stretch your sensibility.  It's also worth considering that if you were to mix all the colors of rainbow, you would get brown. So is the rainbow the home of brown? It may be, but then why is Brown capitalized in the poem?  It's a good question, and one for which I do not have an answer. I may still move this idea to the Thoughts and Ideas page but for now, I'll try to push it out of my thoughts...again.


Interesting anagrams for rainbow:


brain ow
wine bar
I own bar
I own bra
a brown I

Check out the Thoughts and Ideas page for my take on the poem...

Getting Started...

"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step" - Lao-tzu

It's with the above quote in mind that I take this first step; the first of many in my quest for the elusive treasure of Forrest Fenn.  The journey begins without my consent.  I didn't ask for this. It's something that was cast onto me by an art collecting war hero who has made up his mind that adventure is more important than sanity  The lesson being that the thrill of the chase is always better than the satisfaction of the catch. 

The Dream

In a dream I followed Forrest down a path through the mountains.  He was carrying something on his shoulder--a shoe box maybe. I couldn't get close enough to have a conversation with him but it wouldn't have mattered if I had--he wasn't talking.  The path led into a canyon and Forrest followed it, pausing only long enough for a grinning glance over his shoulder to make sure I was still shadowing him. I was. 

He took it--the path, that is--into the canyon down and I found it harder and harder to keep up with him. The path snaked around the mountain and became dangerously narrow at times. Still, I followed Forrest Fenn. We were almost to the bottom of the canyon; he more than I, and by what I would consider barely within earshot. I thought about calling out to him but I knew better--he wasn't talking. He rounded the corner and I couldn't see him for a spell, until it was my turn to follow the path around.  When I did, I could see that Forrest had made considerable headway during his brief time away from my watchful eye. He was now farther ahead than he had been since I first started trailing him. He stood at the bank of a river--a creek, really--looking up at me briefly before lowering the box from his shoulder and setting in on the ground. 

I continued down the trail, trying to take advantage of the break in Fenn's progress.  He had pulled a pen and what looked to be a notepad from his shirt pocket and was busy jotting something down.  As I made my way down the last slope in the trail I came upon something that I would later consider to be the single reason for the way things would turn out for me. It was something so out of place that I lost valuable time standing there with my head cocked sideways, trying to make sense of it. It was a black mailbox.  The red flag was up and while I didn't know to whom the outgoing mail  might be addressed, I could tell that any incoming mail would bear the same name that was stenciled on the side of the mailbox--Brown. 

I pulled on the small door that read U.S. mail and reached inside.  A small rectangle of paper had been pulled free of its pad and on it, written in red pen, was this message:

You can't hear me unless you listen.  -F.F.

I looked at the message long enough to miss my only opportunity to catch up with the man that had led me to this place.  I tried to reach him in time but he had a trick up his sleeve that I hadn't counted on.  Forrest had been here before.  He had left himself a canoe during his last visit here and I caught my last glimpses of him as he lowered the box and then himself into it.  He looked up at me for the last time grinning as he tapped on his temple with his index finger.  He wasn't talking but I was listening nonetheless. Think, think, think he was telling me. Use your head and think. 

When I got to the place in the river where I had lost my chance at Fenn I found another note.  He had put it on a flat rock and had used a smaller rock as a paperweight so as to keep the wind from stealing the message before I could read it. Before reading it, I looked down the river in the direction that Forrest had floated with his box.  I had no reason for the image that had painted itself on my mind's canvas but the clarity of it still brings me pause. The river that Fenn took would eventually become too shallow to support Fenn's canoe. I envisioned a point where Fenn would abandon his vessel and continue on foot, carrying the heavy load of his box on his shoulders as he had carried it into the canyon.

I walked over to the piece of paper that had been left for me, pinned under a stone next to a river in the middle of a canyon somewhere in the mountains north of Santa Fe.  I thought about throwing it into the river unread.  I remembered the grin on Forrest's face and the thought occurred to me that there is little difference between the smile of a mischievous child in the midst of a well-planned caper and the grin of an old man gone mad.  I decided that the smile I was given as Fenn silently lectured me to think, think, think was that of the former rather than the latter. I also decided that I would have followed Fenn either way.

I slid the message out from under its paperweight.  I was already wishing that I had thrown it in the river instead but the outcome would have been the same so in the end it's a wash.  The words written in red pen aren't important, but having come this far I see no reason to keep secrets:

Begin it where warm waters halt.

Start there at any cost.

If you set out from the wrong place,

 You surely will be lost.

F.F.