Forrest Fenn, the eccentric art dealer who decided that what the world needed most was an elaborate treasure hunt, spent his final years either reveling in the chaos he unleashed or wondering why anyone would trust a guy who buried literal treasure in the wilds of America. In 2010, after beating cancer, Fenn threw a chest full of gold coins, jewels, and artifacts into the Rocky Mountains, dropped a few cryptic clues in his memoir, and basically told the world, "Good luck, suckers." This wasn’t some harmless scavenger hunt, like searching for the remote control buried under couch cushions. Oh no. Fenn, with a twinkle in his eye and a shovel in his hand, challenged thrill-seekers to find this treasure, knowing full well that some of them couldn’t navigate their way out of a paper bag, let alone the Rockies. But the thing is—people believed him. Thousands packed their camping gear, bought bear spray, and quit their jobs (because who needs income when you’re on the verge of striking gold, right?) to venture into the wilderness. They followed his clues, most of which made sense only if you were either insane or Forrest Fenn himself. Here’s the thing, though: five people died. DIED. This hunt was so dangerous that the police had to beg Fenn to call it off. You know you've really hit peak chaos when the authorities are like, "Hey man, we love a good treasure hunt too, but could you not keep killing people?" To be fair, Fenn wasn’t completely oblivious to the carnage. His reaction to the growing body count? A shrug and something along the lines of, “Well, they should have brought a map.” Classic. For a decade, the Rocky Mountains became a giant Escape Room designed by Satan, with cryptic poetry and vague clues leading people to rivers, caves, and cliffs. By 2020, though, the treasure was found by Jack Stuef, a medical student who apparently had more free time than any med student in history. After thousands of adventurers failed, this guy rolled in, cracked the code, and dug up Fenn’s treasure, while the rest of the world collectively groaned, “Why didn’t I think of that?” But wait, it gets better: Jack didn’t even want the publicity. Like the least fun pirate of all time, he wanted to keep his haul under wraps. Meanwhile, people who had spent years searching for the treasure were left to sit at home in their khakis and mosquito-bitten limbs, feeling the sting of defeat as Jack quietly walked off into the sunset, like Indiana Jones with a medical degree. And then Forrest Fenn died—shortly after the treasure was found, almost as if he had been holding on just to see if anyone would actually finish his bizarre game. He’s gone, but the legend of his treasure lives on, a testament to human greed, stupidity, and the weird lengths people will go to for the promise of shiny objects buried in a box somewhere deep in the mountains. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a copy of Fenn’s poem to decode. There's got to be a sequel, right?
