Do any of you out there who were born after 1985 know what somebody like me does when they have writer’s block? No, it is not “clean the keyboard” or “text your spouse” or “hack the Pentagon.” It’s things like “walk the dog,” “play with the cat,” “search for a sharp pencil,” “sharpen all the pencils you may have found,” “raid the fridge,” “get some coffee,” “reread all the false starts,” and then give up and “take a nap.”
I just finished a “take a nap” stage but not because my muse has taken up residence elsewhere. It’s because I have bluffed all the bluff I can muster and now I have to write something that will give up too much ground and get too close to the secrets I have spent the last two years trying to hide. It is a costly thing, this thing I’m about to do and the rest of Team Sleuthy-Guy will be on my case ten minutes after I hit “Publish.” It won’t be pretty. Nevertheless, here it (the bone) is:
Have any of you ever seen a more blazey blaze than this? “More blazey than what?” I hear you say.
“That white spot up there,” I respond. It has been there for years and will be there for many years more; and you have to look “quickly down” because there isn’t much more of an “up” up there and, besides, if you look down from there for very long you get vertigo. And it is big; about sixty feet by sixty feet and some 300 feet a.r.l. which is something only Forrest Fenn will know—the acronym, I mean. ;>) It is also canyon down and too far to walk from warm water and it is below a “canyon down, home of Brown.” Not only that, it is a place that Forrest Fenn knows very well.
How do I know this, you ask. Well, if you really want to know and are paying attention, just across the river from the “FENN” that is at the bottom of that steep “FORRESTed” slope, is one of those fishing camps that serve really great breakfasts but won’t let you in if you are wearing waders and several years ago one of its patrons couldn’t get the phone to work.
Now, it is my belief, based on an hour or two of super-sleuthing, that there is an excellent chance that, just maybe, that patron could have been none other than Forrest Fenn if, of course, it wasn’t someone else.
You see, the mysterious patron was trying to place a call to Australia concerning a buy he wanted to make of something that had just been found and because the operator kept giving him Shelby, Montana instead of Shelby, Australia, the largest gold nugget ever discovered anywhere now sits in some dinky casino in Las Vegas called the “Golden Nugget” instead of in a brass box along with a bracelet of turquoise and silver that you are supposed to be looking for instead of reading stuff like this.
Of course, there are lots of collectors of gold, I know; but I dare say that only one of them likes really great breakfasts at fishing camps with bad phone service and who is also collector enough to want the very biggest of whatever he happens to be collecting at any given time—in this case “gold.” Besides, under the blaring lights of the Collected Works Book Store and the intense stare and unique line of questioning by Sleuthy-Guy, Forrest Fenn admitted that that very camp used to be a great place to find arrowheads.
Come back in a couple of weeks, more or less. I’ll need some time to make up a sequel.