Additional Thoughts on Our Video “Forrest Fenn DID NOT Hide a Treasure in 2009 or 2010!”

One of the challenges of producing video is that it establishes our state of mind at a specific place in time. And, after watching the video, it is inevitable one will expand their thinking on the matter. It has happened in this case. I will continue to update this blog post as new thinking, either ours, or someone else’s, arises.

6.10.2017 The olive jar plays an important role in whether or not Fenn hid the treasure before 2003. Fenn has described it as containing at least two items for certain, 1. a miniaturized copy of his autobiography, and 2. some hair from his head. There may be a third, as he indicated in the 2013 “Everything is Stories” interview; an “IOU” for $100,000, giving a reason for the finder to let Fenn know the treasure’s been found. The IOU made sense. The biography, knowing Fenn, also made sense. The hair makes sense in only one case. It provides the DNA evidence that Fenn hid the treasure if there was a chance the treasure would be found before he published the book. It is the only situation in which the hair is relevant. Since the treasure will be found after the publishing of the book, and either before or after his death, it is irrelevant.

6.1.2017 Fenn confidant, Dal Neitzel (his blog is at didn’t quite believe me when I said on video that Fenn did not hide the treasure in 2009 or 2010. He was so convinced that he decided to prove my thesis wrong by contacting a Fenn-family member who happened to be a trusted friend of his, Skippy’s son, Crayton. In his blog post, Neitzel says he wrote Crayton an email asking, “What year do you think it was that you saw it in his home?” – referring to the treasure, and apparently having been told that Crayton had seen the treasure at some time.

Crayton’s response was, “Our best guess is that it was on his dinning room table in 2009.” Neitzel accepts it as if it were an answer to the question he asked. It is not. Read both the question and the answer carefully. Effectively, Neitzel asks, “…what year did you see the treasure,” and Crayton responds, “…it may have been on his dining room table in 2009.” It may very well have been, but it does not answer the question Neitzel asked. Nor does it indicate that Crayton “saw the treasure in 2009.” In addition, I’m sure you could imagine why the “it’s a secret if the other person is dead” guy is highly unlikely to have left a treasure chest with an estimated value of millions on his dining room table.

The response, while not an outright lie, is as diversionary as “Why are you making such a big deal out of that, Ritt,” or “I tell people that I was 79 or 80 when I hid the treasure,” or “I was never good at math, but that’s the way I remember it.”

And, it worked. Neitzel accepted it enough to post a long entry on the matter. And, his readers accepted it as “proof.” It is not. If anything, it’s substantiation of what we’ve vlogged.

Fenn was a successful fighter pilot and a successful businessman. He was never good at math? Puh-leeze, ninja.

5.26.17 (Thanks Dan) Is it possible that Fenn could have made two trips to hide the treasure; one in 2001 – 2003 to hide the chest, and a second sometime later (including 2009 – 2010 to put the contents into the chest? That would resolve the “…I made two trips from my car to hide the treasure..” (My quotes, not Fenn’s.) While all the other possibilities remain in place, including the claim that some “…had seen the treasure…” after 2003.

5.27.17 Forrest once said that his father, Marvin, would know exactly where he hid the treasure. His father would have seen Fenn’s “special place.” The implication is: Marvin would have been there. Marvin would have been 80 in 1983, four years before his death. Could it be that Fenn took his father to his “special place” one last time before his father’s death? That would resolve the question of “…don’t look for the treasure in a place where a 79 or 80 year old man couldn’t go.” (My quotes, not Fenn’s.) And, certainly, it would make the location very special to Fenn, because of the love and respect he has for his Father’s memory.


Johnny, We Hardly Knew Ye

1-DSC_1773November 22, 1963 was a cloudless, late-Fall Friday in Santa Fe.

Lunch at the St. Michael’s High School cafeteria would have been meatless because St. Mike’s was a Catholic school. And, back then, Catholics gave up eating meat on Fridays, a way to make sacrifice.

The large, always-angry, always-loud, Spanish-speaking ladies behind the food line served us beans, calabacitas, corn bread and cherry flavored Jell-O in which was suspended fruit cocktail. Sometimes they called us names like joto, chingon, and putito, and threatened to cut off our huevos if we didn’t wipe our metal trays clean before leaving the cafeteria. The Christian Brothers never attempted to come between the women and their vitriol.

At the time, they were the stuff of nightmares.

My good friend, Michael Sandoval and I were walking back to The Common, an area outside the L-shaped classroom building where we’d socialize with other students attending the all-boys school until the bell for afternoon classes was rung.

As we arrived, Mike noticed a group of classmates standing quietly in a circle almost at the same time I noticed yet another group. They, too standing quietly in a circle.

Curiosity getting the better of us, he joined one, and I the other.

The group I joined was listening to a cream-colored transistor radio with gold electroplate trim, about the size of a pack of cigarettes from which sprouted a long, multi-sectioned antenna above a silver dollar sized tuning knob.

It was our generation’s version of the iPhone.

Listening to the radio between morning and afternoon classes was not at all unusual. And, normally, the radios were tuned to one or the other of the two AM stations in Santa Fe, KTRC or KVSF, both of which played rock-and-roll music in the mid-afternoon timeslot.

But, there was no music, or greetings from our brothers. And, there were no smiles.

They were listing to the news of the assassination of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy earlier in the day while making his way through Dallas via motorcade.

Tears streamed down their cheeks. Even the obviously named “Tank” Blea, the son-of-a-bitch who greeted me with a bruising punch to the shoulder each time he saw me – crying – like a little girl.

JFK was our first Catholic President, and he was young, and brilliant, and courageous, and charismatic, and married to a beautiful Catholic girl and was giving us beautiful Catholic babies. His light shone brightly. He was my first political campaign. “Teens for Kennedy.” I ran the organization out of the Santa Fe Public Library with volunteers from all four Santa Fe High Schools.

I didn’t realize I was crying until I pulled my handkerchief from my back pocket to wipe the tears from my face.

They cancelled our football game that night. And, the dance in the gym with the girls from Loretto that usually followed a home game.

We mourned over the weekend, and were granted the day off from school to watch Walter Cronkite, the most trusted man in America, on our round, black-and-white television sets, cover the President’s funeral.

Jack Kennedy, having presided over Camelot for a thousand days, was killed by an angry, paraoid nobody fifty years ago today.

Ille requiescant in pace.