I still wake up tasting ash. Not the soft kind from a campfire, but the sharp, sulfurous stuff that clings to your teeth—like biting into a handful of obsidian. It was 1524, and we were marching south, Pedro de Alvarado at the front, his armor clinking like a loose detector coil.
“Keep up,” he barked, though half the men were already staggering. Behind us: 600 Spaniards, a thousand native auxiliaries, and a herd of squealing pigs (don’t ask—Alvarado thought they’d “root out provisions”). Ahead: Guatemala, a land of smoking volcanoes and obsidian plains that sliced through boots like butter.
This isn’t metal detecting. But man, it feels the same: chasing something you’re not sure exists, while the ground itself tries to break you.
The March: From Maize Fields to a Smoking Hell
First week was easy. Maize terraces, rivers you could drink from, villages that traded us beans for beads. Alvarado grinned, twirling his rapier. “Gold’s just ahead,” he said, tapping a map drawn in coffee stains.
Then we hit the gap between Agua and Fuego—two volcanoes, like giant sentinels. The air turned thick, reeking of rotten eggs. Horses snorted, eyes watering. By noon, half the mounts were blind—sulfur burning their eyes.
Alvarado didn’t flinch. He dismounted, drew his dagger, and slit a blind mare’s throat. “Earth demands a toll,” he said, letting her blood soak into the dirt. Then he grabbed her saddle and kept walking.
I thought: This man’s either brave or crazy. Now? I think it’s both.
The Plain of Mirrors: Where Obsidian Tried to Kill Us
They called it the Plain of Mirrors, but there’s no beauty here. Just obsidian—shiny, black, sharp as shards of a broken detector screen. Sliced through sandals, gashed calves, even snapped arrows in half.
Saw a kid—Juan, 19, fresh from Spain—trip and fall. A shard went clean through his palm. He howled, blood dripping onto the glass. His buddy tried to help, but Alvarado yelled, “Move!” So we left him, hobbling, whimpering, until he caught up at dusk.
Torres, our surgeon, worked by firelight, bandaging feet with rags. “This land’s alive,” he muttered, dabbing pus from a gash. “And it’s hungry.”
I kept my mouth shut. But I thought of my dad, back in Seville, who used to say, “You don’t fight the dirt. You learn to read it.” He was a blacksmith, not a soldier. But man, he knew things.
The River of Fire: When We Tried to Cross Lava
Relief hit when we found a valley—until we saw the river. Not water. Lava. Orange, glowing, hissing like a nest of angry snakes.
Alvarado’s plan: build rafts from saddle wood. “We cross before dawn,” he said.
First raft launched. Then—snap. It tipped, men tumbling into the fire. I saw Diego, the cook, flailing, his shirt burning. Screamed until the lava swallowed him.
No one jumped in to save them. You can’t fight that kind of heat. We crossed on a rocky causeway, boots burning, while the river roared below. Alvarado led, back straight, like he couldn’t feel the heat.
That night, I sat by the fire, picking obsidian splinters from my ankle. Thought: Gold better be worth this.
The Golden Wound: When Alvarado Got Cut
We found a valley—waterfalls, cacao trees, a village with thatched roofs. For a second, I thought: This is it. Then Alvarado’s horse tripped. He fell, hitting a rock, and his thigh split open—bone showing, blood gushing.
Torres scrambled, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop. Alvarado grabbed my arm. “Gold,” he gasped.
We poured his pouch of gold dust into the wound. Let it mix with blood, then bound it tight. By morning, he was walking, limping, but grinning. “See?” he said. “Gold heals.”
I just stared at his bandage, now yellow with pus and gold. Thought: That’s not healing. That’s madness.
Q’umarkaj: Feast, Then Fire
The Kaqchikel Maya met us with a feast—turkey, cocoa spiced with chili, dancers in jade masks. Alvarado laughed, clapping their king on the back. “Told you,” he said.
But dusk came, and arrows rained down. The Maya had been hiding warriors in the palisades. Torches flared; thatch huts went up in flames. Alvarado yelled, drawing his sword, but we were outnumbered.
Fought till dawn. By then, the city was ash. No gold. Just bodies—Maya, Spaniards, even the pigs, roasted alive.
Alvarado kicked a charred beam. “East,” he said. “Gold’s east.”
Santiago: Building a City on Ash
We stumbled into a highland plain, rivers, green fields. Alvarado stopped, grinning. “Here,” he said. “We build.”
Named it Santiago de los Caballeros. Put up a church, a plaza, stables for the few horses left. Alvarado’s leg still oozed—gold and pus seeping through the bandage. But he walked the streets, pointing, planning.
I thought: This is what victory looks like? A limping man, a smoking church, a land that hates us?
Field Notebook Takeaways (Scrawled in Blood and Ash)
- The land fights back: Volcanoes, obsidian, lava—nature doesn’t care about your plans. Same with detecting: mineralized dirt’ll lie, thick grass’ll hide signals. Adapt, or get cut.
- Ambition blinds: Alvarado chased gold so hard, he didn’t see the danger. I’ve dug 20 holes for a “silver” signal that was just a can tab. Slow down.
- Tools fail: Horses went blind, rafts broke, even gold couldn’t fix a infected wound. My best multi-frequency detector? It chatters in wet sand. No gear’s perfect.
- Respect the locals: The Maya fed us, then fought us. Dirt’s the same—be nice, and it’ll give up its secrets. Poke it with a shovel like an enemy? It’ll hide the good stuff.
Dumb Questions I’d Ask Alvarado (Over a Jar of Mezcal)
Q: Was the gold ever worth it?
A: (Grins, leg twitching) We built a city, didn’t we? That’s gold, in a way.
Q: Scarier—obsidian plains or a detector that won’t stop beeping?
A: (Laughs) Beeping. At least obsidian’s honest. A detector lies like a politician.
Q: Regrets?
A: (Stares at his leg) Should’ve listened to the horses. They knew the volcanoes were angry.
These days, if you dig in Guatemala’s highlands, you’ll find shards of our pottery, rusted nails from our horseshoes, even bits of obsidian. They’re not gold. But they’re stories—of men who marched into hell, chasing a dream.
Ever chased something that fought back? A hunt that left you bruised, but wiser? Tell me. I’m all ears.