March 1925. The Amazon sun blazes through the canopy, turning the river to liquid gold. Percy Fawcett stands at the canoe’s prow, pith helmet tilted back, his son Jack (12, grinning like he’s won the lottery) at his side. “Six weeks,” Fawcett says, tapping the map tucked in his shirt. “We find Z, then home.”
I’ve got a copy of that map, dog-eared, in my detector bag. Scrawled in Fawcett’s messy hand: “City of Z—stone walls, gold, older than the pyramids.” He believed it was out here, beyond the last known tributary, hidden by vines and time.
Me? I chase relics in fields, not lost cities. But Fawcett? He’s my spirit animal. Because hunting’s not about finding the treasure. It’s about the hunger—that itch to dig where no one’s dug before.
First Steps: Wonder in the Weeds
First week, they’re giddy. Scarlet macaws scream overhead, their feathers brighter than any relic I’ve ever found. Jack whittles a stick into a “spear” and pretends to hunt capybaras (which are basically giant guinea pigs, Fawcett laughs).
Fawcett’s journal? Obsessive. He maps the river’s curves with a cartographer’s precision, notes the way the water tastes (“mineral-rich, like the clay in my father’s field”), sketches a flower that drips sap “thick as honey.”
I get it. That first swing of a detector in a new field? Same thrill. Sun on your back, coil humming, wondering what’s just out of sight.
But the jungle’s not a park. By week two, the river turns mean. Currents twist around submerged logs, and the carriers—muleteers from Porto Velho—start muttering. “Bad water,” one says, nodding at the brown churn. “Tribes here don’t like strangers.”
Fawcett offers them tobacco, a medal from his army days. “Courage,” he says, but his jaw’s tight. I’ve been there—standing in a field with a detector that won’t stop chattering, knowing the good stuff’s there but the dirt’s fighting me. You fake confidence, but inside? You’re screaming.
The Rot Sets In: Fever, Fear, and Lost Carriers
Week three, the jungle fights back. Mosquitoes—silver-tipped, relentless—swarm at dusk. Men start coughing, tent walls sweating with their fever. Fawcett boils quinine, shoves pills into their mouths, but it’s like trying to bail a boat with a thimble.
One morning, a carrier’s gone. Tent unzipped, hammock swinging empty. No note, no footprints—just the jungle, swallowing him whole.
Fawcett writes in his journal: “The jungle takes what it wants.” I’ve felt that, too. Spent a morning digging a deep signal, only to hit a rock. The dirt wanted to keep its secret.
Jack gets sick, too. His skin goes sallow, he can’t keep down biscuits. Fawcett sits with him, dabbing his forehead with river water, whispering stories of home. “Your mother’s making your favorite—treacle tart,” he says. Jack smiles, weak. “Promise we’ll find Z?” “Promise,” Fawcett lies.
The Last Camp: “Do Not Follow”
Early May, they hit a bluff. The river loops below, slow and brown, like a snake coiled to strike. Fawcett’s map says: Here. Z’s just over that ridge.
He sets camp under kapok trees, their roots like giant fingers. Tightens Jack’s laces, presses a pemmican bar into his hand. “You stay here,” he says. “I’ll scout ahead. Be back by dusk.”
Jack grabs his arm. “No. I’m coming.” Fawcett hesitates, then nods. He pulls a scrap of parchment from his pocket, scrawls: Do not follow us. Shoves it into Jack’s pocket. “In case.”
That night, rain hammers the tent. Lightning splits the sky, and for a second, you can see the jungle: endless, green, hungry.
Dawn comes. The camp’s empty. Canoes adrift, paddles snapped. Fawcett’s journal, open to a blank page. Jack’s stick spear, lying in the mud. No blood, no screams. Just… gone.
A Century of Chasing Ghosts
They’ve been looking for 100 years. Search parties vanish. Drones scan the canopy, find nothing but more trees. LiDAR maps show blips—rectangles in the jungle, like foundations—but are they Z? Or just old villages?
In 2019, they found shards of Fawcett’s blue enamel plate, half-buried. Nearby, a rusted rivet from his canoe. I’ve got a similar rivet in my collection—from a Civil War canteen, dug in a field. It’s not gold, but it’s a story.
That’s the thing about relics. They don’t have to be grand. They just have to mean something. Fawcett’s plate? It means he was there. That Z—whether real or not—drove him to keep going, even when the jungle screamed “stop.”
Field Notebook Takeaways (Scrawled in Jungle Mud)
- The hunt’s better than the find: Fawcett never found Z. But he found purpose. Same with detecting—digging a penny feels like victory if you loved the chase.
- Respect the terrain: The jungle ate carriers, flooded camps, broke paddles. Mineralized dirt? It’ll lie to your detector. Slow down, read the signs.
- Pack light, but pack smart: Fawcett had quinine, but not enough. I carry extra batteries, a first-aid kit, and a snack. You never know.
- “Do not follow” is a warning, not a rule: People chased Fawcett. I’ve chased signals others ignored. Sometimes the best finds are where no one else dared.
Dumb Questions I’d Ask Fawcett (Over a Canteen of River Water)
Q: Did you really think Z was there?
A: (Grins) Does it matter? Believing kept me going. Same as you with that coil—you think there’s something under that dirt, so you dig.
Q: Scarier—hostile tribes or a detector that won’t stop chattering?
A: (Laughs) Chattering. At least tribes tell you they’re mad. A detector? Lies like a politician.
Q: Would you trade Z for one more day with Jack?
A: (Pauses) In a heartbeat. Treasure’s just rocks and stories. People? They’re the real relics.
I still carry that map of Fawcett’s in my bag. Not to find Z, but to remember: the best hunts aren’t about what you dig up. They’re about the mud on your boots, the sweat on your brow, the longing to see what’s over the next ridge.
Ever chased a ghost? A signal that led you nowhere, but taught you something anyway? Tell me. I’m all ears.