Year Two, BOTG #1: Jimmy Finds the Perfect Spot and Immediately Climbs a Tree

YEAR TWO, BOTG #1: JIMMY FINDS THE PERFECT SPOT AND IMMEDIATELY CLIMBS A TREE

Year two started with Jimmy having a dangerous amount of confidence.

Not regular confidence. Treasure-hunter confidence.

The kind you get after spending far too long staring at clues until your brain finally announces that everyone else can go home because you have personally solved geography.

Everything seemed to lead here.

The X’s. The eyes. The rocks. The hounds. The gold circles.

One after another, they seemed to come together. Jimmy had looked at all of it, looked at the map, looked at the ground, and reached the only conclusion available to someone who had already packed the truck:

This was the spot.

My search partner was less convinced.

This was becoming something of a tradition.

We headed out on foot.

According to Jimmy, the walk was about a mile. Maybe a mile and a quarter.

According to my search partner, it was over two miles.

Neither of us measured it, so for historical purposes, the official distance shall be recorded as:

Long enough to start an argument.

Eventually, we reached the area I wanted.

I stopped and looked around.

There it was.

The landscape fit. The X’s had brought me here. The eyes seemed to point where I thought they should. The rocks fit. The hounds fit. The gold circles fit.

Jimmy was having a moment.

“Look. It all fits. The eyes point right there.”

My search partner looked where I was pointing.

Then she looked at me.

Then back at the forest.

“Okay. Let’s go see.”

There was not one ounce of confidence in those words.

It was the voice of someone who had accepted that preventing the next twenty minutes was no longer an available option.

Ahead of us was a narrow opening through the trees.

Jimmy saw a trail.

My search partner saw vegetation preparing an ambush.

We headed in.

For perhaps thirty seconds, Jimmy’s trail performed an adequate impression of an actual trail.

Then it got smaller.

And smaller.

The brush got thicker. Branches started appearing everywhere. The ground became harder to follow until, eventually, the trail disappeared almost completely.

My search partner stopped.

“This is not a trail.”

“Yes, it is.”

“This is bushwhacking.”

“No. Jon said no bushwhacking is needed.”

She looked around at the forest currently touching practically every part of us.

“THIS IS BUSHWHACKING.”

Jimmy looked ahead.

There was clearly still a route.

Admittedly, the route was now visible primarily to Jimmy.

But it went exactly where I wanted to go.

“I can still see the trail.”

My search partner stared at the alleged trail.

Jimmy stared at the alleged trail.

The alleged trail declined to comment.

Then my search partner opened the backpack.

Water?

Yes.

Snacks?

Yes.

First-aid supplies?

Yes.

Walkie-talkies?

Yes.

Various pieces of equipment presumably intended to rescue Jimmy from Jimmy?

Yes.

Bear mace?

...

Bear mace?

...

We forgot the bear mace.

Perfect.

Apparently, we had remembered snacks for the emergency but forgotten the equipment intended to discourage the emergency from eating the snacks and possibly us.

My search partner was done.

“I’m not going any farther.”

Fair.

But Jimmy could practically see the destination. It was close. Maybe another 50 to 75 feet.

So we negotiated.

My search partner would go back to where we had entered the alleged trail and wait. She would take one walkie-talkie. I would take the other.

Jimmy was allowed to go straight to the intended spot and nowhere else.

No wandering.

No investigating something shiny.

No “while I’m already here.”

No mysterious extra 200 feet.

No Jimmy math.

Go there. Look. Come back.

These rules existed because my search partner has met Jimmy before.

She headed back.

Jimmy headed forward.

Alone.

Without bear mace.

Following a trail that had recently lost its legal status as a trail.

And somehow, Jimmy was still confident.

Another 50 feet.

Maybe 75.

I was almost there.

I was still thinking about the X’s. Still looking at the landscape. Still trying to see whether everything really came together at this exact place.

Then something moved.

Black.

Ahead of me.

Not very far away.

And fast.

Just a black shape moving through the trees and gone before I could get a good look at it.

Jimmy froze.

There are moments when the human brain provides useful information.

Probably an animal.

Then Jimmy’s brain joined the investigation.

What kind of animal?

How big was it?

Why was it moving that fast?

Where did it go?

WHY DID WE FORGET THE BEAR MACE?

I stood completely still and listened.

Nothing.

And strangely enough, the mysterious black thing wasn’t what finally scared Jimmy.

The walkie-talkie did.

Without warning, the radio in my pocket exploded to life at approximately the volume of an emergency broadcast being transmitted directly into my soul.

“OH HELL NO! I HEARD SOMETHING! GET YOUR... BACK HERE!”

Jimmy’s soul briefly left Jimmy.

I don’t remember deciding to climb a tree.

This is important.

There was no careful wilderness assessment. No weighing of options. No consideration of what type of animal I might have seen.

There was simply:

Ground Jimmy.

Then:

Tree Jimmy.

Apparently, buried somewhere deep in the human brain is an emergency procedure that reads:

UNKNOWN BLACK THING + SCREAMING WALKIE-TALKIE + NO BEAR MACE = UP.

So there sat Jimmy.

In a tree.

Holding a walkie-talkie.

Looking down at the forest Jimmy had been absolutely certain contained the answer approximately forty-five seconds earlier.

The radio crackled again.

“JIMMY?!”

“I’M FINE!”

This was technically true.

“GET BACK HERE!”

For perhaps the first time in the history of our treasure-hunting partnership, Jimmy had no counterargument.

No theory.

No X’s.

No eyes.

No rocks.

No hounds.

No gold circles.

Jimmy had discovered a brand-new clue.

My search partner was done.

I came down from the tree and headed back.

It had taken what felt like forever to reach this area.

I was back with my search partner in less than five minutes.

Interesting.

Apparently, fear is considerably more accurate than Jimmy when estimating both distance and travel time.

I came out of the brush.

My search partner looked at me.

I looked at her.

“Done?”

“Done.”

And that was that.

Year two. First BOTG.

Jimmy had started the day with full confidence.

The X’s led here. The eyes pointed here. The rocks fit. The hounds fit. The gold circles fit. Everything seemed to be telling me to go to one particular place.

And Jimmy finally reached it...

only to conduct the most important part of the investigation from a tree.

We laughed about it for the rest of the day.

A lot.

No treasure box.

No dramatic discovery.

No idea what the black thing actually was.

And no regrets.

Because sometimes BOTG gives you an answer. Sometimes it gives you another question. And sometimes it gives your search partner a story she will apparently be allowed to tell for the rest of your natural life.

Jimmy still thinks the spot was interesting.

My search partner still insists it was bushwhacking.

The forest has declined to settle the argument.

The bear mace, however, has since been promoted considerably higher on the packing list.

And Jimmy learned one useful lesson that day:

When the X’s, eyes, rocks, hounds, and gold circles all point toward the same place, pay attention.

When your search partner, a mysterious black blur, and your entire nervous system all point toward the truck...

maybe pay attention to those clues too.

Jimmy is a fictional treasure-hunting persona created by M. Hayward as a creative voice for sharing stories, ideas, theories, humor, and adventures. Jimmy is just another treasure hunter. The raccoon insists he is real.

Copyright
© 2025 Lost Cabin Mine
Original concept, writing, and design by M. Hayward.