Far from any gaze, a lone figure crouched in a lone island of amber light. Though a cold dawn would soon break across the land, the man was well cloaked away. He had huddled against chilly, bare rock and worked for hours by the light of a single lantern perched above. All around was darkness, jagged rock threatened to bludgeon the careless. In an alcove stood a small stack of metal bars misshapen as melted butter. To the right, an improvised wooden board balanced on a rock where the man had his meager meal. Before him was a crude coal fired forge. As alienated as his situation was, he fidgeted with excitement as the forge before him tinkled and spat with rising heat. This man, Henry Holmes, had traveled in darkness well into the countryside, because he had something worth concealing. Something which he hoped would reap a greater bounty than the land had ever grown. Wild excitement bubbled in Holmes’ mind along with the hot metal. Holmes arose and, lifting his lamp, searched for the implement he needed. He had fashioned a crude tool, like tongs but fixed in place, which he hooked around the clay crucible and gently lifted it. It was now or never as this metal cooled quickly, so he needed to act fast. In a brief moment of panic, his eyes still full of the light from his lamp, Holmes couldn’t make out the opening of the cast. He squinted, and in his last moment of fortune delivered the shimmering soup to its target. Still shaking, he set the crucible down and sat with a sigh of relief. Holmes yearned to see his product, but he would have to wait just a little while longer.
The late morning sun lay on the table, nature’s newspaper I could peruse with a coffee. This day however I was looking for places to hike, the landscape lay open in the map. Names of some familiar trails flashed through my mind. Sunk mine, Dennytown, Charcoal Burners. Then I stumbled over an unconventional word hiding in a lower corner. Expanding the map, I made out the word “Moneyhole Mountain”. Intrigued, I scanned the route of the trail which began close to where I’ve hiked but headed away south into an unfamiliar area of valleys. The name was so peculiar that I impulsively looked it up and that was when I first became aware of this local legend. I read a brief article from a local newspaper, talking about a small cave somewhere on the mountain, used two centuries ago by a counterfeiter as a lair. Few knew of its existence and even fewer its precise location, with no entries on wikiloc or any other landmark database. All I was able to find was an extremely rough description of its location, being “not far from Indian Brook Road”, a few mentions of markings on trees, and one visual clue showing an indistinct gap between boulders and a view of a hillside covered with more large boulders. Screenshots in hand, I knew where I was going that day.
Once at the trailhead on the described road, I headed south and began searching. The trail climbed gently uphill, Moneyhole Mountain being more of a ridge than a peak. All I had to go off was that I was looking for large boulders, and possibly a stream or wetland at the base of a hill. The trail passed a few rocky outcroppings in the distance, which more than once I ran over to examine, not realizing in my eagerness that their scale was nothing like the images. After a half dozen of these false alarms, I realized the proper scale of the stones I sought and realized their absence in this area at least. This couldn’t be the place. Further on as the trail climbed, I wondered if the elevation meant that this boulder-canyon could exist on either side of the ridge. Several times I bushwhacked loosely outwards to the edge of the ridge, looking down the slope for any hint of rock. Eventually I hit an intersection with the red trail, which the map told me headed peripherally back to the trailhead. At this point I realized that this was not going to be a single day search, and subsequently the searches gained more method.
There are some places that summer never reaches. As relentless as the heat gets, it is always the outsider in the natural order. Quite literally in fact, as thirty sweltering degrees rippled out there, the chill of early spring hadn’t left Holmes’ refuge. The only outsider here was himself. By this time, he’d labored away nearly the entire pile of ingots and honed his technique. No longer jittering with excitement he worked with ease, deftly pouring metal into many casts, knowing just how long was needed before breaking the coins free. He filed away the channels of each, checking the details against a sample coin kept in his pocket. To an untrained eye, the illusion held. Indeed, his illusion worked well on the folks in town and Holmes now sported a second light and more supplies. He’d headed right into town the morning following a night of work and forked over a few forgeries for some pewter cookware to melt down, as well as a brighter lantern. No one Holmes dealt with could be considered a trained eye, so he was nonchalant. Upon finishing the last of a batch, he stood to fetch another ingot and tossed the finished coin in with the rest. Once it was in the forge, Holmes paused before bundling the bag of coins. A few shards of broken alloy sat at the top of the bag. He pulled one out and inspected the edge. Far from uniform reflective metal, Holmes noted a jagged, brittle fracture like plaster. A bubble of worry rose to the surface, and he reached into the bag for another coin and nervously tossed it at the stone in front of him. The light of his lantern splashed like water as the coin shattered on the rocks. How fragile his illusion really was.
Weeks later the Moneyhole itch returned, and I was back on the hunt. At this point it was high summer, and the foliage had made the search more tactical. I began using a lot more context clues apart from just terrain. I started predicting the terrain, taking a step back from looking for boulders and instead guessing where boulders were. Boulders around here tend to occur either as large, isolated erratics or as glacial scars on valleys. Because of this, I focused more on valley walls which faced east/west, as I guessed glaciers would have passed along them, piling up large fields of rock. This time I took the red trail as it approached the westward side of the mountain more directly, and I could inspect its slopes. Strangely enough, this area was far less rocky than expected. Only one area really caught my attention, and a few parallel sweeps quickly ruled it out. I did discover that the red trail was a convenient shortcut to the frontier of the search, so it became the chosen route.
A few more searches happened in the season hence, and by then I was starting to have doubts. All this time I had assumed that the hole was really south of the road, as the written source claimed. The topographic maps showed much steeper terrain north of the road, around the other nearby mountain. Who knew what hundreds of years and countless retellings of the story had done to the details. I couldn’t even be sure this was Moneyhole Mountain itself. Despite my doubts, I persisted in marking off areas as searched and highlighting more uplands. As I became weary of just using geography, I turned to the scant mentions of marks on trees. In hindsight this was a little ridiculous, as the age of the hole provided enough time for any marking to fade from the landscape. Just as the knowledge of the story, any old placard may have rusted away and dropped from its tree. I think I expected some select band of people who knew the hole’s whereabouts to have set up a trail of breadcrumbs. Thus, on this search the target was anything unnatural on the side of the trail, any carved arrow, faded paint dot or nail from a vanished sign. Starting from the junction with red trail, I headed further south. As the ridge reached its modal height, the trail was at its flattest and golden summer grass was at my knees. Occasionally I’d spot a deer trail or other oddity and follow it a few paces. At one point I found a ghostly pale blotch of lichen on a tree which so resembled a trail mark that it sent my imagination racing. Thankfully this temporary madness would soon come to an end, but not before offering a final strange riddle.
Tracing my route on google maps, I noticed more steep hemming a creek, a promising prospect. This was the furthest bushwhack yet undertaken, but no number of mosquitoes could drink away curiosity. I arrived at the southern end of the steep portion, and walked up the valley, following the lazily flowing stream and scanning each side. This place had old and robust hemlocks, an unsullied stretch of truly native woodland. Despite their beauty and scarcity, they weren’t the ones I sought. The area around the hole was only deciduous trees, as evident in the clues. There were a good number of boulders though, not as scattered but exposed and weathered bedrock. Just as I intended to turn back west, something caught my eye nearby. It was blue, an unnaturally bright shade of blue. This wasn’t fungus or lichen. This was a very deliberate, manmade mark. Just as the queries rushed in, another was in the distance. This time on a fallen tree twenty meters or so from the first. Tracing the two, I hurried past the second one and a third lay on a tree, in an almost perfect line. Failing to find a fourth, I headed the other way, trying to see if they lead anywhere. Maddeningly, there were no further marks and no hints to suggest a trail was every frequented. At least a quarter to a half mile of woods lay in every direction. It was a real will-o’-the-wisp moment, except these ghosts weren’t up for a long trip. Eventually I ended up heading back slightly north of where I bushwhacked, the capstone on the entire northern half of the search. This incident with the blue dots confounds me to this day, and I will definitely return to hemlock valley and chase those ghosts again.
With only fifty scant minutes of daylight left, the farmer was starting to lose hope. It’d been hours since he’d last seen the cow and who knows how long that fence had been down. But as the land got steeper, he kept going. Soon the adventurous animal would be backed against the mountain with nowhere to go. As the farmer reached the edge of impassable rocks he skirted along the ridge’s base, hoping his cow was making a circle back toward the neighbor’s pasture. The ridge ahead opened up into a dead-end gorge, at last maybe the animal had gone in here. As desperation was starting to set in, the farmer smelled the faint smell of an oil lamp somewhere in the distance. He wondered if someone else might be out here, someone who could help him track the cow. He looked all around for company but saw no trace of a lantern. There were boulders all around him and their deep pits made natural traps for any large animal. Then the lantern smell hit him stronger than ever, and the farmer almost hopped across the opening of a small cave without realizing. He froze when he looked down and saw the wooden ladder. Curiosity got the better of him, and he slowly descended, expecting to see light owing to the smell. The cave was completely dark, but a still-warm lantern stood next to the foot of the ladder. The farmer squinted in the darkness, and gasped as he made out what looked like coal ash, a pile of metal scrap, and a straw mattress scattered around the small room. He thought of the local paper, and mutterings in town. He’d been told to be suspicious of any Spanish-milled dollars. Realizing at last what he was seeing, the farmer hurried back up the ladder and away toward town.
After an exceptionally white winter, as the days grew longer and the snows faded into memory, I returned to the hunt with fresh eyes. With the northern half of the trail thoroughly explored, I turned my sights on the approach from the southern trailhead. The trail traces a backward L shape, with the short end slightly upturned so both ends face Indian Brook Road, the only other named location in the Moneyhole legend. Today spirits climbed high with the trail as the search reached new heights. To the west lay another valley with a stream, and steep rocky slopes. As with the valley of ghosts last year, I waited for the ruggedness to calm a bit, crossed over to the stream and followed it north. Here finally were boulders, huge and strewn wildly. I hopped from perch to perch, engrossed in the details of everything before me. I scanned for the familiar carvings on the rock, trying to match the sharp point that jutted above the entrance. Once or twice a deep hollow opened beneath, and my heart paused. But as the near misses added up, the first cloud shaded the sun. I returned to earth, stopped expecting the grand prize to be around every new crag. The search area shrank as the afternoon arrived and the once clear sky bespeckled itself. Feeling slightly discouraged, I picked up the trail again and reached Catfish Pond, a tranquil little lake nestled between Moneyhole Mountain and another hill. Here the trail made the big bend, with the rest stretching North and red trail arcing scenically over more glacial valleys. Near the lake I heard rushing water somewhere off the trail and squinted. In the distance I thought I saw more boulders. What I found was nothing like the boulders before, but far more lovely. A shelf of bedrock bore three miniature waterfalls, perfectly spaced in a line like performers. One fell crackling onto a rock, one rushed into open water, and one warbled into a hollow between two rocks. Their torrents united in perfect symphony, where each player’s sound was discernable. I’ve decided to name them the Three Voices. For a while I completely forgot about the search, and just admired them and the stream that fed them. It was one of those scenes whose scale seems exaggerated in photos. Some places have an outsized character to them, I have no other way to describe it. I think it was this place, more than anywhere else, that breathed new life into the search that day.
The afternoon by now was late, so on the return to the trailhead I headed past where I had bushwhacked. I wanted to trek to the valley again, to pick through a few smaller patches of rocks. I may’ve been grasping at straws by then, but topography doesn’t lie. Sure enough, I found more rocky terrain and excitement returned. I spend another frantic time hopping around the rocks like some antsy seabird, now trying to match trees which I thought may have been birches. It was at this point, with the sun low in the sky, that I made an important inference from the photo. The sun was low and to the right in the screenshots, and it was clearly winter. As remote as this place was, the cameraman would know not to be out that late, as bushwhacking past dark is a risky affair. That meant that it was probably morning, meaning south was to the right and ahead was east. The slope the hole was located on must face west, like the very slope I was searching. I considered at the number of hours I’d spent pacing easterly slopes before as the rock-hopping continued. Still frustratedly empty-handed, it was this point that I wanted to end the search for the day. I headed back to the trail, and was already descending from the ridge, still looking for topographic clues for next time. On the very edge of terra cognita, I saw one other gorge in the larger hillside. On any other day, I would’ve left it for next time as I’d been out for many hours by now. Something today was different, though. Some combination of starting energy and residual enchantment from finding the Three Voices, and lingering curiosity. I left the trail for the final time that day, beside a towering juniper. I reached the escarpment and began clambering down when a rustling came from the rocks only a few meters away. An enormous black vulture emerged from its roost under a ledge, and we locked eyes for a long moment. Once our mutual surprise had passed, I briskly moved away and he stretched his wings, which had to be over a meter in span. To the left I spotted the gorge, which was entirely lined with huge rocks. I began at the bottom and slowly climbed, low afternoon sun turning the rocks golden now instead of gray. There were birch trees here too, their striped bark just like in the photo. Except one had an odd mark on it. Not normal bark creases. I stopped dead and stared. It looked like an X. Then I saw the rock beside it, hauntingly familiar. Slowly approaching, everything began to fall into place. The perfect location, the perfect trees, the perfect direction. I looked over the edge, past the old glyph in the stone, and down into history.
It was a cool morning, somewhat unusual for May. Henry Holmes picked his way from tree to tree, following the path that by now was second nature. Each time he ventured out, he’d arced his way through a slightly different set of trees, as to not establish a traceable trail. He planned on making another big batch today with the sac of scrap slung over his shoulder. He’d made it most of the way without incident, but now getting to the entrance to the hole was tricky. He teetered across the boulders, at one point almost dropping his bag of supplies into a crevice. Just as he was at the entrance to the hole, Holmes heard the crack of a twig some distance away. He looked up startled and scanned the woods. No deer dashing away, no movement at all. The woods were oddly quiet today, the birdsong almost absent. No further sound greeted him. He turned back to the hole, tossing the bag of metal down and climbing in himself. Once inside, he lit the pair of lanterns and the forge. The scrap he brought today was mostly old plumbing fragments, a purer mix than the hodgepodge alloys he’d made before. This time the coins would not shatter so easily. The only downside was that the pipe scrap was too large for the crucible. He’d had to pound a few flat with a hammer and cut a few more up. Once done he sat and watch the surface distend and bubble. The sounds metal made as it heated up sounded almost like speech, Holmes thought. Like several voices softly babbling to one another. With the crucible molten, he poured the first cast and set it back down. Only the bubbling sound was still there, still sounding like faint speech and still getting clearer. Holmes looked into the now-empty forge, confused. He realized it wasn’t bubbling metal, and his stomach dropped as the light streaming down from the hole above dimmed. Two words echoed through his world. “Come out.”
