The Lost Leprechaun MIne

The Lost Leprechaun Mine

Early this summer I saw a map showing what appeared to be a dry lake northwest of Rio Rancho, New Mexico. There were no roads shown leading to the area, and the 20 miles was over some pretty rugged terrain. Due to its inaccessibility, not many people have probably walked that ground in historical times. This was just the sort of challenge to appeal to my friend Joe.

We put together the supplies and equipment we would need to spend up to two weeks in the wilderness. Using the GPS system in Joe’s four-wheel drive, we were able to make our closest approach to the area in a little over a day. We set up camp and started our hike early the next morning before the sun was over the horizon.

The going was far rougher than it appeared on the maps. After three days we were tired, sore and had barely gone five miles. Our packs had worn our shoulders raw, and every muscle ached. On the evening of the eighth day we camped on a high, rocky ridge and could see a large spot of green along an arroyo below us. The dry lake bed still wasn’t in sight, and we were very discouraged. The next morning we headed down hill towards the green oasis hoping to replace our dwindling water supply.

It wasn’t much of a spring, just a little dribble of water into a small pool. Around the pool there were hundreds of animal tracks in the mud and sand. The low shrubbery provided us with cool shade from the harsh mid-day sun so we ate a small lunch and took a siesta waiting for the day to cool off. We camped a short distance away from the spring intending an early start on the tenth day. That evening we seriously considered turning back but left the decision for the next morning.

We awoke early and rested as the sun came up. I made coffee while Joe went down to the spring for water. Joe began to shout for me to come and see what he had found. I didn’t expect much, perhaps some ancient petroglyph, or the tracks of some larger animal. I found Joe squatting over the sand staring down at a set of small tracks. I looked closer where he was pointing and could see what appeared to be a line of small horse tracks. Not just small, but tiny tracks belonging to a horse that couldn’t have been more than twelve inches tall. Obviously these were not the hoof prints of a horse … right? As I was trying to work out what animal might have left such strange markings in the sand, Joe tugged at my sleeve and pointed at the mud immediately beside the still pool. There we saw a set of “human” footprints that seemed to have been left by a rider dismounting from the miniature horse.

The Discovery

We were as astonished to find tiny human footprints beside the desert pool probably as our reader’s are to hear of it.  Such a discovery couldn’t just be left unexplored, and we didn’t intend to leave without resolving the mystery.  The human tracks didn’t appear anywhere away from the tracks that we took to be a miniature horse, so we concluded that the “human” rode into the spring, dismounted and watered his steed before remounting and riding away.  From the tracks leading away from the pool, the departure must have been at a gallop.  About ten yards down the arroyo, the tracks led up onto the harder ground of the desert floor.  Not being expert trackers we soon lost the trail, and had to return to the spring. 

If we couldn’t follow where the rider had gone, then at least we could backtrack to where he had been.  The tracks led up the arroyo for about a mile and then ascended to the desert above.  We were afraid that the beginning would be as fruitless as the end of the trail we had followed.  However, not far away we found a circle of small, smoldering fire pits.  Each fire pit was ringed by small stones and was about the diameter of our hand.  Obviously, the campsite had been abandoned perhaps only hours before our arrival.  There were a lot of small human and horse tracks around the site that led off around a small rocky hill.  Within 25 yards the trail became harder to follow and split up into many smaller trails going off in different directions.

We returned to the abandoned camp and almost by accident discovered a large hole dug into the side of the hill.  There were signs that the hole was artificial and had been dug out by the combined labor of many little hands.  We knelt and peered into the hole.  Joe thought he saw something glitter inside and put his hand into the hole.  He yelled and for a moment I thought a rattler had bitten him.  It took awhile for me to see that a small arrow had pierced Joe’s hand.  The arrow, only about two inches long, had gone almost entirely through the web of Joe’s hand between the thumb and index finger.  He hopped around nursing his wound, and in his anger kicked the offending hole into oblivion 

I finally got him calmed down and pushed the little arrow on through his hand.  It didn’t bleed much, so he wrapped it up in his bandanna.  After the first aid we looked more carefully into what remained of the hole.  There appeared to be a number of small tunnels leading further underground radiating from a large central “room”.  In that room we found a large pile of golden ingots measuring about ¾ inches in length.  We scooped up the treasure, about 20 pounds in all, and returned to our camp near the spring. 

Escape Through the Desert

The sun was low, but we agreed to put as much distance as possible between us and the spring.  Clearly we needed to lighten our packs if we were to carry out an added burden of 20 golden pounds.  That presented a problem.  Our supplies had already dwindled dangerously low and we couldn’t afford to risk running out of supplies in such unforgiving country.  In the end we left behind almost everything, but our small collection of freeze-dried food and water. 

Luckily there was a full moon and we were able to make pretty good time for several hours.  Then things began to get rough.  Joe’s hand was swollen.  He appeared dazed and was slowly falling further and further behind.  Our rest stops became longer and more frequent, but we continued until about one in the morning before curling up to sleep.  The sun was already high when we awoke, but we ate a cold breakfast and drank a couple of swallows of warm water each.

That day was pure torture.  Joe kept raving about our being followed, but I saw no evidence for it.  We were sore and the mountains seemed to have grown overnight.  Joe stumbled and fell in the stifling afternoon.  His hand was like a balloon with only stiff little fingers to remind us of its earlier shape.  The edges of the wound were puffed up and discolored.  I cut a slash across the wound to let it drain and the result was a stinking watery mess.  Joe was raving, so I found us a shady spot beneath two large boulders.  We spent the rest of the day there panting in the heat.

As evening fell we had to get moving again.  Even though the sky remained bright; we had great difficulty keeping to the trail.  The “path” didn’t really exist, and deep shadows confused the eye.  Again and again we stumbled upward through a jumble of rocks.  Except for our passage, the desert remained silent as a grave.  Joe began singing some ditty, and its echoes came back to mock us.  By the late evening we had reached the summit of the mountain, and fell exhausted into troubled sleep.

When I opened my eyes the daylight was already blinding.  I reached for my hat and couldn’t find it.  Not only was my hat missing - so was Joe.  I quickly gathered our goods and followed the broken trail Joe had left down the mountain.  Luckily, he was headed in the right direction.  Half a mile down the trail I found him sprawled face up into the sun.  His hat was also missing and his face was already beginning to burn.  I propped him up and forced some water past his peeling lips.  He moaned and tried to gulp more than his dehydrated body could tolerate.  I pulled away the water sack, and then noticed that it was almost empty.  I was pretty sure that we hadn’t drunk that much.  The reason soon became clear; there were half a dozen small holes in the bottom of the sack that left a wet trail behind us. 

It was now imperative that we get out of the desert as quickly as possible.  I drained what was left from the water sack into our canteens, and we drank the rest.  I had to half carry Joe down the slope.  We got to the bottom and another high rocky ridge was before us.  I could go no further so that night we slept fitfully and cold.  In the morning, I felt better except for the sunburn.  Joe was better too; his fever seemed to have gone down but his hand was still a mess.  We started up the trail, and found to our dismay that our fear of being followed was confirmed.

The Twelfth Day

In the middle of the trail where we could not miss it was a severed head on a stake.  It was “only” the head of a large Jack Rabbit, but its effect was as chilling as if it were human.  Its glassy dead eyes seemed to follow us as we scrambled away.  We didn’t much care where we went, so long as it was away from the grisly trail marker.  We no longer felt quite so good.

We must have traveled at least a mile before we had calmed ourselves enough to take a break.  For a long time we just sat trying to recover from both fright and flight.  Joe just kept muttering, “never should’a, never should’a, never should’a” over and over until I told him to just shut up.  We ate one of our last freeze-dried meals and finished off one canteen.  That left us with a handful of food, and one canteen to last for god knew how long.  I had been carrying the gold in my rucksack, and it seemed to have gotten heavier with every step we took.  We were in a desperate situation.  No hats, our clothes torn to rags on the jagged rocks, little food and even less water.  In our wild flight we may have gotten turned around, or maybe not.  Civilization was to the Southeast, but we had no idea of how far it was. 

The desert had gone silent again.  Then we could hear something moving in the low grasses and brush.  We heard what sounded like a horse snorting and whinnying no louder than a sparrow's call.  Even more disturbing, it seemed that the grasses all around us were in motion - though there was no wind to ruffle them.  Sweat stood out on Joe’s face.  Suddenly Joe jumped up and ran toward an outcropping of large boulders and rocks.  I had no choice but to follow him, the rucksack banging against my back.  We had hardly reached the shelter of the rocks when a shower of tiny arrows arched towards us.  Fortunately noneof the arrows found their mark.  We holed up there for the rest of the day.  Our water supply had now shriveled to a mere half of one canteen.

As the western sky turned blood red, a cool breeze came out of the North carrying the tenor sound of tiny drums.  It was clear we couldn’t last much longer unless we could go on unmolested.  I threw the rucksack and its gold as far out into the brush as I could.  All that night we kept watch, but nothing happened.  Morning found us both exhausted, but forced to move while we still had enough energy to walk.  By noon the water was gone, and our thirst seemed to become increasingly unbearable.  We had taken to walking along the bottom of a dry creek bed because it seemed easiest.  I vaguely remember digging into the sand by some rocks until a small pool of muddy water appeared.  Joe drank directly from the seepage, and promptly threw-up.  We then collected the water and strained it through what remained of my shirt into the canteen.  I remember how cool the shirt felt as the water evaporated.  After that, I remember nothing.  I have no idea how long or what directions we walked. 

My next memory was of a rough hard surface beneath my cheek.  I forced my eyes open and saw a straight line dwindling in the distance.  I remember being puzzled about what it might be, and then I passed out again.  A rough hand shook me back to consciousness, and forced a wet cloth between my teeth.  It was an old man, and I was lying in the shade of a battered pickup that must have been almost as old as my rescuer.  I asked where Joe was, and the old man seemed surprised that there might be another Gringo fool wandering around in the desert.  I passed out again.  Being bounced on my bruised and burnt body roused me enough to see that Joe was lying unconscious next to me in the truck bed. 

After Word: the Archives

Back in Albuquerque, the doctors treated Joe for a bad rattlesnake bite, and re-hydrated us both.  The sunburns took longer to treat, and for a time we were covered in salve.  Both of us were released from the hospital after three days (thank you MediCare), and allowed to go home.  Joe and his wife promptly left Albuquerque to resettle in Montana. 

I just couldn’t let the whole thing go without trying to find some explanations beyond the doctor’s assurances that we were “merely” delirious and probably dreamed the whole thing.  They might think so, but I knew better.  I searched the Internet for anything similar, but didn’t really find anything that seemed to match our experience.  I tried to query local members of the Pueblos, but they denied any knowledge of a diminutive group of savages living west of the Rio Puerco. 

Finally in desperation, I went up to Santa Fe and visited the State Archives in search of anything that might confirm what Joe and I had encountered in the desert.  Mostly I found nothing there either.  The one scrap of evidence was a short article in a one page pioneer newspaper from 1882.  Here is the essence of that story:

A raving man wandered into an isolated ranch out of the desert in August of 1882.  The rancher took the man into Salazar, and was given a small amount of gold for his trouble.  The local Veterinarian/Curendaras/Bruja treated the man for heat stroke and dehydration.  She was also rewarded with a small amount of gold.  The man then retired to the local saloon, which it seems may have been the most important building in Salazar at the time.  It was there that the local newspaperman found him and got his story.

Patrick Michael Shagnasty-O’Dell told of finding a vein of gold west of the Puerco, and being chased out of the area by hundreds of leprechauns.  O’Dell was drunk at the time and his story wasn’t taken seriously.  The one page monthly Salazar Citizen titled the story, “Lost Leprechaun Mine”.  The story was obviously written to amuse the locals, and so far as I could determine no other copy of the Salazar Citizen remains in existence.  There was no trace of what happened to Patrick O’Dell, and he seems to have vanished from history.

My wife, Natalie says she won’t let me go hiking in the desert anymore, and that’s probably all right with me.  Still …  somewhere out there northeast of Albuquerque and west of the Rio Puerco there remains fame and fortune to be discovered by a fool or a fanatic with a death wish.  Not long after I first wrote of our desert adventure, I was contacted by a group willing to finance an expedition to the area with a helicopter, but my wife told them to "stuff it".