February 18, 2018 Apache Junction, Arizona
“All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost.”
— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
As far back as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to stories of buried treasure, lost mines, and shipwrecks laden with gold. To the part of my mind that has stubbornly refused to grow up, there’s always been something thrilling about the idea of maps, legends, and secrets waiting to be discovered.
So when I started looking for a marathon in Arizona and saw one called the Lost Dutchman, I didn’t need to read any further—I was in.
The race is named after one of the most famous lost treasure legends in American folklore. According to the tale, a German immigrant named Jacob Waltz—the “Dutchman”—discovered a rich gold mine hidden
deep in Arizona’s Superstition Mountains during the 1800s. He supposedly kept its location secret until his death in 1891, and treasure hunters have been searching for it ever since. Some say the mine is cursed. Others claim it never existed. But the desert doesn’t give up its secrets easily.
That legend rang familiar. Back in Kentucky, not far from my hometown, we have our own tale of buried treasure: the Lost John Swift Silver Mine, said to be hidden somewhere in the Red River Gorge of Eastern Kentucky. When I was in my late teens—juggling college and odd jobs to keep my wallet from running dry— I decided the Lost John Swift Silver Mine was my ticket to solvency. My not-yet-fully-developed brain considered it “a sound financial plan”: locate a few silver bars, pay for tuition, and have gas money left over!
As fate would have it, that treasure hunt brought me to the little Eastern Kentucky town of Frenchburg, where I met a beautiful, petite, and intriguing girl named Joann. In the months that followed, I began seeing her at every opportunity, and when the time was right, we were married. I never did find the mine—but I found her. And as Proverbs 31:10 says, “A wife of noble character who can find? She is worth far more than rubies.”
I might not have uncovered any silver, but according to Solomon—the wisest man who ever lived—I struck something better: a wife of noble character. On a purely personal note, after 48 years of marriage, Joann is still beautiful, petite, and even more intriguing!
The Lost Dutchman Marathon was everything I could hope for in a high-desert race. The runners boarded pre-dawn shuttle buses that wound their way up to a remote trailhead outside Gold Canyon. As we neared the drop-off area, I saw in the distance what looked like fireflies scattered across the hillside. Closer in, I realized volunteers had built numerous small campfires, spaced about ten to twelve feet apart.
Departing the buses into the darkness, the fires not only provided light but also warmth in the bone-chilling cold—a stark reminder of the desert’s extremes, from stifling daytime heat to frigid nighttime temperatures.
There, under a cold desert sky, we gathered around flickering campfires—runners from all over the country sipping coffee, stretching, and warding off pre-race jitters with polite small talk, or simply standing quietly, enjoying the glow.
The image of those fires—orange light dancing across apprehensive faces, the silence of the desert just before daybreak—has stayed with me ever since. The race hadn’t even started, but I knew this was going to be an experience, not just another marathon.
The race began at the first hint of dawn, the early start designed to give runners reprieve from the coming heat and unrelenting sun. As the sky brightened, I saw we were surrounded by giant saguaro cacti standing like sentinels along the trail, their massive arms lifted toward the sky. The largest cactus species in North America, saguaros can grow up to 50 feet tall and live up to 200 years—older than the state of Arizona itself. Each one seemed a reminder that endurance isn’t always about being the fastest; sometimes it’s simply about holding on and surviving when others give up.
The course started high above town and gradually descended into Apache Junction, offering a varied mix of early downhill dirt trails, rolling pavement, and a few late hills that tested everyone’s preparation. As we descended, the Superstition Mountains rose behind us, keeping their secrets. I have to admit, as the rising sun cast ever-changing shadows across the rocks and crevices, that part of my brain that still thinks a map with an ‘X’ might change my life wondered if one of those shadows marked the entrance to the Lost Dutchman’s Mine.
Every few miles, cheerful volunteers provided welcome relief with well-stocked aid stations. Locals lined the quieter stretches with cowbells, handmade signs, and encouragement that felt genuine and warm. The views were beautiful—but the people helped make them memorable. The race ended at Prospector Park, where runners were greeted with food, music, and a medal styled with old western charm. Even on this challenging and diverse course, my finish time of 3:52:21 was a Boston Qualifier, and I was thrilled with that. And though I crossed the finish line without a golden nugget in my pocket, I still felt richer.
I had no gold, but I’d found treasures that don’t tarnish—the flicker of those morning fires, the laughter of strangers becoming friends, and the reminder that not all treasure is buried.
Just as I had found unexpected treasure while hunting for the Lost Swift Silver back in Kentucky, here in the Arizona desert I found gold again—not in a mine, but in the moments. And that, perhaps, is the real reward of the journey.