A mysterious hand-drawn map. Telltale landmarks altered by the unceasing march of time. Whispered lore of buried wealth. The story of the treasure probably sacked somewhere underneath Portland, Oregon, has all of the markers of a Nicholas Cage-worthy flick. (Well, except for Mount Rushmore.)
But is there anything to this mythic tale of glittering riches? Here’s what you need to know about the map that sparked a treasure-hunting frenzy.
All roads lead to “Number 2039.” This unassuming name refers to a small scrap of cloth covered in notes. It measures a mere six inches tall by eighteen inches wide and was folded at some point. The most remarkable thing about it remains the word “MONEY.”
Atop the cloth, you’ll find blue and yellow pencil marks that some folks believe are reminiscent of features still in the city today. And that’s where it starts to get very exciting. These features include a port with a building that has a spire. There’s also a barn and two slashes. The slashes are thought to reference graves.
Atop these layers is another layer of black ink. The black ink reads “MONEY.” Two locations are denoted at $3,000 apiece. That’s nothing to write about in the age of inflation. But in 1862, when the map was born, $6,000 was a mother lode. (The equivalent of several years of employment!)
Created in 1862, the map lays out the biggest city in the new state of Oregon. At the time, Portland’s population had roughly 3,000 residents. The town boasted a booming port. And it even had a newspaper, the Oregonian . Sadly, though, the newspaper didn’t mention anything about money or intrigues on February 14th, 1862.
Why that particular date? If the map can be trusted, that’s when the money got interred. What else do we know about the buried dollars? Supposedly, they went in the ground at the five-foot level, not too far from the two graves denoted by the slashes. According to the map, both stashes lay north and east of the structure or barn near an orchard and an old stump. While fine markers in the day, finding said orchard and stump today is another matter.
Who owned the treasure in question? A man named Sims (or Simes). Some scholars think he’s the one who did the initial digging and burying. But tragic events prevented him from ever returning to claim his dough. By 1864, Sims died in action in the Civil War, which should be the end of the treasure’s story. Especially since none of these details can be historically verified. But none of this matters, thanks to the map on the scrap…
Among the stranger things noted on the map is the wording “ALL.HAVE.DIED.” Some speculate this is a warning for potential treasure hunters to take heed. Others think it indicates that all who knew about the initial treasure caching had passed at that point. Either way, the wording casts an ominous Goonies feel over the Portland treasure-hunting tale.
It also begs the question. What happened to the map after its original owner(s) passed? It appears to have flown under the radar until 1940. That’s when the first records of the document appear. More specifically, the artifact was mentioned in the Oregon Historical Quarterly . That’s when the map was found upon the death of Everett Smith, a Seattle judge.
Smith's son, Irving, discovered the map while going through his father’s papers. He was astonished because his dad never talked about it. There was also no written explanation providing information. Several years later, with more probing, Irving Smith learned that the map once belonged to an indigent. Judge Smith had presided over the man’s estate, finding the map along the way.
What made Irving Smith reveal the map to the general public after its discovery? He eventually admitted to treasure hunting himself. Having turned up empty-handed, he decided to bring the historical society into the picture.
Perhaps the most frustrating part of this treasure story is how time has transformed the city’s landscapes. Just enough so things look almost recognizable. For example, the map references “Pike Road.” Some treasure hunters believe this refers to “Plank Road,” also known as Canyon Road, which was laid out in wood planks. But others argue it could mean a main road or turnpike.
One treasure hunter named Ruth Burgess argued that “pike” in British English referred to a mountain or hill with a summit. Based on this conclusion, she traveled up Belmont Street toward Mount Tabor, settling on a Roman Catholic church built in the 1860s. She concluded the church was the site based on a seemingly riddle-like note on the map “fromrom.” She decided this meant “from Rome,” as in Roman Catholic.
Another treasure hunter rotated the map 90 degrees counterclockwise, which led to new revelations and potential markers. But these discoveries ended at a site dug by backhoes for Portland’s new zoo. Another man’s search got waylaid by the Vietnam War. When he came home, the spot he wanted to dig had become the location for a new freeway. End of story? So it seems.
And as for the judge’s son, Irving Smith? He believed the treasure lay beneath the Montgomery Ward building. The building sat atop a site used to host the Lewis and Clark Exposition. As for Ruth Burgess, her hunt progressed to finding two graves she believed were associated with the map. But she couldn’t dig since the site sat on city property. And since grave robbing wasn’t her thing, she gave up.
Between exhausted sources and countless dead ends, the Portland treasure-hunting mania died away over time. According to the Oregon Historical Society, they don’t get many treasure hunters visiting these days to check out the old scrap. But it’s a favorite part of local middle and high school field trips.
As for whether the city of Portland sits on two $3,000 stashes of cash? That’s anybody’s guess. Nevertheless, the map remains a testament to one of Oregon’s more colorful myths.
