My Goonies Adventure (Part 4 of 4)

Note: In celebration of the 30th anniversary of the theatrical release of The Goonies, I will be sharing my own true "Goonies" story throughout the month of June. Thanks for reading, and remember: "Goonies never say die!"

            Over lunch I finished reading Tales of the Neahkahnie Treasure and came to my own conclusion concerning the riches: they didn’t exist, and probably never did. Researchers Don Viles and Wayne Jensen both proposed similar theories concerning the mystery. According to the men’s separate studies, the engraved rocks found scattered across Neahkahnie Mountain have nothing to do with pirates after all. The “1632” on the rock in the Tillamook Museum represents 1632 yards (apparently I wasn’t the first to believe the number was a measurement). And when that exact distance was measured north from where the rock was originally found, another mound of stones rose from the ground. They were survey markers, presumably made by the English explorer Francis Drake and his crew of the “Golden Hind,” in 1579. They were merely staking out the land, claiming it for their mother country.

            So if a four century old explorer can explain the rock engravings, then what about the story that has been passed down for generations? Well, the Coastal Native Americans have long been known for their elaborate story telling. Perhaps they saw Francis Drake and his men doing their survey and presumably had little idea of what they were actually doing. Or maybe the story is just that, a story, passed down throughout the years to trick the white men into a wild goose chase. Or maybe there were pirates, and there is a treasure hidden somewhere beneath the earth of Neahkahnie Mountain. But after all, translated in the Tillamook language, Neahkahnie means “the place of the supreme deity.” So it seems unlikely that the Native Americans would want anybody honeycombing over their sacred grounds. The debate can go on forever, for only the treasure’s discovery will ever truly prove its existence.

            The following morning, heading north out of Nehalem Bay, I stopped one more time at Smuggler’s Cove, not to look for riches, but to soak in the real treasure. As I was leaving, hiking up out of the woods and across a clearing full of waist-high brush, I spotted two men well off trail. They were bushwhacking through the weeds and high grass, heading towards the cliffs that climbed over the water’s edge. I stopped and watched, curious of what they were up to. When they reached the lip of the drop-off, they stood there pointing at a precise spot, presumably discussing what to do next. There was little doubt of what these guys were doing, and who they were: treasure hunters. Were they wasting their time? Only as much as I was, or anybody else for that matter. If somebody’s going to have a hobby, treasure hunting seems to be as good as any. At least they’re outside, in the sun, not sitting around watching television or playing video games.

            I rode north to Astoria. There was one last thing I needed to do before traveling home. From route 101, I took a right onto Leif Ericson Drive, another right up the 37^th Street hill followed by a left at the stop sign on Duane Street and another left on 38^th. The road is unpaved, gravel and stone. A small sign sticks out of the ground that reads: “Private Drive, Goonies Welcome on Foot, No Cars, Thank You!”

            I walked up the drive, the sound of seals carrying out of the Columbia River. The ground flattens out and sitting off to the right, there it is: the “Goonies” house. It looks almost exactly like it did in the movie, 25 years ago. It’s still white with black trim but doesn’t have the elaborate mechanism to open the front gate. There are newly added skylights and grey concrete blocks with blue flowers in the front. American and Israeli flags hang from the front porch. There is no number, but it must be somewhere between 344 and 384, the addresses on either side. Two houses over, the home is for sale by the owner. Looking out over the entire village of Astoria, it would be an ideal place to live. I call the number on the sign and find out they are asking $280,000 (way out of my price range). Before leaving I lift up my shirt and do a quick truffle-shuffle, reliving an important part of my childhood, if only for a moment.

           On my way back to Portland I think about treasure, and more importantly, the hunt. When the “Goonies” discovered One Eyed Willies’ pirate ship and the treasure inside, that was it, the hunt was over, and so was the film. We never heard from the “Goonies” again. So it makes me think about what is more important in the grand scheme of things: the treasure or the hunt? During the search there is that anticipation, the lure of adventure, the unknown always lurking ahead. And if you’re lucky, and there is a discovery, then what? It’s over. Maybe you’re wealthy, maybe you’re not, but you’ve definitely lost something, a piece of your imagination, a part of your mindset that can only be harnessed in pursuit. So I head back to Portland, back to my cheap apartment and a less enthusiastic kind of hunt: for a job. Am I wealthier? No, not in the slightest. But richer? In terms of life experiences, I’d like to think so. Everyone should go on a treasure hunt once in their life.