Weekly Clues Dashboard

"Where the chest sits dry and deep,
avoid places where oceans weep.
The sand and salt-water foam,
is no place for this bounty’s home."

"Look to where tall pines grow,
away from where high-rises show.
Where old King Cotton ruled the soil,
is closer to where you must toil."

"Where man-made waters cut the clay,
and transient vessels, drift away.
Look not to where the concrete spans,
but where the ancient forest, once began."

"The waters are cut, the borders are drawn,
But the trail doesn't end where the concrete is gone.
Step under the roof that the sweetgums provide,
Where the moss and the ferns like to scramble and hide.
You’re warmer now where the old shadows lay,
But a clever mind doesn't wander astray.
It’s not in a clearing exposed to the sky,
Nor a place where the casual stroller walks by.
The captain left footprints where damp earth grows cold,
A boundary line of a story untold.
Gather your wits, check the map on your screen,
The best way forward is tucked in the green."

"The axes of history spared a few lines,
Standing watch over secrets beneath the tall pines.
Where the old growth remains and the secondary starts,
Is where a true hunter must sharpen their arts.
Don't look for a chest in a wide open space,
But a spot where two paths or two worlds might embrace.
A marker of sort, though not made by a hand,
Tells a tale of the changes that came to this land."

"The green walls close in where the shadows grow deep,
But a casual glance is a promise to keep.
To anchor your boots where the fortune was cast,
You must look to the present, then step to the past.
When the sun starts to dip and the shadows lean long,
The path to the north is inherently wrong.
Look down where the roots map the floor like a maze,
And a weathered old sentinel blocks out the days.
It stands with its back to the lane made of stone,
Guarding a secret it harbors alone.
The weekend is here, and the map must be read—
Follow the moss, not the thoughts in your head."

"The ocean is a memory, the coastal highway clear,
But the riddles of the landscape are drawing hunters near.
Look to where the sandy tracks begin to fade and die,
And heavier soil takes its place beneath the southern sky.
The treasure doesn't sleep where the landscaping is neat,
But where the wild floor of the woods begins to catch your feet.
Keep tracking through the timber, let the casual paths dissolve,
For deeper in the quiet shade is what you must resolve."

"The lowlands catch summer rain and always seem damp,
Is not the place a pirate would pitch his hidden camp.
Ground rises up, if only by a span,
High and dry, away from eyes of man.
Look where the root-lines weave and tie,
A natural shelf beneath the canopy high.
The wonderous stage is already being set,
But the final act is not ready, quite yet.
Some say they know where the treasure be
But none as fine as the beauty I see!
If this old pirate could rule the bay
I’d take your hand, lass, and show you the way!
Truth be told, I cannot tell a lie!
The true treasure is that sparkle in your eye