The Americans Who Searched for Hidalgo’s Hidden Treasure

Let me take you back a few years to a sweltering afternoon along Federal Highway 2 in Mexico, a road with all the charm and dust of an old Western film, but without the horses. It’s the artery that links Nuevo Laredo, Tamaulipas, and Piedras Negras, a good piece of road that just happens to skim past a town called Hidalgo in Coahuila. Now, picture this—my son, along with a few other boys from the Hidalgo Dos ejido, has set up a modest roadside stall selling watermelons and melons to passersby. They’re basking in the aroma of fresh fruit and the sun, probably hoping for the odd buyer and a bit of pocket change.

Out of nowhere, a group of Americans, clearly out of their element, pulls up. They’re not here for the fruit, though—they’ve got questions. But these aren’t your usual, “Can we find a bathroom?” or “Where’s the nearest gas station?” type questions. No, these chaps want to know how they can get permits to explore the area. And not just any part of it; they’re after a specific patch of land near a lagoon and a hill that locals know as Almud.

As it turns out, they’ve got clues. They’ve heard rumors, caught whispers, or perhaps read some obscure map that might as well be an invitation to a very peculiar Easter egg hunt. They believe—brace yourself—a cart loaded with gold and silver was buried somewhere around Almud Hill back in the 19th century. Yes, gold and silver, neatly tucked away by, well, who knows who. Perhaps some romanticized bandits, or maybe a disgraced government official with a penchant for hoarding loot. No one knows. But this lot certainly seems to believe the story.

Here’s the thing. The hill, the lagoon, and the surrounding land are all part of the ejido—communal property shared among the locals, many of whom were standing right there at that fruit stand when this motley crew arrived. So, as you’d expect, curiosity got the better of them, and soon enough, there’s a good old-fashioned interrogation going on. Why were these foreigners here? What exactly did they hope to find?

Apparently, the Americans were convinced they were onto something. They claimed to have a map—yes, an honest-to-goodness, X-marks-the-spot kind of map—that would guide them straight to the treasure. And this wasn’t just any treasure, mind you; it was a hoard. They went on about the map, detailing a specific site marked out with precise instructions, some coordinates, and hints that led them to believe it was hidden somewhere near that lagoon and Almud Hill. I can almost picture them now, shuffling papers, eyes darting to the horizon, imagining themselves as the Indiana Jones of Coahuila.

They chatted some more, thanked the local lads, and vowed they’d be back. They’d go through the proper channels, file their permits, and then return with shovels, perhaps picks, and who knows what else, to claim their golden prize. And then they left.

But here’s where the story takes a twist.

They never came back. Not a single one. They vanished into the dust of Highway 2 as mysteriously as they’d arrived, and the land of Hidalgo was left once again in peace, with its sunbaked soil and the occasional tale of buried riches blowing like tumbleweeds in the desert wind.

This so-called "treasure cart" has been a staple of local folklore for as long as most can remember. There’s no shortage of speculation, of course. Some say it’s just a myth spun by the early settlers to entertain children or pass long, monotonous nights. Others, however, believe in it with the kind of passion usually reserved for winning lottery tickets and distant, wealthy relatives who may or may not leave you a surprise inheritance.

You can imagine how, in the dusty afternoons, stories of the treasure are retold by older residents, each one adding a little more flair to the tale. Did some long-forgotten Mexican general hide it away during a chaotic retreat? Or was it the plunder of bandits who left it behind in a hurry? And why, if there’s a map so precise, has no one found the treasure yet?

One theory is that the map itself might be a bit like the Americans who came asking about it—plenty of promises but lacking follow-through. Another idea is that the land around Almud Hill has simply been reclaimed by nature. You see, in places like this, vegetation grows thick, rain carves new paths, and the landscape changes over time. What might have been a clear marker a hundred years ago could be hidden under layers of soil, rock, and roots. The treasure may very well be out there, snug and secure, just a few feet below the earth. Or perhaps it never existed at all.

But what I find most intriguing is the bit about the Americans. Why did they just disappear? If they had such a solid lead and a serious map, why wouldn’t they have been back, shovels in hand, even if only to prove the legend wrong? Did they run out of funds, or perhaps encounter some local bureaucratic roadblock too daunting to overcome? Or—my favorite theory—could it be that they discovered something, something unsettling that made them rethink their mission and leave without so much as a word?

I’ll leave you to mull over this strange little saga, a story that’s been passed down through generations, growing and twisting like the vines around Almud Hill. Whether the treasure exists, tucked safely in the sands of Hidalgo, or whether it’s nothing but a mirage in the collective imagination, is something we may never know. But as long as there are people who believe, who keep searching, who stare off at the hills with that glint of gold in their eyes, the legend of the treasure cart will live on.

And if you ever find yourself driving down Federal Highway 2, maybe, just maybe, take a quick detour. Look around. Maybe Almud Hill will catch your eye, and maybe, just maybe, it will whisper its secrets. Or maybe it’ll just sit there in silence, laughing at us all.

In-text Citation: (Miranda Pacheco, 2021, p. 58)