Sunshine, Deep Time, and Rockhounding: Musings from a rookie agate hunter
As we get out of the car at our destination along Highway 101, I throw my mid-layer on and take a look at the thin sliver of sand and rock running underneath the cliffside. From where I’m standing in the parking lot you can follow it along for half a mile or so until it reaches a rocky outcropping that you can pass over if you time your arrival with the tides. Low tide was about an hour ago, and the path around the rocks is clear. I take a deep breath, put on my rubber boots, and head down the embankment to the shore. It’s a beautiful day for rockhounding.
For the uninitiated, rockhounding is the practice of searching for and collecting rocks, minerals, and (sometimes) fossils. My partner, Emily, was introduced to this hobby by a friend when we lived in Montana. They would spend hours roaming the Yellowstone River searching for the glow of agates, the rich colors of jasper, and the many pieces of fossilized tree that can be found in the area. She really took to rockhounding, and before long invited me into her new passion to tag along and learn.
I’ll admit that at first, I didn’t really get it. For a while, I brought my fly rod along often and would begin casting after the first half hour or so, but eventually (after failing to catch anything many times) I found myself spending longer and longer looking down at the rocks. The sound of the river filled my ears and drowned out what little thinking I had been doing before I arrived. It was serene and gratifying when you saw the sun shining through the opaque, glass-like texture of agate. The year we left Montana I had spent just as many days on the water searching for rocks as I did fish. I finally got it.
I step onto the beach and take in the view. Emily is already several feet ahead of me, her eyes fixed on a creek spilling out into the maw of the Pacific Ocean. Even from the shore, looking out at the deepest ocean in the world is a sight to behold. It’s a sight I will never get tired of. If you told me five years ago I would be able to drive to this place on the weekends I would have laughed. But here I am.
The sun is out but the wind bites at my skin, reminding me we’re still in the middle of winter. The weather on the coast during this time is fickle. At its best, it’s ten degrees warmer than the valley east of the Coast Range. At its worst, winds gust over 40 miles per hour and the combination of fog and ocean spray blowing up the sides of coastal cliffs make it nearly impossible to see. Luckily for us, we’ve managed to make it out on one of the rare bluebird days you’ll find in mid-February along Oregon’s coast. I adjust my sunglasses and pull up the hood of my midlayer, adjusting the elastic band so it fits snug to my hat. It’s time to get moving.
In the winter our rockhounding excursions to the coast coincide with the king tides, large sets of waves created by very specific conditions occurring several times between December and March. If you have never witnessed the King Tides, I highly recommend that you do. Their power is unmatched and worthy of their own story in this magazine someday. We’ve been told that beach agates get knocked out of the soft sedimentary walls that make up the coastline by the waves this time of year. I try to align myself slightly uphill of my partner, my logic being that larger, heavier rocks would move away from the wall slower than the small pieces. If I’m correct, I’m going to find a giant piece of agate if I keep looking further up the shore one day. I have yet to be proven right.
As I walk along the shore, I keep my eyes peeled for a very specific glint (or lack thereof) coming off the rocks. Once you know what they look like, you can see an agate pretty easily if you’re looking for one. The piles of small, rounded rocks on the coast are made up of materials that appear mostly as dark colors. Agates are different. The light passes through the rock and creates a glow that, once you’ve seen it, can be hard to miss. The sun, high in the sky, has made the search for that glow easy today. I hear a faint shout and look up. Emily is holding up another golf ball-sized piece of glowing rock. Her small rock bag was filled up an hour ago, and I see her stuff her newest find into a pocket on her backpack.
The space we typically rockhound along has been shaped by the ocean and volcanic activity. Millions upon millions of years ago, lava flows from the east pushed west, creating the rough outline of the coastline that we see today. Eventually the volcanic eruptions settled down, and the ocean began to do its work on the basalt that was left behind. Today, a series of small strips of shoreline where we talk have been battered out of the rock and earthen walls of the continent here. The length of time it takes for events like this to occur is monumental and is referred to as “deep time,” a concept that helps describe the unfathomable periods of time it takes for things like mountains to form, or a coast to take shape. For some reason, deep time makes me incredibly anxious, and I’m reminded of it every time we come here. I can’t even begin to grasp the impossibility of what created this place. I shake the thought from my mind as I hop across the final basalt rock formation and arrive at the last bit of shoreline. At the end is a high wall of rock. It’s the perfect nesting spot for a species of shorebird; I know because I’ve found the eggs to prove it. Since I made the discovery I’ve refrained from climbing up the wall again. As we reach the end of the line Emily shows me her haul: a beautiful array of agates, jaspers, and what looks to be petrified wood. She’s also found a few fossils, one of her favorite things to find here.
Rockhounding isn’t intense. It’s not a particularly difficult thing to pick up either. So, why do it? Because it demands that you slow down. If you’re not focused you might miss something. As you stare down at the rocks, the sound of the ocean fills your mind. Thoughts pass in and out, and you’re given the opportunity to reflect on things past, present, and future. Eventually, you don’t think at all. Rockhounding Nirvana. This is the reason why I keep finding myself on the shoreline, searching for a faint glow. It’s meditative.
As my mind sits empty from the voyage along the shore I have a seat on a piece of driftwood and pull out my binoculars to view the seals on the rocks further out in the water. They lazily stare back between naps, and a few wave their flippers about to scratch their bellies. I like to think they’re waving at me. I take in another big breath, and pull my hood down. The wind’s stopped blowing. Emily’s smiling, and the rocks are glowing. It’s been a good day on the coast.
