So last summer I was out on a walk, and I veered off the paved trail to explore a promising path in the grass, and it led me up through the waist-high golden rye of summer (which in my region has escaped cultivation to become a noxious weed), then through a few willow bushes, then down a short slope and out onto a tall stony plateau overlooking the water, which lapped on a pocket of sandy beach. The sun was bright, the water was blue, and the little beach, bordered by a matching plateau on the other end, was delightful. The stone underfoot was solid and nearly flat on top, a dark gray lichen-splotched basalt with various shallow humps and hollows, and on one of these humps I spied a little sock.
It is not unusual to find a sock or two near the water, pulled off to free the feet for wading or swimming or just the sheer sand experience and then left behind by accident, but this sock was way up on top of the plateau, neatly laid out on the middle of a hump, and very small, baby-sized, in fact. Also it sported a really neat paw print. (How I would love to have a pair of shoes that left animal prints behind instead of regular old tread marks! Dinosaur tracks, perhaps.) It is always fun to find things, useful or not, and I picked up this little sock in a spirit of lively inquiry. It was unexpectedly heavy. There was something in it, a bunch of little somethings. I looked inside and found out that it was full of rocks.
I tipped them out and discovered a collection of little bitty rocks of many colors, tumbled round and smooth by the forces of water and sand. I looked around to see where they had come from and noticed for the first time that the hollows all around held shallow layers of similar rocks, like cobble beaches for dollies. How all these interesting little rocks had ended up on top of this huge hunk of plain old basalt was a mystery at first, but then I speculated that most likely some of the sandy dirt had washed out of the little hill I had crossed to get here, and the lighter particles had dried out and blown away. There were many kinds of rocks, each clearly of a different origin, all brought together by the geological forces of the past, mixed together, sorted by size, and left evenly spread in the hollows as if in trays.
It all conjured up the scene of a family outing. Perhaps a mom, a child, and a dad carrying a baby had followed the same beckoning path I had found. Perhaps they had emerged on top of the plateau and looked around at the sparkling water and up at the gulls and vultures soaring past. Perhaps the child had looked down and found those neat toy rocks saying, “Here I am!” Just asking to be picked up. Perhaps the child didn’t have a pocket, and once their fist was full, they had asked their mom for a bag or something to put their haul in, and she didn’t have anything handy, but in a spirit of resourcefulness perhaps she took a sock off the baby—a little sun and fresh air in moderation might be okay for those little toes, right? or maybe she just rearranged the blanket—and hey presto, the sock turned into a treasure pouch. And then perhaps they had all decided to go down to that irresistible little beach, perfectly sized for play, and in the excitement of climbing down the cliff and running across the brown sand and splashing into the water, the little sock of rocks got left behind. And then forgotten. And then perhaps only remembered much later, when it was way too late to go back and retrieve it.
I turned these charming little rocks over in my hand, admiring all the different colors and textures. Then I put them back in their sock and replaced the sock on its hump, just how I had found it. Then I knelt down and slowly picked out my own small collection of treasure. I happened to have put some petrolatum-based ointment on my hands, and it imparted a slight sheen to the stones which deepened their colors.
I have them with me now, twelve little rocks ranging from less than half an inch to just over three quarters of an inch across. An oblong one, dark red, almost maroon. A warm brown oval one with small pinkish-tan dots. A three-cornered one, pale whitish-gray, with thin black streaky marks like strange teeny-tiny petroglyphs. A small limpet-shaped one made of thin white, orangey-red and chocolate layers, looking very edible. An almost perfect little round one, speckled tan, brown and black. They clink together musically and make a fun jingling sound when I toss them in my palm. I look at them one by one, rubbing them gently to feel their texture. Then I put them back on my bookshelf where I can brood over them, a veritable dragon of a miniature hoard.
But this is not my first hoard. After many experiences of toting home way too many rocks from many an adventure, I have discovered that the real treasure is not necessarily the rocks themselves. Not that I am going to give them up. I enjoy them too much for that. But they are not just rocks. They are visible tactile reminders of the time and place of finding them. When I look at my twelve little rocks, I recall finding the sock and everything that went to make up that experience—the blue of the sky, the breeze in my hair, the warm solidity of the basalt, the song of a Bewick’s Wren from somewhere nearby—the sheer pleasure of simply observing whatever the moment had to offer, no matter how small the scale; of being suddenly struck with the perception of something special, reaching out and touching it, holding it and savoring the exact qualities that make it what it is; of being charmed by the sock-filler’s passion and allowing it to fire up my own. The memory of that experience, and the way it enlarged me, is the real treasure.
I hope the unknown child who filled the sock will one day realize this, too. Sadly, they did not return to retrieve their lost loot, at least not immediately, because the sock was still there several days later. But I hope their adventure that day was a good one. I hope they remember it with greater pleasure than regret. And I hope that on their next adventure they will find another small natural treasure to cherish, and carry it safely home to start their own dragonly hoard.
Jane Gibson 