Confessions of a recovering rockhound
By Tim Mulherin
Sun contributor
It’s really no surprise that the Great Lakes Rocks & Minerals Facebook page has almost than 340,000 members. First-time visitors to Lake Michigan, especially here along Leelanau County’s magnificent stretch of the big lake’s beach, are drawn to the stones, fossils and beach glass offered up with each wave that lands ashore. Even those who are not geologically inclined can’t ignore the eons-old rocky scatterings of water-glossed beauty at their feet.
On the GLR&M page, there are frequent posts from rock-browsing newbies requesting identification of recent finds, relying on the goodwill of strangers for information. Even though a smart-alecky remark or two is to be expected, experienced citizen geologists and professionals will always provide reliable answers. In the burgeoning pastime of rockhounding in Michigan, all are welcome.
The photographs that especially get my attention are those displaying dozens of beach stones arranged for a self-congratulatory photo shoot. Typically, I’m moved to pose a single suggestive question: Catch and release? It often garners several laughing emojis. And yet…
I’m serious.
For years, my wife has discouraged me from collecting geological keepsakes for my ever-expanding collection: Petoskey stones, Charlevoix stones, agates, chain coral, and crinoids being my favorites. She habitually instructs me to return them before we decamp from the beach and head home.
“Honey, now, put them back. They don’t belong to you. Leave them for other people to enjoy.” It’s as if she’s talking to a 10-year-old. (Admittedly, my behavior sometimes provides just cause for her motherly approach.) But it’s not that simple for me; here’s why: 1) I am helpless to leave my picks; 2) they do belong to me according to the unquestionable rule of finders keepers; and 3) regarding others’ enjoyment: what about mine?
Now, however, having entered my golden years, I’ve finally decided to heed Janet’s advice. After nearly four decades of rock hunting for standout specimens worthy of retaining, I’ve begun returning them from whence they came. And I’m here to tell ya, it ain’t easy.
Last fall, I courageously kicked off my Campaign to Make Things Right with Lake Michigan. I decided to ease into it; no rash moves to upset my apple cart. On our front deck in Cedar, we have a large bowl as a table centerpiece, chockfull of beach stones. To minimize my pain, I selected a handful of the least impressive among them as my first batch to return. So, on an early October afternoon, I went down to Good Harbor Beach at the end of County Road 651, and, drawing a deep breath, tossed them into the lake. Now, that wasn’t so bad, I thought. Then I went for a long, calming walk along the shoreline.
The view there is spectacular. North Manitou Island, Pyramid Point and Whaleback Hill, even South Fox Island on a clear day, all a gift to the eyes. Of course, I couldn’t prevent myself from looking down on the stones heaped before me tracing the waves’ highest reach, zigzagging up and down the sand. Wow, that’s a super nice crinoid cake—the fossils are so detailed. Hey, now there’s a keeper: a nearly flawless Petoskey stone. Cool piece of brown beach glass; it wouldn’t be right to just leave it there.
An hour later, once again victimized by my weakness, I had a pocketful of replacements. I realized my impending relapse when I pulled them out for a final evaluation—to keep, or not to keep (aka take some, leave some)—before departing. Then an amusing but telling thought crossed my mind: Hi, my name is Tim, and I’m a rockoholic.
I walked back to the shoreline and, one by one, threw my prizes into the inland sea. Then I returned emptyhanded to my car. If this kept up, I would need to see a therapist.
The Unwitting Thief
For years, little did I know that removing anything from a national park—more specifically in my case, walking away with beach stones from Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore—is illegal. (Just google “Code of Federal Regulations Title 36-2.1.” Seriously.) But as we all know, ignorance of the law is no excuse for breaking it.
Admittedly, in my unaware past, I’ve been guilty of relocating some stones from the park. (It’s not on the same level as shoplifting, okay?) My act of contrition is returning them, with my earnest apologies to the National Park Service—and Lake Michigan, of course.
To further complicate things, most casual beachgoers who pocket a stone or 20 have no idea that there is a state law restricting the taking of beach stones from Michigan state parks, a per-person limit of 25 pounds per year. Now, I have yet to meet a Michigan Department of Beach Stones enforcement officer. Nonetheless, we all know that the real test of one’s character is how you behave when no one is looking. (Ahem.)
While I’m at it, I must also confess that I’ve harbored an irrational anxiousness about the unlikely possibility of Lake Michigan running out of my most cherished beach stones. So, I thought I would run my concern by an expert.
Thankfully, my misgiving was allayed by Kevin Kincare, geologist emeritus with the U.S. Geological Survey. Kincare is currently updating the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore’s geologic map. He explains, “Until such time as erosion completely removes the hills, there will always be a supply of rocks along the beach.” Whew! This includes the vast glacial deposits on the floor of Lake Michigan and coral fossils that are hydraulically pushed ashore.
He adds, “The igneous (e.g., granite) and metamorphic (e.g., quartzite) rocks from Canada are all VERY old, most well over two billion years.” Stones contain the mystery of time. Along a stunningly scenic Lake Michigan beach, these ancient ambassadors of the incomprehensible are practically irresistible to ever-curious humans.
As it turns out, Kincare, a lifelong rockhound with a doctorate in geology, is like the rest of us beachgoers looking for the next keeper stone, only more intense. “I am always looking at rocks. I find them endlessly fascinating, which you might expect from someone willing to get a Ph.D. in the subject.”
The career geologist finds it impossible to relax on the beach, surrounded by the rocky treasure heaped along the shoreline of Lake Michigan and embedded in the perched dunes (that are actually sand-covered hills) containing glacial deposits. So, when he’s hanging out with his wife on a beach at the National Lakeshore, Kincare is “always looking around to see what’s there and figure out how it got there. Geologists do not take vacations; they just look at rocks somewhere else.”
An Act of Repentance
One morning last June, about the time that Leelanau County experiences its annual surge in population for the summer, I was sauntering along Good Harbor Beach. It’s an essential part of my morning constitution, getting there ahead of the tourists for a peaceful interlude in nature. Typically, I’m long gone before the parking lot starts to fill up.
For several miles I was the only human on the beach, except for a Mennonite family of four scouring the scads of stones along the shoreline.
The father, bearded and wearing a wide-brimmed black hat, a long-sleeved white shirt, black pants and boots—not exactly ideal attire for beachcombing—sat cross-legged on a large, sun-bleached driftwood stump that had washed ashore months ago. He was smoking a pipe and taking in the blessed sight of his daughters and wife. They held their lemon-white and mint-green sundresses to their knees, while their free hands picked through the incoming stones. We exchanged smiles and waves as I passed by.
When I returned about 45 minutes later, I had a few choice finds in my pocket. Several near-perfect, fingerprint-sized Petoskey stones; some lake-water tumble-smoothed fragments of green and white beach glass; and a rare—for this expanse of beach—golf-ball-sized piece of chain coral.
I stopped where the two young teenage girls and their mother were conducting their recreational surface mining operation and opened my right hand. “Wow!” the girls exclaimed in unison. “Those are so beautiful,” their mother remarked. “If I may, where did you find them?”
About a quarter mile down the beach were countless lake stones strewn about the shoreline. I encouraged them to relocate there to improve their results. Also, being a recovering rockoholic, I decided to surrender my catches of the day to them. They thanked me profusely, unaware they were doing me a favor. A few minutes later, as I reached the trailhead, I turned to see the beachcombers relocating as recommended.
You must be wondering if I informed the family of the legalities constraining their Lake Michigan rockhounding. Well, no. Hopefully, one day they’ll learn the error of their ways. Just not on that precious summer day. Being a buzzkill is not part of my reformation.
Mulherin will sign copies of his latest book, This Magnetic North: Candid Conversations on a Changing Northern Michigan (Michigan State University Press) on Saturday, June 14, at 1 p.m. at Horizon Books in Traverse City. He will join author talks on Monday, June 16, at 7 p.m. at the Glen Lake Community Library in Empire and Wednesday, June 18, at 5 p.m. at the Leland Township Library.
