One of the first and most important things a true Northern Michigan native learns—not long after discovering the wonders of a fried smelt, the endless recipes you can make with a cherry and having the name of a reliable snow plow guy at the ready as soon as Halloween is over—is how to hunt for Petoskey stones.
I learned how to hunt for Michigan’s state stone walking the beach alongside my father and grandfather.
It is just after 6 a.m., and I have come here at dawn not to run for once but to search.
July days in Michigan seem to last for weeks. Some sixteen hours of light bathe our bay in an ethereal glow from sunrise to spectacular sunset. It is a gift from God, this length of light, to brighten our days after months of winter.
Today, the sky is quite literally purple at sunrise. It is not quite morning, and it is not quite night. The day is in the process of becoming.
Like me.
The bay is calm, the water like glass, the waves still asleep, groggily lapping at the shoreline.
I can see my family in my reflection as clearly as I can hear their voices in the lullaby of the waves. I am a part of this land.
I have come to a little beach far off the beaten path this morning in search of stones as well as an answer.
This earth on which I stand has undergone seismic changes since the dawn of time. The pieces of fossilized coral that I have come here to find were deposited eons ago by glaciers. We are all remnants of our past.
The recent record high water levels in Michigan have made the Petoskeys easier to find as they are washed ashore. There was also a thunderstorm overnight, which I know only makes the chance of finding these elusive stones much easier.
People from all over the state and the country flock to our gorgeous shoreline every summer in search of sun, fun, stones and answers. By August, the beaches have nearly been picked clean of stones. I know time is of the essence.
You don’t really need much to hunt for Petoskey stones, save for a good eye and something in which to gather them. I carry a bucket, the same one I carried when I was a child, a little pink pail—rusted just a bit, like me—featuring the image of a little girl in a red swimsuit standing in the lake, a lighthouse with a sun over it in the background.
This little beach is part sand and part rock. Quiet, rocky beaches are always the best place to search for Petoskeys. I walk the shoreline, hunched, scanning. I finally kick off my sandals, stick them into my bucket and step in the cool water. Goose pimples cover my legs, and I giggle at the chill, as I do every time I step into these waters.
Petoskey stones are characterized by the hexagonal pattern that covers them. Each hexagon has a dark center radiating out to a white outline.
The waves sigh, and I can hear my father’s voice explain the stones to me as I walk.
Petoskeys consist of tightly packed, six-sided corallites, which are the skeletons of the once-living coral polyps. The dark centers that look like eyes were actually the mouths of the coral, I can recall him telling me. The lines surrounding the eyes were once tentacles which brought food into the mouth. The Petoskey stone, like the city, was named for the Ottawa Chief Pe-to-se-ga, meaning Rising Sun, because the stone’s pattern resembles the rays of the sun.
As if on cue, the world brightens. The sky turns from purple to deep blue. Clouds on the horizon turn from amber to gold, and they begin to form a tendril over the sky, a golden finger reaching from the heavens stopping directly over my head.
I look up and lift a finger to the sky.
“Hi, Dad,” I say.
The waves lap, and I know my father is assisting me this morning in my search.
I look down into the water, and right before me, is a Petoskey stone, as big as my palm, gleaming in the water. I pick it up and place it in my bucket and continue searching the area, knowing if there is one, there will likely be others.
And there are! I find two smaller ones and another larger rock. Though they have such a distinctive pattern, like snowflakes no two are the same. They range greatly in size and color, from lighter to darker gray. I step out of the water and head from the sand to the rocks that have washed ashore. I step gingerly on the rocks. Out of the water, the Petoskey stones are much harder to find as they resemble ordinary limestone when they’re dry, gray, dull, the hexagon pattern not as noticeable unless they are wet.
But my eyes have been trained from an early age to find what I’m seeking. I begin to pick up stones and carry them to the water. I dunk a lifeless rock into the bay and when I pull it out, I gasp at the beauty that has been revealed. I go back and forth between shore and water, rinsing and repeating, until my bucket is full, and its weight forces me to walk with a crooked gait and loud grunt.
Michigan state law states that one person cannot remove more than twenty-five pounds of rock or mineral from state land at any one time. A few years ago a man discovered a ninety-three-pound Petoskey stone. The news story went viral—even bigger than my own—and the state took the stone back after finding out about it. I would venture a guess—after hauling boxes of books my whole life—that I’m carrying about ten to twelve pounds of stones.
I stop to catch my breath.
An older woman with gray hair holding a cup of coffee walks the shore. She sees me and waves.
“Find anything good?” she calls.
I glance into my bucket. The stones are now dry and faded.
“I did! Lots of Petoskeys,” I say. “Just up the beach a ways. You looking for anything in particular?”
She seems to consider my question. Her face is tan, her skin lined and etched from the sun. She lifts her face heavenward then looks at me.
“No,” she finally says. “Most of the time, I just walk. People think I’m just an old woman wandering the beach at dawn or sunset, but I’ve learned to stop looking so hard. Sometimes, if you don’t have an end goal in mind, the journey leads you to something you never dreamed you’d find, something even more spectacular. Happy hunting!”
I glance again into the bucket and watch the woman fade into the morning mist along the shore.
She is a living Petoskey, her soul filled with a million eyes, compartments of history. What the world too often glimpses on the surface will never capture the intricate beauty of what lies underwater.
I am akin to these stones.
We are all akin to these stones.
I pick up the bucket but turn one last time.
The sun is now in the sky, a million rays splintering across the water.
And a lone, long, golden finger of a cloud is pointing directly at the woman.
I finally have the answer to my search.