Collecting Sunstones
“Get up early, walk towards the sun.” Jim motioned east with a dusty hand. “Look around the sagebrush.”
The Oregon Sunstone Public Collection Area lies miles past paved roads and cell service. Here in the high desert, clumps of sagebrush march outward for miles. The expanse blurs before meeting Hart Mountain in the east. The landscape is sparse, raw - and littered with rough gemstones.
Sunstones are feldspar crystals that formed in lava. Thirteen to fourteen million years ago, a volcano in Steens Mountain erupted, pouring out massive amounts of lava. The lava flow was subsequently covered by a vast lake and remained underwater for thousands of years. As the lake gradually dried up, the exposure to weather caused the lava to decompose and reveal loose sunstones.
Jim was the only other soul in sight. His sun-bleached camp had been there awhile, stationed upwind from the pit toilet. A canopy hung over tables piled with metal sieves, tools, and shop towels. Stones were sorted into glass jars and yogurt containers. Cans of chili and instant coffee crowded around the camp stove, and gallons of water sat in the truck bed. I recognized this Church of the Rockhound, the pilgrimage into solitude and grit.
My friends and I were on our way home from backpacking in Yosemite. I had convinced them of this one last detour, a little off the beaten path, but a free place to camp. The night was unexpectedly cold; frost crackled on our rainfly when we unzipped in the morning. The sun peeked over Hart Mountain and poured into the valley, not unlike those ancient lava flows that held the secret recipe for sunstones.
The four of us walked separately, startling jackrabbits, winding eastward through clumps of sagebrush. A secondary pattern forms when you combine Blocks 1 and 2 in the Sunstone pattern: arrows that remind me of this quiet wandering. And here and there - a glint. Small crystals like golden honey that shimmer when washed in your spit.
If you don't ask me to leave a place like this, I won't. I could have stayed days longer, absorbed in the search, forgetting about time, lunch, or the problem with the engine...
The engine that was now unapologetically, unrelentingly overheating in the middle of nowhere. We had nothing to go on save for Jim's advice: “Heat on, full blast. Windows down. Pull over often on the pass.” He gave us the rest of his coolant, a jug of water, and a handful of nickel-sized sunstones. We limped home to the swan song of the ’96 Camry. My boyfriend (now husband) sold it for parts the next day.
May 2013. Earlier in the trip, the car had been broken into while parked at a trailhead in California. Stolen objects included all of Mitch's extra underwear and only glasses, an iPod and a handle of whiskey.
The Sunstone pattern comes from a time in my life that was wild and free. Years later, I've softened, as motherhood will have it. Dare I say, I prefer amenities. But I also don't want to drop the thread of intensity. I've found that the practice of quilting preserves the spirit of other times and places.
I’ll go back someday (with a reliable vehicle) when my kids are a bit older and introduce them to Jim and the jackrabbits. For now, I look forward to seeing what the Sunstone pattern means for you: what beautiful things are you searching for?
May 2024 - Cottonwood Canyon, Oregon. Our current favorite desert camping spot - with amenities - but still off the beaten path.
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Images 1 & 2 source: Oregon & Washington, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia
Image 8 source: USGS, National Geologic Map Database, GoogleEarth