Rock Lover’s Journey

You know how some folks collect fancy china cups or guns? Well, I collect rocks, fossils, and arrowheads. Always have. Always will.

That’s what I was thinking about last week, as I was walking our golden retriever along homemade trails behind our house that my husband and I have embellished with vertical stacks of rocks. After we crossed the creek bed, I spotted one of my rock piles all tumbled down. So there I was, down on my knees, putting it back together piece by piece like a puzzle.

We refer to our stacked rocks as “cairns,” but they are just simple trail markers.

Here in Northwest Georgia, we live on a hill that the Lord sprinkled with rocks — millions of them. Some no bigger than golf balls, others as large as washing machines and Volkswagen Beetles. They’re just everywhere underfoot, like Mother Nature couldn’t decide what to do with her extras so she dumped them all in the woods behind our house. Moreover, they are beautiful with their browns, tans and taupes, and some have velvety green moss growing on them.

Back in the ’90s, me and my husband, Gene, were hiking around Utah and Colorado on vacation, and we noticed how the park rangers marked trails through those magnificent canyonlands with these little stacks of rocks (because they don’t have trees to blaze in some of these rocky landscapes). Something about those simple stone towers spoke to us, and from then on, we started our own little rockstacking habit.

When we cleared the underbrush to make our own trail system in the back of our property, we naturally started building cairns to mark the way and add a little something special to the outdoor adventure. These days, when we need some sunshine and fresh air, we take the dog for a wander back there, and part of the ritual is fixing any toppled rock towers along the way. We’ve got about 15 of those cairns scattered throughout, some standing proud at three feet tall, balanced with care.

Look, I’ve always been drawn to rocks. Growing up in Middle Georgia, I loved finding pieces of limestone with imprints of seashells and early sea life embedded into the stone. I loved going to my grandparents’ South Georgia farms and picking up tiny brown pebbles from the dirt roads that ran in front of their homes. I loved taking those pebbles to the ponds and skipping them on the water’s surface or hurling them at a cousin’s back side.

In college, I fell for a young man who shared the same love of rocks as I. He polished rocks and gave them to me as gifts, and I still have a few today, tucked away in a box somewhere. When I married my husband, for birthdays and Christmases, he would purchase brilliant pieces of amethyst and citrine for me — their crystals shining in the light like jewels. That’s about the time I discovered I also loved fossils. Gene began showering me with interesting fossil fish and trilobites, too, which made me feel like an archaeologist. I loved looking at them, touching them, and thinking about how and when they were formed. And don’t get me started on arrowheads. Oh how I love hunting and finding those, too.

So, it’s no wonder that I stack rocks. I guess I was just born a rock hound. There are worse things.

This lifelong fascination has taught me that rocks tell stories — each from a chapter of Earth’s ancient history. They aren’t just decorative objects; they’re time capsules spanning millions of years.

Our cairns serve a similar purpose. While they won’t last eons like fossils, they mark our presence on this parcel of land now. Each stone placed with intention creates a moment of meditation — a brief connection with something more permanent than ourselves. The act of balancing rocks requires patience and attention, qualities often lacking in our modern digital world. Our cairns serve as reminders to slow down and appreciate the moments of each day.

Perhaps this explains why so many cultures revere stones — from ancient monoliths to artistic sculptures to modern jewelry. They represent continuity in a changing world, solidity amid chaos. For me, they’re tangible connections to Earth’s story — one that I am a part of.

Amber’s sister’s dog, Doodle, standing next to one of their stacks of rocks.