Over the weekend, I traveled to central Oregon to hunt for thunder eggs, a rock that is roughly the size of a baseball, almost perfectly spherical in shape and hides gems within it's hard exterior.
When I arrived at the site, I thought I had mistakenly found myself in a 1940's jailbird movie. Everyone was bend over, chipping at the ground with their picks, dirt accentuating the features on their eager faces.
After two, maybe three fruitless swings, I heard a distinctive *Ping* from the end of my pick which I would soon come to recognize as the cry of a thunderegg. In a little under 90 minutes of the pinging ringing in my ear, I unearthed 15 lbs of thundereggs. Sadly I was not able to get any of them cut because I was too close to quitting time, so I have not yet had the pleasure of enjoying the inner beauty of my eggs. But I look at the eggs on my dresser before I go to bed and think about how amazing it is that within the plain, if not ugly, exterior lies a surprising and mysterious beauty. Is that the perfect symbol for nature, or what?
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