"Keep your eyes peeled for any heart-shaped rocks," I called to John as we walked down the riverbank. The section of river we were fishing was so remote that it likely had fewer visitors over the course of a season than most places had over a single weekend, raising our odds of finding something good.

"I look for them in every corner of the world I visit, so I can bring the best ones home to my wife."

"Well, that's lame" he shot back. "I bring home dick-shaped rocks for my wife. We have contests to see who can find the best one. But it has to have the balls intact. Otherwise it doesn't count. Too easy."

And just like that, without another word between us, the contest had begun.

Over the next 10 days, as we lazily floated through a vast expanse of tundra ablaze in fall colors and teeming with exotic wildlife, I'm downright ashamed to admit how much time I spent staring down at the ground, scanning for the perfect dick rock. There were just so many to choose from. Ancient glaciers and relentless streams carving through the nearby mountains had produced a dazzling array of tumbled stones, piling them several feet thick along the riverbank. There were igneous granites and sedimentary sandstones and metamorphic schists and agates and jades and quartzes of every imaginable color, texture, size and—yes—shape.

Every couple of days I would stumble upon a rock with just the right proportions and would chuckle as I dropped it into my pocket. And at the end of each long day, as we sat around camp shoveling down Mountain House freeze-dried meals and reminiscing about how ferociously a particular char had fought; or how we hadn't expected to see a Musk Ox, much less crossing the river right next to us; or how we were lucky the bears were all so far upstream already since the shotgun ammo we brought was the wrong gauge; somehow the true highlight of each day was finding the best dick rock.

By the end of the trip, I had a few really good ones. With balls. A better person probably would've just dumped them back on the riverbank at the takeout, having already gleaned unreasonable entertainment from a bunch of rocks, but I wasn't about to part with my souvenirs so easily. Instead, I carefully wrapped each of them in toilet paper, rolled them up in a shirt, and stashed them in my backpack, determined to keep the joke alive. I had more or less forgotten about all of this by the time we reached the commercial airfield to catch our flight back home. As I placed my bag on the x-ray conveyor and forced a thin smile at the TSA agent, I had no idea how much I'd soon come to regret that little oversight.

It's important to note here that the aging metal hanger that passed for an airport hub in this village was basically just one small room crammed to the gills with security equipment, luggage, staff members and several dozen passengers. There were no dividers or walls so the views were wide open, right down to the x-ray monitor which was haphazardly tilted so that most people could see the screen. And these were not my people, that much was clear from the moment I arrived. These were hard, authentic folks who had earned their rough hands and solemn gazes making a living off of frozen land. My pastel green Columbia sunshirt and matching zip-off pants stood in painfully stark contrast to the faded Carhartt sweatshirts and brown Xtratuf boots that surrounded me, like Doogie Howser had somehow wandered onto the set of Deadliest Catch.

"Whose backpack is this?!" a bellowing voice asked, snapping everyone's attention toward the TSA agent at the back of the room.

My heart sank, then rose up into my throat. I didn't even need to look to know he was holding my backpack. Like everyone else in the room, I could clearly see what had caused the commotion, boldly displayed on the big x-ray monitor. It was the unmistakable outlines of several dicks. With balls. Fully zoomed in and all lit up in fluorescent orange and pink swirls. It made for a scene that would've been tacky at a bachelorette party.

"I said, whose backpack is this?!" the voice bellowed again.

They were going to need answers, but I was frozen. A chuckle rumbled through the crowd, while others shuffled their feet or sighed indignantly. I had to fess up. They were going to figure it out eventually. I took one slow-motion step forward, then another, bearing the increasing weight of the audience’s judgement as more and more people turned to witness my monumental walk of shame. Facing a jury of your peers is bad enough, but the gazes on the faces in the crowd said of course that's his bag, just look at him.

I considered shouting "They’re only rocks!" but it seemed the damage was already done.

To his credit, the TSA agent got through the entire rote speech about searching my bag without laughing, although just barely. When he finally dug down and pulled out the items in question, there was a palpable sense of relief once he discovered what they actually were.

"They're just rocks ..." he said to no one in particular, then turned and exclaimed "Hey, Terry—They’re just rocks!" to the x-ray operator.

They both had a well-deserved laugh and then he turned back to me, still grinning from ear to ear.

"What are you doing with … you know what, nevermind. Just pack them up and go."

I've never packed up and gone anywhere so quickly in my entire life. Except, there was nowhere to actually go. My only option was to walk over and take a seat next to everyone who had just watched this entire episode unfold and act like there was nothing unusual about any of it. Sometimes I wonder if any of them ever tell this story, and how their version goes, but it's probably best that I'll never know.

I have since gone back to collecting heart-shaped rocks.