MANTEO — Amidst the weight of mid-morning heat and a balmy southwest breeze, Winborne Evans and I stand knee deep in horseweed, swatting strawberry flies. Evans’ six honeybee hives lay feet from us, methodically buzzing deep within the lowlands of Roanoke Island.

Her daughter, Francesca, darts between the hives, anxious to don her bee suit. Evans gazes ahead, her eyes resting on the hive boxes, plastered with mottled patterns of primary color.

“Frannie paints the boxes,” she smiled.

Within minutes, the mother-daughter apiarist team is clad in their canvas suits. Evans delicately slides open the waxy edges of her first hive, as the air around us becomes littered with tiny whirs of yellow and black.

The Making of an Apiarist

While recovering from an injury, Winborne Evans started reading up on beekeeping. It soon became her passion. Photo: Ladd Bayliss

Evans serendipitously fell into the art of beekeeping nearly a decade ago. While living in Asheville, the Dare County native acquired a challenging combination of hardships: a devastating house fire and a badly injured knee.

Evans’ newly found downtime as a byproduct of her injury lured her to the public library with two titles in mind: car repair and beekeeping.

“Those were two things I’d always wanted to learn more about,” remembered Winborne, “but I could never find the time.”

It was clear which subject struck a chord.

As an ardent response to the mass complexities of apiculture, Evans threw herself into the practice by working for a local Asheville bee inspector in exchange for his wisdom. Her new knowledge of beekeeping was forced to application when she stumbled upon her first wild honeybee swarm.

“He looked at me and said, if you want them, you’ve got to get them,” laughed Evans.

One-legged, Evans clobbered up a tree to retrieve the swarm. From this first batch of wild-caught honeybees, Evans began her own organic apiary in Asheville, which still in operation today.

In addition to a bachelor of science degree in environmental science and conservation biology from Warren Wilson College near Asheville, Evans furthered her knowledge of bees by becoming certified in “bee sting therapy,” or apitherapy. As an alternative method used to treat a suite of ailments from arthritis to alcoholism, apitherapy is founded on the notion that bees (and their bi-products) are medicine.

The Great Apis

“You want some?” says Evans.

From the bottom of her hive, she passes me a plastic tray littered with deep yellow and orange pieces of pollen. The powdery nips are sweet to the taste, full of carbohydrates and protein used by the hive, as well as by some practices in integrative medicine.

While the beehive may appear to be a simplistic place from the outside, division of labor and hierarchy create a truly intricate environment. Originally from Europe, honeybees were brought to North America by early settlers. With over 20,000 known species of bees, the genus Apis includes the approximate seven honeybee species that our food production largely depends on.

“Each bee has their own specific job,” said Evans, continuing with her hive tool, prying open the top of another box.

Honeybees are divided into three categories within the hive: queen, drones, and workers. There is typically only one queen, whose sole responsibility is to reproduce; the male drones are responsible for fertilizing the queen.

Winborne Evans and her daughter, Francesca, remove one of the trays from a hive. Photo: Ladd Bayliss

At the entrance, a row of honeybees danced from side to side, their wings whirring. “These worker bees are responsible for keeping the hive cool inside,” point Evans.

If temperature control for upwards of 50,000 bees were not large enough of a task, the female worker bees are responsible for gathering pollen, building honeycomb, feeding larvae and cleaning the hive. Each worker does all of these tasks over the course of their lifetime.

Once the top of the hive is lifted, the vertically-stored trays filled with honeycomb are removed one by one, as the hive’s inhabitants slowly funnel out into the mid-morning heat. On this particular day, we are privileged enough to spot the queen of one of Evans’ hives.

“Frannie! Look, the queen!” Evans spoke excitedly as her canvas-gloved finger followed the master of the hive.

If properly cared for, queens are capable of producing nearly 2,000 eggs per day. Francesca’s eye intently followed the queen as she walked the honeycombs of her domain, the smaller workers scattering with her every movement.

Pollinator Threats

The importance of the local pollinator is staggering. Over one-third of the food we consume depends on the pollination process. And, while all pollinators are important, the honeybee holds the true crux of our food systems as they are considered to conduct most of these pollination duties. Recent, unparalleled declines in honeybee populations have caused apiarists like Evans to worry.

Several years ago, Colony Collapse Disorder, or CCD, was the name given to the increase in disappearance of honeybee populations across the world, specifically in North America. CCD is idiopathic in nature, given the diversity of contributing factors ranging from weather patterns, predators, parasites or pesticides.

Francesca live to paint the hives in bright colors. Photo: Ladd Bayliss

“My greatest defense as an organic beekeeper is a strong hive,” said Evans.

Still, honeybees can travel an average of four miles for pollen, making it often hard for pesticides to be avoided, says Evans. Most common lawn and garden chemicals are harmful to these beneficial pollinators making the odds of colony collapse that much higher – especially when combined with other contributing environmental factors.

As Evans sees it, the solution to the problem lies in education. And, from a tenacious, one-limbed tree climb that transformed into flourishing beehives on Roanoke Island, it’s clear that Evans’ initial hardship served as swift evolution into a life’s work.

“Honeybees need humans to survive,” smiled Evans. “We’ve got to remember what they do for us, as well as what we do for them.”

For questions on becoming a backyard beekeeper, Just Bee, LLC is happy to help. Email Winborne.

Reprinted from Outer Banks Magazine

Ladd Bayliss grew up on Croatan Sound. She grew to respect and love it. Now, she helps protect it. Photo: Ray Matthews, Outer Banks Magazine

MANNS HARBOR — One bright August morning, before the sun had peeked above the tree line, I darted across the dew that mottled the yard of my clapboard childhood home in the mainland village of Manns Harbor. Peering around the back of our weathered garden shed, I spotted the cache of scavenged crab pots my brother and I had stashed there years ago. Now tangled in the smilax and shrubby psychosis of our property line, their red and yellow cages peeked above the jumbled mess, as if begging to be dipped in the water.

One by one, I carried the pots to the stern of my family’s squatty-hulled rowboat, stacking each cube more precariously than the last. With a practiced motion, I shipped the pine oars into the oarlocks, extending them slowly down, dipping them methodically into the murky Croatan Sound ahead of me. The rough grains felt suited to my hands, lined every crevice of my palm. I hadn’t felt them, or the humidity of a Southern summer, in three years.

I swiftly reached the slough where I had always remembered a healthy mess of crabs for the taking and began dropping my freshly baited pots to the bottom. Once the mesh squares hit the water, I flung out the mismatched buoys. Their characteristic slap against the surface let me know they were set. I turned back toward shore.

Years earlier I had left my Outer Banks home for a life in Oregon, where I chased and tagged seabirds throughout the Pacific Northwest. The woods were lush with electric green moss, the rivers turbid with seasonal salmon runs, the work rewarding. But, somewhere deep within me the call of my natal waters was stronger than I could bear.

My brother, John, and I were raised by parents who knew that our best lessons would come from the outdoors. By the time I was nearly eight years old, we were unleashed on my dad’s raggedy, olive green duck skiff to explore Croatan Sound.

Students of the Sound

We were students of the sound. Our eyes learned the direction of the wind and the afternoon shift that marked the squalls that would chase us home. Our ears learned the raucous calls of royal terns that careened head first into pods of bait, brought to the surface by layers of puppy drum and rockfish. Our hands learned to bait crab pots and hang gill nets, while we learned the ethic in utilizing every piece of our harvest. The sounds were molding us into stewards of a system we were still struggling to understand.

While John and I spent most of our time on the Croatan, we knew the waters outside of our self-imposed boundaries were beyond comprehension. And, indeed they are. The second largest estuary system in the United States, the Albemarle-Pamlico estuary boasts more than 3,000 square miles of productive waters. From the Virginia line southward, Currituck Sound meanders toward the Albemarle, kept full by the fast-flowing Roanoke, Middle and Cashie rivers. The Albemarle twists and swirls southward into Currituck, Croatan and Roanoke sounds, and onwards to the expansive Pamlico, Back, Bogue and Core.

With average depths of only 13 feet, our estuaries have been aptly named “sounds” from the beginning. Early settlers to the area discovered these uncharted waters to be shallow and spotted with sandbars, which required the settlers to take frequent depth soundings, hence the name.

As devout pupils of the sound, my brother and I learned this lesson the hard way, mushing through unexpected sandbars and submerged driftwood. The prop of our motor reacted to these obstacles in a way my father didn’t appreciate, as the wheel became snarled and worn with each collision. We quickly learned the value of knowing your waters.

A mix of fresh and salt waters, our sounds are considered one of the most dynamic ecosystems on Earth. Inlets serve as essential veins of the sounds, flushing salt, sand and species inwards and outwards. The large swaths of Juncus and Spartina marshes provide nutrition and shelter to these species, both juvenile and adult.

The wealth of saltmarsh delineating so much of our interior coastline is largely responsible for the flourishing productivity throughout our waters. While the stench of detritus may allude otherwise, the estuarine-wetland system is 10 times as productive as the open ocean. As a result, our sounds support two-thirds of North Carolina commercially harvested seafood species, at least for some portion of their life.

A Safe Haven

Compared to the wanton currents of the Atlantic, the sounds provide a safe and nutritious expanse for growth of species from the croaker to the blue crab. Even those species that spend the majority of their lives in the ocean still depend on the sounds for food and fortress. With each ebb and flood tide, the sounds prove their value to our ecosystem as veins of life against our shores, and a conduit to the ocean.

Even in our first days on the sounds, my brother and I learned quickly about the fragility of the system. For every day we plied our native waters, we became more attuned to the changes that were occurring.

We couldn’t see the ripples of the sound bottom like we used to. Our crab pot lines kicked off more sludge with the passing of each year. We watched marsh fall prey to housing subdivisions and big-box stores. When we learned to fish, some days we became nearly annoyed that our rods wouldn’t be left alone by the barrage of striped bass tugging for our bucktails. Just years later, the season-long, eerie emptiness of our hooks made us scratch our heads.

The threats to our interior waters are ominous — stormwater runoff, nutrient loading and loss of marsh habitat continually plague these harbors of productivity. Luckily, in the case of our sounds, the most effective shield from environmental degradation is the simplest. Whether work or pleasure brings us to the water, allegiance to these often under-appreciated waters runs deep. Our sounds’ greatest allies are those who sensibly utilize its offerings. Just as my brother and I learned again and again — how could we destroy that which feeds us?

Today, as an employee of a nonprofit organization dedicated to preserving water quality along the N.C. coast, I’ve been able to translate my childhood lessons on the sound into community-based environmental efforts. The N.C. Coastal Federation has given meaning to what my brother and I learned to protect, while allowing me to pass the lessons on to others.

The afternoon after I’d set my crab pots, an east breeze had kicked up a healthy wave by the time I was able to check my pots. I thought about changing out of my sundress I’d had on all day, but decided against it, given the heat. I couldn’t bear to cover my skin that had been deprived of sun and salt for so long.

My dress flapped in the wind, dripping with every wave that capped the rails of the rowboat. Upon reaching my string, each pot I pulled had more crabs than the last. I swore to myself under my breath, wishing I had worn shoes. With each wave, the crabs placed in the basket on the forward deck were tossed upwards, outwards and closer to my feet. A bedlam of claws maneuvered beneath me.

I reached our dock, heaving my bushel of crabs off the dinghy, eager to show off my bounty. Lugging my catch through the kitchen, I stopped short to see my mother standing in the kitchen, smirking at my now-dirtied sundress and the trail of sound water I had left behind me.

A Dirty Sundress and a Mess of Crabs

“I got us some crabs for dinner!” I said proudly.

My mother giggled and turned to greet my father who had just walked in from a day of work. His face, incredulous, gazed towards my load of effervescent crabs, ticking and climbing their way to the top of the basket.

“Where’d you get those?” he exclaimed, to which I responded. “Right out front.”

One fleeting glance told me he had forgotten, even if just for a moment, the years of knowledge he and my mother had instilled upon us as children. Now, here in their kitchen was the product of their work, 25 years later.

Amidst discussion of my pot placement and bait choice, my parents and I sat down to a table scattered with my harvest, bright orange and still steaming in the deepening darkness. The crack of crab claws and chuckles filled the evening air, competing only with the nightly cicada chorus. Out back the sound floated by, promising tomorrow would be just as fruitful as today.

The temporary bridge spanning NC 12. Photo: Sam Bland 

First of a two-part series

RODANTHE– Leave the bustle and bedlam of summer traffic on the northern Outer Banks and take a drive south on N.C. 12, probably the most written-about and ever-changing road on the East Coast. Get a glimpse of climate change at work and peek into the future of North Carolina’s barrier islands.

Start at Whalebone Junction in Nags Head and head south. The beach expands, the salt marsh appears and the unbroken line of beachfront homes gradually subsides. The next 25 miles encompass the most dynamic stretch of roadway in North Carolina.

Before crossing over Oregon Inlet to Pea Island, a stop at Oregon Inlet Fishing Center is elemental to the trip south. Built in 1953, the marina is the center of the local sportfishing industry. During the summer months, the marina’s docks are animated with one of the greatest traditions in the region – swapping fishing truths and tales. Enjoy the center’s famous hot dogs and observe one of the best recreational fishing fleets in the world heave their day’s catch from boat to dock.

Turn right out of the fishing center and cross the 2.5-mile-long Herbert C. Bonner Bridge over Oregon Inlet. The inlet and the bridge are key chapters in the N.C. 12 story. To know why, you need to understand just one thing: The inlet moves and the bridge does not.

This house at the S-curves in Rodanthe demonstrates the precariousness of life on a moving island. Photo: Sam Bland

As do other inlets along the N.C. coast, Oregon Inlet has steadily crept southward. Scientists estimate it has moved two miles since it opened in a storm in 1846. If you could walk across the fishing catwalks on the side of the bridge, you’d notice that much of the catwalk on the northern end of the bridge now spans dry land. It didn’t when the bridge opened in 1963.

The moving inlet has been more than just an inconvenience to fishermen. To ensure safe passage to the sea, the boat channel through the inlet must pass under the bridge’s highest spans. That hasn’t been easy since the inlet moves and the bridge doesn’t. The state has had to constantly dredge the channel to keep it in place and deep enough for the commercial fishing boats that use it. The job has become increasingly more difficult and expensive in recent years. One reason is that the sea is rising faster than it has in the past because of global warming.

Stop at the Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge at the south end of the bridge to stand on the other reason. The refuge is known for its crystal waters and vibrant bird populations. But walk out to the beach and you can stand on the big rock wall that the state built in the early 1990s to protect the southern approach to the Bonner Bridge. The so-called terminal groin did its job and kept the land here from migrating away from the bridge. But the island on the other side of the inlet keeps coming south, squeezing the channel and making the difficult job of keeping it in place almost impossible.

Maybe this will all be solved when the state builds a new bridge across the inlet. The debate about where to put the replacement bridge has raged for several years now. Some environmental groups and scientists urged the state to avoid the inlet altogether and build a causeway into Pamlico Sound to connect the two islands. The state opted instead to build the new bridge about where the current one sits. The environmental groups sued, and the courts will decide the matter, though bridge construction is scheduled to begin next year.

Construction equipment is now a seemingly permanent part of the landscape on NC12. Photo: Sam Bland

Driving south through Pea Island you can’t help but notice the new “normal” of N.C. 12. Bright yellow bulldozers sling sand that the ocean dumps on the abused roadway with every storm tide, while lines of dump trucks transport load after load to build dunes in a herculean effort to halt the encroaching ocean. Rows of sand bags, some as big as houses, hold power poles in place at Mirlo Beach, while a piecemeal bridge supports traffic at the “new” New Inlet that Hurricane Irene cut a couple a years ago. This is now the new standard as the state battles to keep the road open in the face of a rising sea.

While the tenuous system will continue to flounder in the face of the next coastal storm, the beaches lining N.C. 12 are worth the extra look. Stand beneath the temporary bridge of the “new” New Inlet, or float from sound to ocean. Count the paces from Mirlo Beach’s sandbags to the ocean’s edge, or name the drab houses pasted with condemnation notices, tottering precariously over the surf, as if one pin prick would send them reeling to the sea.

The fragility of the system is unmatched. Sure, it may not have been what you had in mind, but I’ll bet you’ll remember exploration of these oddities better than that nap on the beach. Crystal clear waters and sweltering beach days will most likely always be a part of Outer Banks summers. Will N.C. 12?

Part Two, Thursday, June 13: A Walk on the Beach at Pea Island

Robby Midgett and his son, Daniel, worry about their future as commercial shrimpers. Photo: Ladd Bayliss.

STUMPY POINT — The rumble of the Rattlesnake’s engine vibrates my body down to my boots that are not yet dirty with the day’s work. I am in the pilothouse with Robby Midgett and his son, Daniel, and we are churning through the tannic waters surrounding the small village of Stumpy Point, getting ever closer to the start  of the day’s shrimping.

“I’m a ninth generation Stumpy Pointer,” said Robby, between the hydraulic swishes of his wheel that guided us through the pre-dawn dark, “and Daniel’s the tenth.”

The sky hangs above us, embracing the remains of the weekend’s meteor shower that still sporadically illuminate the slowly brightening darkness. Other shrimp trawlers cruise beside us.

Robby lets up on the throttle. The fishing is about to begin.

With only a nod passed between father and son, the Midgetts launch seamlessly into action, easing buoys, nets and massive “pine doors” into the sluggish brown water. On this morning, Robby deploys an “otter trawl” in hopes of it returning to his boat filled with late summer brown shrimp.

Just as the sun is creeping towards the tree line above northwestern Pamlico Sound, the Rattlesnake and her Stumpy Point Bay fleet have settled to trawling speed.

Shad and Stumpy Point

The Midgetts cull through the net. The unintended “by-catch” is a source of controversy. Photo: Ladd Bayliss.

As the southernmost village on Dare County’s mainland, Stumpy Point still exists as one of the quintessential fishing communities of our coast. Although paling in comparison to its early days as a trendsetter in the ways of gleaning profit from fisheries, the native families of the village continue to keep the fishing industry alive despite the pressures of pollution, fishing regulations and seafood imports.

For the Midgett family that has sustained itself primarily from the waters adjacent to Stumpy Point Bay, the story begins in the late 1800s with a young and bold Hyde County woman.

“My great grandmother, Lucy Best came here when she was 15, walked off to the post office and got married,” Midgett said proudly as a smile broke across his face. “If she hadn’t done that, my people wouldn’t be here.”

By the early 1900’, Lucy Best became a Stumpy Point resident and began a family.

Commercial fishing was by then the bedrock industry of the extremely isolated Stumpy Point. More people fished then farmed, and shad was their cash crop. Large schools of American shad moved up Albemarle, Croatan and Pamlico sounds on annual spring migrations. They supplemented the community’s diet and generated profit for those who followed them.

Dependence on the shad fishery dissipated by the late 1950s, but Midgett still remembers the bustling lifestyle that was the Stumpy Point fishing industry. Gazing across the small harbor one afternoon while heading, selling and packing shrimp, Midgett reflected on the burgeoning industry he witnessed as a child.

“Even when I was a little boy, I watched them pack out of that fish house 24 hours a day,” he said, pointing to a sagging building along the canal’s edge. “This was the shad capital of the world – there used to be 500 people living here, now we’re down to 150.”

Shad was not the target fishery during Midgett’s childhood in the late 1960s and early ‘70s. Crab and shrimp supported Stumpy Point by then. Midget began his life as a commercial fisherman going after them.

The Penaeids

The illustration shows how an otter trawl works.

Robby Midgett works the winch to bring up the net. Photo: Ladd Bayliss.

Along our coast, man’s pursuit of shrimp is no short-lived affair. Native Americans and early European settlers along the coast harvested shrimp by using dip and seine nets, according to researcher John Maiolo. By the late 19^th century fishermen near Wilmington began harvesting shrimp commercially, and other followed.

In North Carolina, commercial shrimpers focus on three types of shrimp from the Penaieid family: brown; white, locally known as greentails; and pink, or spotted, shrimp. Trumped only by the blue crab, shrimp are the second-most economically important fishery in North Carolina. According to N.C. Division of Marine Fisheries, shrimp harvest in 2011 produced $11 million in revenues.

The shrimp of our waters generally have a lifespan of one and a half to two years, and depend heavily on the marshes and nursery areas of local estuaries. Adults spawn in the Atlantic during most months of the year, leaving larvae to the devices of wind and currents for a safe delivery to the sounds where they begin to grow. Once these juveniles leave the safety of nursery creeks and canals, their movement back towards the oceans is often thwarted by the demand for local, fresh shrimp.

“Like most of these other boys, we usually start shrimpin’ for browns in the late summer, and move to greentailin’ in the fall,” said Midgett. “This year has been tough for the greentails, since we’ve had all this rain.”

Typically, years with high rainfall amounts force shrimp from their nursery areas quicker, said Daniel, and make them more susceptible to predation.

While most consumers don’t know the difference between a brown, greentail or spotted shrimp, the Midgetts know their habits and use different types of nets to best exploit those habits.

While an otter trawl is the net of choice for browns, a “mongoose” or tongue net is more appropriate for greentails. Often touted as one of the greatest developments in fishing technology, the otter trawl is attached to the Rattlesnake by cables that extend to the “doors,” which function to keep the mouth of the net open. A slight modification of the otter trawl, the mongoose net tows much higher in the water column, which tailors to the active greentails and their tendency to spend less time on the bottom.

Notice the green-tipped tails of white shrimp. Photo: Ladd Bayliss.

“There’s one!” exclaimed Midgett, as we lumbered southward from Stumpy Point Bay.

It is now mid-September; the wind was whipping from the north, the chop set in for the day, and the greentails were jumping in reaction to the top buoy of the net skimming the water. Even amidst the murky chop that trailed the Rattlesnake, the jump of the greentails equaled the excitement of seeing flying fish lurching from clear, blue Gulf Stream water.

The steel cable popped and crackled under the strain of retrieving the net from the bottom of the Pamlico. The Midgetts worked the wenches to guide the line evenly on the reel. Once the net was retrieved, father and son focused on emptying the tail bag that swung slowly in the chilled air above the deck, full of the trawl’s catch, and ready to be culled.

Shrimping Struggles

The conflicts surrounding shrimping are equal to its status as the most popular seafood product in the Southeast. The types of nets used to catch fish aren’t very selective. Other animals get caught in them and often die.  They are called “by-catch,” and they are very controversial among many interest groups.

To reduce by-catch, shrimpers today are required to install two different types of excluder devices for sea turtles and finfish. And, according to data from a 1999 N.C. Sea Grant Fisheries Research Grant study, the installation of these devices has greatly reduced fish and turtle mortality.

While many private groups contend that the by-catch produced by shrimp trawls is unparalleled, Trish Murphey, a biologist with N.C. Division of Marine Fisheries, said that the division’s management strategies created in 2006 are working.

“We’ve adjusted the management activities for specific areas, and we realize that by-catch is a significant issue, but our stocks are still considered viable,” she said

Robby Midgett at the helm of the Rattlesnake. Photo: Ladd Bayliss.

Some people take small-scale sampling data and extrapolated the results to all state shrimping waters, said Murphey. The state’s management plan for shrimp is currently before the N.C. Marine Fisheries Commission for adoption, and some groups are recommending a ban on otter trawls in North Carolina. They cite by-catch of fish species as a main concern. The division, though, does not recommend a ban on shrimp trawls in state waters.

For Midgett, the loss of shrimping could mean the end of his career. Most commercial fishermen along the coast depend on several types of commercial fisheries throughout the year. Like other fishermen, the Midgetts typically shrimp from late summer to early fall. They fish for blue crabs in Pamlico Sound and fish offshore at other times of the year.

“How many fish do you think outswam my net this morning?” Midgett asked, throwing a hand back towards his bright green otter trawl, swinging lazily in the air on the way back to the dock. “Really, take a look at the area I’m towing in, the time I’m towing and the number of months out of the year I’m able to shrimp.”

As many fishermen see it, they aren’t responsible for any decline in fish stocks. A combination of market and environmental conditions are doing the damage, they say.

“Fish populations aren’t declining solely because of me,” Midgett said.

And, as if those threats aren’t enough, the flood of imports to what was once a locally-dominated market poses serious threats to today’s fisherman.  According to N.C. Sea Grant, 90 percent of shrimp consumed in the United States is imported, and half of those imported shrimp are raised in man-made ponds often carved out of mangrove swamps, not caught at sea.

Amid the foreign flood, many local fishermen like the Midgetts are still able to make a living by focusing their efforts in the local community. “We take about 1 percent of our shrimp to the fish house every season,” said Daniel.  “The rest of it gets sold right off our boat.”

Although an anomaly, the Midgetts recognize the privilege of their product’s marketability to coastal villages near Stumpy Point.

The Future of a Struggling Industry

Robby Midgett says he feels like the last of the Mohicans. Photo: Ladd Bayliss.

Times have changed since Midgett was young and wide-eyed, roaming the waters of Stumpy Point Bay.

“I feel like the last Mohican now,” he sighed as he gazed over the mottled, yet well-kept deck of his boat. “I guess there are a couple of young guys continuing on… but I worry about Daniel.”

Daniel was able to experience fishing outside of his natal Stumpy Point waters this summer, as he took a part time job to chase salmon in Bristol Bay. After six weeks harvesting in Alaska’s fertile waters, Daniel returned home to continue shrimping with his father.

Atop a fish box, Daniel brushed fish scales out of his hair and mulled over his future. “It’s a hard life, and I’ve seen so many people get worn out, but I hope this never goes away,” he said, stretching his arms towards the expanse of Pamlico Sound, “There’s just nothing like this lifestyle.”

Although the challenges faced by the Midgetts are numerous, the freedom of their profession keeps the nets in the water and the locals fed.

COLUMBIA — For most, the wistful days of retirement seem as if they cannot approach faster. Amidst the hustle and bustle of daily workloads, raising children and juggling responsibilities with leisure, the enticement of giving up work seems like a distant pot of gold on the horizon.

For Midge Ogletree of Columbia, retirement wasn’t exactly about relaxing, but more about giving back. Along with her responsibilities to the Columbia Board of Aldermen, Ogletree serves as a member to the federation’s Board of Directors and chairs the group’s northeast regional advisory committee.  She puts every vein of energy into any task she accepts.

Originally from Baltimore, Md., Ogletree has had a strong interest in the environment since an early age. “My parents were members of The Nature Conservancy, my mother was an avid birdwatcher,” she said. “I guess I’ve always had an interest in the environment and known there were obstacles to its continued health and legacy.”

At Duke University, where she received a Bachelor of Arts in English in 1960, Ogletree became very active in the civil rights movement.

“In the early ’60’s I attended an integrated high school and had African-American friends and white friends, so i got more and more interested as to why African-Americans weren’t treated the same,” she said.

During her time in Durham, Ogletree participated in a sit-in to protest the unfair wages paid to African-Americans. Ogletree spent a few hours in jail for her involvement in the sit-in, although the charges were eventually dropped.

“I got in trouble with the school for getting back to the school late, so the dean of women had to contact my parents,” chuckled Ogletree, “Even after talking to the dean about my endeavor, my parents were very proud of me for my involvement in such an important movement.”

After obtaining her master’s degree in education from East Carolina University, Ogletree settled into life in Columbia with her husband, Charlie. to teach school.

She retired in 2003 after 38 years of teaching, but she saw no reason to slow down. Ogletree began looking for ways to get involved along the coast. For Ogletree, the federation’s programs were a good fit.

“I really like the approach of education, advocacy and restoration. It all comes together so beautifully,” said Ogletree, “The philosophy just seems right, the policy of the federation has more to do with problem solving; it’s a good balance. The federation may be against something, but it always has an alternative proposal.”

Ogletree quickly proved to be a firm asset to the organization, especially along the northeast coast. After initial conversations with Jan DeBlieu, the federation former coastal advocate in the region, Ogletree joined to the group’s board and the regional advisory committee – and the work began.

Aside from a laundry list of important contributions, Ogletree was responsible for forming initial connections between the federation and Tyrrell County. “Midge is the real reason we met Pat Armstrong and formed the partnership with Columbia Middle School to create their rain garden,” said the Erin Fleckenstein, a federation scientist who manages the group’s regional office in Manteo. “The Columbia rain garden program has remained active over the last three years and continues to provide valuable opportunities for students.”

Midge Ogletree, right, helps with a planting on the Outer Banks.

Further tying Columbia to the Federation’s work, Ogletree introduced the low-impact development, or LID, concept as a way of creatively dealing with stormwater. “After attending an LID workshop in Manteo, I was hooked!” said Ogletree.

LID is an innovative method of controlling stormwater that attempts to mimic the land’s natural ability to absorb runoff.

Ogletree persuaded the Columbia Board of Aldermen to explore LID concepts and consider its role within Columbia. For the federation and Ogletree, it has been the ultimate collaboration. “It’s been great to meld my position with the town board and the Coastal Federation – it’s such a nice coming together of the two positions,” she said.

The town is currently designing a manual that explains the concept of LID for those in town wishing to implement the techniques. While the policy isn’t binding, it is a strong foundation for the advancement of LID in northeastern North Carolina and is scheduled to be complete by the close of the year.

Since the federation’s presence spreads far beyond the bounds of Tyrell County, Ogletree isn’t deterred by long distances and hard work. From planting marsh grasses on the sweltering beaches of the Outer Banks, to water quality sampling among the farm fields in Hyde County, Ogletree is always willing to help.

“Midge has volunteered at most of our field sites from Jockey’s Ridge to Hyde County, to Durant’s Point,” Fleckenstein noted. “All in addition to helping introduce us to important players along the way.” In 2009, Ogletree received the Federation’s Volunteer of the Year Pelican Award in recognition of her dedicated labor. Of course, for the ageless Ogletree, it doesn’t seem like a task, “It’s just such a wonderful experience. How could you not want to work with an organization that partners with all types of people?” she said, smiling. “That’s truly my favorite part of the process.”

COLINGTON — Just as the sun is peeking over the marshes and pine hammocks, Murray Bridges’ small Privateer is inching through murky backwaters towards the open waters of Roanoke Sound, where rows of hot pink buoys mark his     crab pots that rest solidly on the bottom.

Bridges makes this early trip out to his pots early six mornings every week.  It’s taxing at times but Bridges and mate Lannie “Dolan” Belangia, Jr. see no other substitute for the beauty that comes with working on the water at dawn.

A native of Wanchese, Bridges has spent most of his life on the water. Whether it was fishing off the beach from a dory or stringing gillnets in the sounds, Bridges has spent his life immersed in the natural environment.

Murray Bridges

After 22 years as a merchant mariner, the experienced waterman returned to his natal waters and opened Endurance Seafood in Colington in the 1970s. It was here that he became a pioneer for the softshell crab industry in Dare County. His backyard business became a success by marketing North Carolina softshell crabs through expanded markets in the northern states.

“We ship our crabs all over, from Washington DC to Maryland. These crabs we catch today will probably see the hard crab markets in New York,” Bridges explained.

Today, Bridges’ business exists as a quintessential piece of the hard crab markets locally and along the East Coast.

Bridges, a spry 78, stands sturdily behind his homemade starboard console during the run towards the Roanoke Sound. While the glare of the angled morning sun reflected harshly upon the boat’s deck, Bridges still refuses to wear sunglasses.

“They’re bad for your eyes,” chuckled Bridges, pointing at Belangia’s sunglasses, “I’ve never worn them, and I can still see just fine.”

On this particularly brisk morning, our arrival to the first string of pots nestled east of Wanchese generates swift action by Bridges and Belangia. While Bridges wields a long hook to snatch the buoys, Belangia prepares the stern of the boat for his well-practiced culling routine. Once the crab pot line is inserted into the pot puller, Bridges awaits the wire pot’s arrival to the boat where it will be opened, emptied, re-baited with menhaden and tossed back into the water to await collection the following day.

Despite the commotion of snapping claws, Belangia effortlessly culls between females, males, pre-molt and soft crabs – all before the next pot is placed on the cover boards.

“I guess you could say I’ve looked at a lot of hard crabs,” he said grinning. “I’m about the sixth generation of a commercial fishing family. It’s pretty much second nature by now.”

Beautiful Swimmers

Scientifically referred to as Callinectes sapidus, or “beautiful swimmer,” the blue crab has proven to be a profitable gem for North Carolina’s seafood industry. According to the N.C. Department of Marine Fisheries, blue crabs are the top commercially harvested species in the state. In 2011, over 30 million pounds of blue crab were harvested – a number worth over $21 million to North Carolina.

Predominantly collected between May and October, the blue crab is most recognizable to consumers fried as a soft shell or steamed to a bright orange in a hard shell. According to North Carolina Sea Grant, nearly all of commercial fishermen in the state use wire crab pots. They scatter coastal waters with more than 800,000 each year.

Pre-molt, or “peeler,” crabs are those that show signs of molting and can be characterized by color differences in the crab’s shell and backfin, or apron. These subtle characteristics indicate the stage of a crab’s molting cycle. When the coloration is just right, Bridges and Belangia collect the crab for its transition into a soft shell. They’re held in tanks at Endurance until molting occurs. Once the crabs are soft, they are packed and shipped to their destination.

According to a 2002 study by Dr. David Eggelston of N.C. State University, soft shell crab harvest has truly expanded the potential of the blue crab market. The shelf life of a hard crab is typically quite short, which limits their ability to be shipped long distances. However, the soft shell crab can be frozen and will keep its fresh flavor for several months.

Traditional Industries on the Brink

Over the years, commercial fishermen have faces numerous obstacles – higher fuel process, cheaper imports, more rules and regulations. Add to that the steady disappearance of local fish houses. As the places where fishermen go to weigh and sell their catch, fish houses are important to the survival of the commercial industry.  But they are in trouble. According to a 2007 study by N.C. Sea Grant, higher operating costs, covetous waterfront property and decreasing water quality led to a near 35 percent decline in the state’s fish houses from 2000 to 2006. And the declines continue.

Even throughout the numerous famines of the commercial fishing industry, Bridges has managed to maintain Endurance Seafood. He sells his soft crabs Northern states to local restaurants and residents. AS a result, soft crabs from Colington are a known brand.

Dolan Belangia work for Murray Bridges and learns from him.

“When we get our soft shells in, everyone around here knows. All it takes is a phone call,” laughed Bridges.

While political and economic factors greatly affect the health of commercial fisheries, habitat quality is just as important an issue.

Upon returning to the dock with the early-afternoon sun well over the trees of the protected creek, Bridges meandered through the maze of soft shell shedders to look for recently shed crabs. While his seasoned hands collected soft shells, Bridges explained frustration over the current state of water quality and fisheries regulations. As far as Bridges sees it, the decline in the quality of his natal waters over the years has been serious.

“The worst part is we are the ones that are out there every day. When we actually tell people what we see, it’s like in one ear and out the other,” said Bridges with a shake of his head. “It really hurts.”

Sharing the sentiment of many coastal watermen in North Carolina, Bridges sees the decline in fish populations and quality of habitat.

“There are less numbers of fish and crabs – maybe they’ve moved on, but they’re not here anymore,” said Bridges. “We can see it in everything we do.  Just look at our pots – the moss buildup on the line that used to take two weeks to produce now takes two days. The water is just dirtier.”

According to a study by the N.C. Department of Environment and Natural Resources, 87 percent of commercial fishermen in northeastern North Carolina have less than 20 years’ experience on the water. Most fishermen, the study notes, have been actively engaged for an average of 13 years. That makes Bridges, with a lifetime on the water, an outlier.

The majority of commercial fishermen think the ability to make money in the industry is declining, but Bridges is passing along something far more valuable than money—his 70 years of experience on the water. In Belangia, 24, Bridges has a willing and eager student.

“I’ll do this as long as I can,” said Belangia, slinging another handful of she-crabs into a bushel basket teetering behind him. “I’ve never been the type meant for an office.”

MANTEO — Although they may not see the immediate value of native plants, stormwater controls or plant surveys, most middle school students sure do enjoy being outside and getting dirty.

Mary Ann Hodges works hard to see that they do.

Mary Ann Hodges

The Manteo Middle School teacher and N.C. Coastal Federation volunteer has worked tirelessly to make sure her students not only enjoy working in the school’s rain garden, but learn from it. By strengthening the bond between student and the natural environment, Hodges has shown that the kids can learn from doing something as simple as gardening.

Beginning with the construction of the rain garden in 2006, Hodges, who has been a science educator for more than 25 years, has remained a steadfast advocate for the garden and its place in seventh- and eighth-grade curricula.

In their simplest forms, rain gardens are plantings of robust native species, which can withstand most any weather condition, in a depression in the ground. Runoff that would otherwise eventually flow into nearby surface waters, collects in the depressions and is taken up by the plants. The stormwater then filters through the ground, which removes pollutants and recharges the water table. Hodges has been able to use this design to teach students about water quality, native plants and the natural history of our region.

While a long line of awards trails her name, Hodges is no stranger to excellence. A resident of Dare County for 18 years, she holds an undergraduate degree from Towson State University, a master’s degree in school administration from East Carolina University and was a member of the team that received a federation Pelican Award for Environmental Education in 2006.

It was then that Hodges began working with the N.C. Aquarium in Manteo and the federation to create the middle school’s rain garden.

“The rain garden has enriched the entire school,” she said, “and the students were able to see the evolution of the project – from planning and planting, to maintenance.”

While the Albemarle-Pamlico National Estuary Program provided the initial money for the garden, Hodges continues to write and receive grants for maintenance costs. This funding has ensured that the garden will continue to be a part of the student’s science curriculum for the year.

“As an educator, it’s hard to be up to date on everything going on in the area, and the federation has been very willing to involve our school in their work,” said Hodges.

Manteo Middle School students plant a tree in the school’s rain garden.

A self-proclaimed “willing guinea pig,” Hodges has made herself available and involved throughout all aspects of the federation’s rain garden program to make sure the lessons are incorporated into the students’ official curriculum.

Only, Hodges wasn’t willing to stop there.

“We have actually been able to add more learning tools to the rain garden design,” she said. “I am now using the gardens to show students the concept of volunteer plant growth, population statistics, mapping and other vegetation community dynamics.”

In addition to rain garden maintenance and education, Hodges has been able to have her students participate in water quality labs with the federation, where students test water collected from different areas to better understand water properties and what is required for a healthy system.

“These water quality testing days have provided students with opportunities I don’t have access to here on campus,” said Hodges, “And the hands on work is perfect.”

With volunteers and partners like Hodges, the federation’s rain garden program can continue to grow throughout the region, while inspiring our younger generations to improve and maintain our environmental quality.

While some may not see the benefit of hands-on education immediately, Hodges’ experience has shown that students can use the work to understand and appreciate their natural environment.

“With the federation working at a local level, the students are more aware of local issues, and are able to be better stewards,” said Hodges, “It may not click right away, but it will eventually.”

Mike Lee, right, fishes his pound net for striped bass that researchers will tag. Photo: Ladd Bayliss

Julie Harris and Tyler Moore implant a tag in a striped bass. Photo: Ladd Bayliss

Things are a little different this morning for Mike Lee, a lifelong commercial fisherman who works the inshore waters of our northeastern coast. His wooden skiff slices through the tannic waters of the Roanoke River. White perch are languidly squirming along his boat’s worn deck looking for an escape, and  double-crested cormorants are waiting patiently for whatever leftovers can be scavenged from the pound netter’s harvest.

But today, there are other rummagers alongside – and they’re not looking for leftovers.

Julie Harris is following Lee, looking for striped bass. A researcher at N.C. State University, she wants to implant them with sonic tracking tags. One of the principal investigators  in this three-year study, Harris hopes  to better understand the migration patterns and mortality rates of the iconic striped bass of Albermarle Sound and the Roanoke River.

Known colloquially as “rockfish,” striped bass (Morone saxatilis) are “anandromous,” meaning that they spend most of their lives in saltwater but migrate up freshwater rivers to spawn. The Roanoke River is one of the most important breeding waters for the bass, along with the Chesapeake Bay and the Hudson and Delaware rivers.

It’s hard to imagine such a powerful, ocean-minded fish  weaving through the bends of the tea-colored Roanoke, but, nevertheless, they make the journey every year.  Harris wants to know more about those  migrations, while better understanding mortality rates.

Her project is being paid for with money from the state’s recreational saltwater fishing license. Partnering with N.C. State on the project are the U.S. Geological Survey, the N.C. Division of Marine Fisheries and the N.C. Wildlife Resources Commission. Harris began work with Lee last year, in a mutually beneficial “fish for science” partnership.

Lee fishes with pound nets, an ancient fishing method that corrals fish through a maze of nets. They don’t  kill what they catch. For Harris, they’re perfect.

“This has been the most successful method we have found to collect in the Lower Roanoke,” she said.  “We need all of our fish to be alive and healthy, which is exactly what you get from a pound net-harvested fish.”

Although the coastal fish markets of the northeast coast rarely have dry floors, times have been tough for the estuary fishermen. Since 2000, the numbers of fish houses along the sound have taken a big hit because of development and fisheries regulations.

“I have nowhere local to take my fish,” Lee said., “If I want to make any money, I have to haul my catch to Wanchese – and that’s nearly 200 miles round trip. Having Dr. Harris here to buy our fish really helps us out during a tough time of year.”

Ever since the moratorium on the river herring in September 2007, fishermen like Lee have struggled. According to a historical analysis by Joe Hightower, the other principal N.C. State researcher on this project, the 1996 landings of river herrings ended up comprising only five percent of recorded landings between 1880 and 1970.

Mike Lee’s pound nets in the Roanoke River are perfect for collecting live specimens of striped bass for tagging. Photo: Ladd Bayliss

This serious decline only ensured that the colloquial fishery of the Roanoke would have to go on without the herring. “Once the herring fishery was taken away, we weren’t left with much else besides our rock, perch and catfish. The rest of the stuff in the river just isn’t worth handling,” said Lee.

Now, thanks to N.C. State, Lee is able to get premium market price for striped bass that he doesn’t have to bother transporting and selling in Wanchese.

A tagged striper. Photo: Ladd Bayliss

“Instead of selling striped bass around here for a lesser price, N.C. State will take my fish from my net for me for premium price,” said Lee.

Harris and Tyler Moore, a research technician, are waiting this morning for  Lee to lift his  net  from the water. Once the culling of fish in the net begins, the striped bass are transferred to live wells on N.C. State’s boat.

Moore and Harris perform the surgeries to implant the tags on the water underneath a cypress grove, working swiftly to ensure the fish are healthy upon release. “We’ve had very little mortality in the seasons I’ve been tagging,” said Harris.

They anesthetize the fish and implant them with three tags.

Used in all sorts of aquatic organisms, the sonic tag is a thing of beauty. By outfitting striped bass with this special tag, scientists can better gauge the  real-time movements of the fish. The signal that the tags emit are picked up by stationary receivers at specific inlets and estuarine or river locations that recognize the tag numbers. The tag emits a signal every 30-90 seconds up to a distance of 200-300 meters. If a receiver is within range, the tag number is recorded with a timestamp.

The researchers implants another type of tag that is picked up by hand-held scanners at  fish houses and boat ramps to quantify recreational and commercial catch mortality rates.. A third tag is one that most fishermen are accustomed to seeing – a plastic tube that protrudes from the fish’s body. Instead of the standard yellow state tag, Harris uses red ones. Anyone catching one of her tagged stripers is entitled to a $100  reward..

So far, researchers have implanted 150 sonic tags into Roanoke River striped bass. “We have had some really great data so far,” said Harris, “We have been able to learn a lot about the migration timing of these fish, and how it relates to temperature.”

Charlton Godwin, a biologist with the N.C. Division of Marine Fisheries, said Harris’ study will be helpful in comparing historical striped bass migration data. Beginning in the 1950’s, William Hassler of N.C. State conducted several mark and recapture studies on the striped bass. “With Dr. Harris’ data, we will be able to compare Dr. Hassler’s data as well as our own computer modeling and stock assessments to get a better idea of the fish, its numbers and migration patterns,” said Godwin.

Aside from the invaluable scientific data that will be collected for such an economically-viable fish, Harris’ study bodes well for fostering a continued relationship between scientist and traditional fisherman. And for Lee, the partnership with NCSU is a match made in heaven. “We look forward to it every year,” said Lee, “NCSU has really helped us out.”

•  For more information about Roanoke River striped bass study, visit the Web site