Editor’s Note: After Sam Bland retired from his position as superintendent at Hammocks Beach State Park, he joined the staff of the North Carolina Coastal Federation. While a coastal specialist in the 2010s, he would periodically write about his time in the field for Coastal Review. Now traveling the country, Bland drops a line every once in a while to share a new adventure with his readers, such as the following:

With the silent curtain of darkness kissing the horizon, we rode down the dusty ribbon of a remote dirt road in western Wyoming. The departing sun left a thin orange glow on the horizon, hanging low like a colorful fog. Straight ahead in the sky, a sliver of the waxing crescent moon grinned sideways like Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire cat.

Following the directions, we turned off the road and on to an eroded washboard of rocks and stones. With silent glances, we wondered if this was the right way to go. Soon, the path ended in a clearing where we parked the car. Stepping out, we immediately heard the clear sharp song of the northern saw-whet owl piercing the cool clear mountain air. Over and over, it called, beckoning.

Cautiously, we headed down the ankle-twisting cobble path, our flashlights leading the way. In the distance, we could see a faint glow of light suppressed by the walls of a nylon tent. Not far from the tent, a stand of fir trees stood tall, silhouetted against the evening sky. The door flap of the tent swung open and we were greeted by Noah Price, his face illuminated red by a filtered headlamp.

A contracted field biologist, Noah specializes in documenting the migration of small forest owl species such as saw-whets, boreals and flammulated owls. Stepping inside the dimly lit tent, there were a few chairs and a table. Neatly arranged on the table was all the accouterment necessary to band owls. A digital scale, rulers, clipboards thick with data forms, a tool box filled with banding supplies, clamping pliers, and a variety of short PVC tubes were at the ready. We — my wife Bright, and I — had ventured to this secluded location for the opportunity to observe the banding of northern saw-whet owls.

Saw-whets are one of the smallest owls, standing at only 8 inches. It is a fluffball of feathers weighing a scant 5 ounces, at the most. Although diminutive, it is a solid-looking bird with a large facial disc and stunning yellow eyes. With deadly talons, it flies the night skies searching for prey.

Even though it is rarely seen, it is one of the most common forest owls within its northern range, which includes the entire width of North America. Its breeding range includes the northern and western states, southern Canada as well as central Mexico. During the winter months, they can be found to venture into central and southern states.

In North Carolina, they have been documented in 31 counties and have been found wintering along the islands of the Outer Banks. High in the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina, there is a small breeding population as well. It is listed as a threatened species in state by the N.C. Wildlife Resources Commission.

Northern saw-whet owls were long thought to be nonmigratory and remained permanent residents within their northern range. But in the early 1900s, a number of saw-whets were found dead after a severe fall storm in an area where they were not thought to exist. This was a light-bulb moment and ornithologists realized that these owls might indeed be migratory.

Many ornithologists were skeptical of their migratory movement and it took decades before research proved it to be true. To study migratory patterns and routes, banding programs were established. Using fine mist nets to capture the nighttime migrants, they banded the owls as they moved south during the fall months. The results concluded that saw-whet owls were indeed migratory.

In the mid-1960s, banding stations started using an audio lure to attract the birds. It was a game changer. Like a moth to a flame, the amplified song of a male saw-whet proved irresistible in attracting the owls. The capture rates were so impressive that this is now the go-to method for increased banding success. This was the flute-like song that we heard when we first arrived at the banding station, a recorded saw-whet song playing on a continual loop.

With their migratory nature more well-known, researchers are trying to unravel the mystery about the biology of these secretive owls. Being strictly nocturnal, these birds are experts at hiding during the day. They will seek out dense vegetation and blend in within the branches looking as if a knot on the tree.

Ornithologists have become enamored with these cute and charismatic birds with their big bright alluring eyes. Their large facial disc makes them look like a child’s cuddly stuffed animal.

Remember in 2020 when the nation fell in love with Rocky, a saw-whet owl that was roosting in a spruce tree that was cut down for the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree and trucked to New York City? Its charm undeniable, the unwittingly abducted owl became a star. The owl inspired the center to designate an owl mascot, Roxy, as their official ambassador. The plight of Rocky is also depicted in the Disney animated film “An Almost Christmas Story” as well as a number of children’s books.

Research on these owls has really accelerated over the past 30 years with the formation of Project Owlnet, a collaboration of researchers dedicated to the study of saw-whet owls. The project established standardized protocol and data collection methods to keep the research uniform for scientific integrity.

As we wait in the tent, Noah steps out into the darkness and walks toward a stand of fir trees where the mist nets are located. About 15 minutes later he returns with a saw-whet owl snuggly confined in a plastic PVC sleeve. As a cavity nester, saw-whets are familiar and comfortable in confined spaces. His headlamp creating a reddish aura, Noah went about examining the owl. Under his gentle touch, the owl calmly endured the inspection as if at a doctor’s appointment.

Each fall and spring, hundreds of researchers like Noah participate in capturing, banding and monitoring the movements of these tiny owls. In addition to banding the birds, their overall condition is evaluated. A lightweight metal band, with its own unique engraved number, is applied to the leg. The birds are then examined to record weigh, wing length, sex, age, fat deposits, and molting progress. Isotope analysis is also conducted to help determine specific nesting areas.

After the birds are released, as time goes by, information is gathered through sightings, recapture and mortality. The information is archived with the United States Geological Survey’s Bird Banding Laboratory where the data, along with recapture data, is available for researchers studying the birds.

As the most banded owl in North America, it is estimated that 400,000 saw-whet owls have worn the silver bracelet over the years. The banding helps ornithologists determine migration routes, when they migrate, peak migration, and how fast they migrate. It also establishes where they overwinter, overall population numbers, lifespan, and reproduction and survival rates. This information is essential for targeting habitat preservation along migratory corridors and wintering and nesting areas.

The data is also crucial when calculating the impact of climate change not only for the saw-whet, but for all owls. The North Carolina coastal plain is permanent residency to the great horned, barred, eastern screech and American barn owls. The short-eared owl is a winter resident while the long-eared owl is a rare winter visitor. Snowy owls are rare winter visitors during irruption years and burrowing owls are extremely rare as they have only been documented a hand full of times in the state.

Long-term variations in climate can result in more frequent severe weather events, hotter temperatures, habitat changes, drought, flooding and persistent wildfires. The impact these changes have on wildlife can be measured by what has been termed as “climate change vulnerability.” This is the risk associated with exposure to changing precipitation, temperature and severe weather events. For example, nests of ground nesters, such as burrowing and snowy owls, are destroyed by heavy rain events and melting permafrost.

Owls that are dependent on niche habitat might be forced to abandon part of their range destroyed by wildfires. It also includes their dependency on certain habitat types and their sensitivity to changing conditions along with their ability to adapt to these changes.

Some of these owls may simply adapt by transitioning to a different habitat, developing a taste for new prey or simply relocating to cooler northern regions. However, this may create a butterfly effect of competition that is detrimental to other species. Overall species populations may not decline rapidly, but they will be slowly chipped away as their habitat shrinks.

Eventually, if their ranges shift, they might be considered invasive if they out compete native species in that range. This is already happening with the expansion of the barred owl into the northwestern states and their competition with the Northern Spotted owl.

The United States Fish and Wildlife Service has concluded that their movement was significantly influenced by human activities decades ago. As such, they must be killed by the hundreds of thousands. Is this the fate that awaits other owls that might be displaced due to climate change? Historical ranges might need to be reconsidered and management practices revisited.

Since it is anticipated that owl species will be pushed further north with rising temperatures, biologists recommend that conservation practices be proactive. Conservation strategies should be directed to preservation, protection and restoration of prime habitats now rather than later. Even put out a welcome sign and embrace new diversity to the neighborhood.

Animals are adaptable, but it may just come down to how fast and intense changes occur in the future and their ability to adjust. Importantly, for the fitness of owl populations, is the impact of climate variations on their food sources. Will prey items such as rodents, insects, birds and reptiles be abundant in the changing landscape.

Under the illumination of his headlamp, Noah is finishing his checkup on the feathered patient. He blows a small puff of air onto the breast of the owl and a fine mist of powder down explodes into a crimson fog that hangs in the air. Startled, the bemused owl looks up at Noah and the two appear to share a laugh. As the feathers part, exposing the breast, Noah can determine a fat score that indicates fat reserves. Kind of like checking the gas gauge and how many snacks are in the car during a road trip.

Noah wears his passion for these birds on his sleeve like an epaulet. Enduring two months of long cold nights, Noah’s research station banded 321 saw-whet owls along with 68 boreal owls and three long-eared owls. With the owl in one hand, Noah finishes scribbling the data on a clipboard.

The wide-eyed owl stands straight, patiently awaiting its release. As we step outside, Noah asks if I would like to release the bird. I humbly accept this once-in-a-lifetime offer. Placing the owl on my hand, it holds firmly onto my finger, as if on a tree branch. I can feel its tiny talons gripping into my flesh.

Face to face, the deadly eyes of this fierce hunter shoots daggers into my soul anchoring a lasting memory. In an instant, it launches from my hand and lands on a low branch of a nearby fir tree. It gathers and composes itself, then flies off into a dark and uncertain future.

“Father, oh father, Please let me go with thee.
I long to see old England, across the deep blue sea.”

— From “The Rum Barrel Girl” by Gumbo Lily

I was on a morning run in the crisp fall air with golden aspen leaves littering the ground like an abstract mosaic. The crunching of leaves under my footsteps caused a red fox to raise its head, catching my attention. Peering at me from around a headstone, I stopped. We stared at each other for a few seconds, then the fox went about its business mousing for rodents.

Old cemeteries, especially those with old-growth trees, are perfect habitat for a variety of animals such as foxes, deer, rabbits and owls. This is why I seek them out; the older the better. I abandoned my run and began walking the pathways between the headstones looking for wildlife. High up in a lanky pine tree, a raven scolded an oblivious great horned owl.

As I stepped between the graves, one headstone caught my eye. The entire gravesite was a memorial covered with mementoes. A basketball, stuffed animals, angel figurines, flowers, toy horses, lariats and cowboy boots. There was even a ball cap with the words, “Beach Cowgirl” printed on the crown. The gifts spoke of an adored and obviously beloved young girl.

Related: Special tour to give voices to Beaufort’s oldest residents

Curiously out of place at the base of the grave was a seashell. Not a tourist-bought, clean and polished seashell, but a raw, ocean-tumbled helmet shell that you would find along the beaches of the East Coast.

The owl, the grave and the seashell caused synapses to fire in my brain like a pinball lighting up memories.

As if in a trance, I was teleported back to the Old Burying Ground in Beaufort, North Carolina. Here I have searched the live oak trees for the great horned owls, where they nest year after year, near the grave of the intriguing “rum keg girl.”

With burials starting in the early 1700s, the Old Burying Ground is on the National Register of Historic Places.

Primordial looking live oak trees drape their branches creating a canopy of shade over the headstones. Twisted arms of wisteria grip any surface like a rat snake climbing a tree while patches of ivy and ferns fill unclaimed ground. Time and weathering have erased the etchings on some headstones, leaving the epitaphs unreadable. Moss and lichens have colonized most stonework throughout the grounds in a patina of time.

Surrounded by concrete and wrought-iron fencing, tombstones and monuments stand low and tall, from modest to elaborate. Placement of family plots and individual graves appears helter-skelter, resulting in a maze of paths that weave among the graves.

Upon entering the gated churchyard, visitors can soak up the history while taking a self-guided tour. With 28 points of interest, the tour features Capt. Otway Burns, “naval hero of the War of 1812,” a British officer reported to be buried standing up in full uniform, the crew of the shipwreck known as the Crissie Wright, and of Jechonias Willis, a soldier who died during the siege of Fort Macon.

Yet, on stop No. 24, people are stunned when they come upon the resting place of a young girl buried in a keg of rum. Listed on the tour brochure simply as, “Girl in Barrel of Rum,” this story has captivated people for years.

I have read numerous accounts of the story and here is what I have pieced together.

In the mid-1700s, a merchant captain, named Sloo, possibly a Nathaniel Sloo, arrived from England to Beaufort with his wife and infant daughter, where he built a stunning house on Front Street with a splendid view of the water.

As the child grew, her homesick mother regaled her with stories of England. Fascinated by the tales of her homeland, the child dreamed of visiting there someday. The captain often set across the ocean to England and his darling daughter pleaded to take the voyage with him. Fraught with danger, the journey for a young child was just too risky. Her begging was denied. With persistence, and the passage of time, at 12 years old, her wish was finally granted. With his wife still unsure, Sloo pledged to return with his dearest daughter. The voyage to England was uneventful and she delightfully reveled in the land of her birth.

On the passage home, tragedy struck and the girl fell ill and died. Horrified and heartbroken, he was unable to slide his sweet daughter off a plank into the cold Atlantic for a burial at sea. Haunted by his vow, Sloo would return with his child.

Pretty heartbreaking stuff, but is the story true, a legend or folklore? There isn’t really any documentation on record that can authenticate the burial of a child named Sloo in the Old Burying Grounds.

As they sailed west across the ocean, the captain pickled her remains in a keg full of rum. Upon return to Beaufort, the distraught mother did not want to disturb her baby’s body. The captain’s wife agreed to bury the little girl still encased, like a cocoon, inside the keg of rum.

Records do show that a Nathaniel Sloo did own a lot on Front Street in 1768, however he quickly sold the lot, never building a house on the property. This is the only documentation that can reliably place a man named Sloo with a presence in Beaufort.

In a few the stories, Nathaniel Sloo is referenced as the seafaring captain and father of the rum keg girl. Yet, there is no archival provenance that references the name of his wife, his daughter, or the burial.

The grave is marked with a primitive looking wooden plank with the words “Little Girl Buried in Rum Keg” carved into the surface. I read in one publication that the wood is a “slab of cypress more than two hundred years old.”

Even assuming that this is the original marker, I don’t think that any loving parents would omit their child’s name on the marker. The wording on the marker just seems to sensationalize the burial and not honor the deceased.

But maybe the story isn’t so far-fetched, there are other accounts of people being buried in a barrel of spirits. The Oakdale Cemetery in Wilmington has its own “girl in the barrel” who died in 1857. The daughter of a merchant captain, Nancy Martin, sailed with her father on a lengthy trading excursion. Nancy is thought to have fallen victim to yellow fever and died at age 24 in Cuba. Secured in a sitting position on a chair, her body was placed in hogshead of liquor for the return trip to Wilmington for burial in the family plot.

In the Old Cutler Cemetery in Maine, Jeanette Corbett is said to also be buried in a cask filled with rum in 1873. Known as the “Lady in a Rum Cask,” Corbett died while with her merchant captain husband on a trading trip to Cuba.

While dying, she insisted to be buried in her home state of Maine. A new bride at 26 years old, she was preserved in the intoxicant for the passage home. Fearing that she might have died of yellow fever and could infect others, she was left in the barrel for burial.

So, there are other accounts of people spending their eternal rest soaking in a barrel of alcohol.

In 2016, the rum keg girl grave gained some unwanted notoriety when the Beaufort police and fire departments responded to a report of a fire on the Old Burying Ground. When they arrived, they found the grave had been desecrated. Set ablaze for some cryptic reason by a vandal.

Her story has intrigued the interest of musicians, inspiring the haunting song, “The Rum Barrel Girl” by the North Carolina Americana band, Gumbo Lily. A chance visit to the grave site influenced writer Katy Simpson Smith to pen the 2014 novel, “The Story of Land and Sea.”

I was able to speak with Patricia Suggs, executive director of the Beaufort Historical Association, which offers guided tours of the Old Burying Ground. She more than hinted that it is entirely possible that the rum keg girl story could be a fanciful fabrication. She stated that the story could have been conjured up and given life by a storytelling group called the Fishtown Liars in the 1960s.

The group conducted tours on the history of Beaufort including the Old Burying Ground. To keep their tales entertaining, it is said they never let the truth get in the way of a good story. I think it is fair to say that this story is now part of the town’s oral history.

Today, the grave continues to attract tourists, history buffs and the curious. Pilgrimages are made to adorn the grave with stuffed animals, toys, bead necklaces, bracelets, coins, flowers and lots of seashells. The last time I visited, there was even a colorful kite propped above the vaulted grave.

Piling up like cairns, these tributes need to be regularly removed by the site managers. Soon enough, though, the decorations will again quickly accumulate, covering the grave.

Legend, folklore, myth or fact, the rum keg girl lives on. Stories persist that she comes out at night and runs around the cemetery, her own haunted playground. Gifts left at her grave mysteriously move around to different locations. Listen closely and you can even hear her humming.

It is a captivating story weaved into the fabric of Beaufort’s cultural heritage. It is an enduring story that will continue to fascinate people for years to come – a story too good not to be told, nor forgotten.

Is it fact or fiction?

You decide.

I like to think that the story is true and that her spirit drifts high through the tangle of branches hovering above the graveyard. Many cultures believe that owls are the spirits of people that have passed on.

Perhaps she lives on through the generations of great horned owls that glide through the twisted, moss-covered limbs of the ancient oak trees in the Old Burying Ground.

As a young adult right out of high school, I had just finished what I hoped would be my last summer suffering in the hot farm fields harvesting tobacco.

It was late August and I headed to Hammocks Beach State Park near Swansboro to cool off in the waters off of Bear Island. A secret spot, available only by boat, that I had heard about, but never been to. Arriving late in the day, the ranger that was piloting the passenger ferry told me it was the last run of the day. Instead of sending me on my way, he invited me ride to the island with him.

Docking on the sound side of the island, he gave me 20 minutes, just enough time to run the trail to the ocean. I bodysurfed a couple of waves, admired the magnificent beach and sand dunes, then raced back to the dock. The ferry returned to the mainland with a load of sunburnt, sand-crusted beachgoers and I headed off to college. Little did I know at the time, that this ranger would become someone that I admire, respect and have been fortunate to call a friend.

Four years later, in the fall of 1980, I am a newly hired ranger at Fort Macon State Park. I hadn’t forgotten the kindness of this ranger and now, as a ranger myself, I was eager to repay the debt. During my first few months at Fort Macon, I heard a number of stories about the superintendent at Hammocks Beach, Claude Crews, and his stature only grew.

The following summer, I was assigned to help out at Hammocks Beach for a few days due to staffing issues. I jumped at the chance to meet Superintendent Crews, commuting the 35 miles from Fort Macon to Swansboro. To get me familiarized with Bear Island and its park operations, Crews took me on a thrilling boat tour of the soundside backwaters along with a four-wheel-drive excursion on the island.

This was a man in his element. His knowledge and passion left a lasting impression on me, along with a hidden desire to one day follow in his footsteps.

Superintendent Crews had been the guardian of Bear Island long before I formally met him as a fellow ranger. Off the beaten path and accessible only by boat, Bear Island was, and still is, one of the crown jewels of the North Carolina State Parks system. A pristine barrier island of natural and cultural significance, how the island became a state park, is in itself, an amazing story of a colorblind friendship and generosity.

In 1914, the renowned, pioneering neurosurgeon William J.C. Sharpe went on a duck hunting retreat with the Onslow Rod and Gun Club in the marsh waters of coastal North Carolina.

He stepped onto a boat piloted by his guide, John Hurst. Cultures collided as Hurst, an African American and the son of an enslaved man, met the Harvard-educated, internationally distinguished medical doctor. This “chance encounter,” as Dr. Sharpe described it, ignited a close friendship that lasted for decades and created an enduring legacy.

In the brain surgeon’s autobiography, Sharpe described Bear Island as such, “… a four-mile stretch of Atlantic beach, wide, level, and firm enough to permit the landing of airplanes — another Daytona.”

Dr. Sharpe also owned many acres on the mainland, a “peninsular wonderland” known as “The Hammocks.” He purchased the properties as his personal retreat sometime around 1920 and recruited John Hurst and his wife Gertrude as caretakers of the land. This was a bold decision in the heavily segregated South near a town that had a reputation as a “sundown town,” meaning Black people were not allowed after dark. Pressured to remove Hurst as the property manager, Sharpe notes in his book, “I refused to make the change.”

An advocate of civil rights, Sharpe was deeply disturbed by the injustices of segregation that deprived African Americans of basic rights. Later in life, he wanted to gift “The Hammocks” properties to the Hursts for their years of loyal service and friendship. In discussions with Gertrude Hurst, a retired school teacher, a plan was hatched to gift the property to the North Carolina Teachers Association in 1950.

Recognizing the need for recreational and educational opportunities for African Americans along the coast, the teachers association formed the Hammocks Beach Corp. The corporation managed the property providing a “resort” where African Americans could freely enjoy going to the beach, swimming, fishing and camping. It essentially served as its own segregated private park.

Looking for long-term management and protection of Bear Island, the Hammocks Beach Corp. negotiated with the state for the island to be included in the state park system. In 1961, Hammocks Beach State Park became one of only three state parks in North Carolina exclusively for Black people. The other two being the Reedy Creek section of the William B. Umstead State Park and the Jones Lake State Park.

Accustomed to hard work

Born in 1941 in Wake County, Claude E. Crews grew up accustomed to the hard work associated with running the family farm. After high school he attended Shaw University with an interest in elementary education. However, he had a chance encounter that changed his course.

One day while at his grandfather’s farm, a state engineer showed up to do some work for his grandfather. The two started talking and the engineer suggested that Claude apply for a job with the Division of State Parks, and the rest, as they say, “is history.”

Crews first donned the proud colors of the gray and green ranger uniform in 1963 with an appointment at the then-recently christened Hammocks Beach State Park. It was now on his shoulders to carry on the legacy of Dr. Sharpe and John and Gertrude Hurst.

Nine years had passed since deadly Hurricane Hazel swept over Bear Island in 1954, and its devastation was still visible when Ranger Crews stepped onto the island for the first time in his official capacity. The overwash and salt spray from this Category 4 hurricane scorched the island as if by wildfire. The island was barren with dead trees and grasses and new vegetation was struggling to take hold.

Ranger Crews put his farming expertise to good use, planting thousands of native trees and shrubs. Many of the live oak trees you see on the island today were carefully nurtured by Crews, planted from tiny acorns.

Prior to the availability of commercially manufactured sand fencing, ranger Crews collected boatloads of wax myrtle branches from the mainland and brought them to the island. Here, he fashioned his own version of sand fence to tame the blowing sand. This ingenious fencing slowed down the sand, piling it up, creating dunes that rebuilt the primary dune line.

Ranger Crews then teamed up with Karl Graetz of the United States Department of Agriculture’s Soil Conservation Service to plant hundreds of thousands of individual sprigs of sea oats and beach grass to stabilize these growing sand dunes.

Bear Island was alive and green again.

Face of the park

As a young man with a new job, Crews went about his work managing the seasonal park operations, which included operating a passenger ferry service, bathhouse, concession stand and swimming area. He was the personnel and financial officer, maintenance man, mechanic and custodian.

As he began his park career, the dark cloud of segregation was still overhead and a Black man was still in charge of “The Hammocks.” Crews was not a local, yet, but he was now the face of the park. How would he be received by the community?

When Crews started at the park, Gertrude Hurst was still alive and living on
The Hammocks. He was a regular at the Hursts’ dinner table, enjoying her cooking. She attributed her longevity to eating fish every day, and Crews, who was not a fish eater, soon learned to love fish.

The welcoming friendship he received from her went a long way toward his broader acceptance by the locals, regardless of their race. But there was more: Crews’ character and calm demeanor were also key. He went about managing the park without any serious racial issues. Crews stated to me, “racial issues were not really an issue when I arrived at The Hammocks, any issues in the past had already been addressed by Mr. Sharpe.”

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere,” as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. said in 1963.

In July 1964, with the passage of the monumental Civil Rights Act, the formerly segregated Hammocks Beach State Park was now open to all visitors regardless of skin color. In the first few years after the act, park visitors continued to be mainly African American.

Park Service administrators were a tad nervous when Ranger Crews hired white lifeguards to protect the ocean swimming area. Fearing racial conflicts, trips were made to Swansboro to inspect park operations. It was clear that Crews’ leadership and calm reassurance were respected and any worry of problems was unwarranted.

After a few years at the coast, Crews was briefly stationed at Jones Lake State Park in Bladen County before returning to Hammocks Beach. In 1966, Uncle Sam called his number and he was drafted into the U.S. Army during the Vietnam War. He pulled his two-year hitch and his job at Hammocks Beach was still waiting for him, but now, officially as the park superintendent.

After integration of Hammocks Beach, the beauty of the park was now a lure to all. This hidden jewel was beginning to be found. Crews guided the park for the next 13 years.

Understaffed and underfunded, Crews and Ranger Jesse Hines, along with some seasonal help, somehow managed to always get the work done. If an engine on the ferry broke down, they had to fix it. They prided themselves in switching out motors in under an hour, keeping the ferries on time. As a captain licensed by the U.S. Coast Guard, Crews piloted the ferries when seasonal captains were unavailable – an issue attributed to the low pay.

With files and a clipboard in hand, Crews also took on the administrative work while on the boat during the 10 minutes of down time between trips while at the dock.

For decades, the North Carolina State Park system struggled with woefully inadequate budget appropriations. Specialty positions such as resource management and educational interpretation were pie-in-the-sky aspirations. A ranger had to have the interest and desire to initiate these duties on their own.

One summer morning Superintendent Crews got word that a nesting loggerhead sea turtle was flipped over on its back and unable to return to the ocean. The turtle was rescued and this awareness led to one of the longest research programs documenting sea turtle nesting in the state.

In 1981, Crews was promoted to a senior level superintendent position at Cliffs of the Neuse State Park near Goldsboro. Leaving Hammocks Beach, he took the same leadership skills to “The Cliffs,” managing it for 16 years before retiring in 1997.

In retirement, Crews didn’t just kick up his heels and sit around drinking iced tea on the porch. He continued serving his community as he had been doing for decades while working at Hammocks Beach and Cliffs of the Neuse.

More than 40 years ago, Crews, who has a deep interest in youth sports, became a charter member of the Swansboro Century Club, which supports school athletics. He was a fixture at hundreds of high school and middle school football and basketball games, keeping a steady hand on the clock as the timekeeper and official scorekeeper.

For close to 20 years, he worked as a district coordinator with Onslow County Parks and Recreation, organizing and managing youth basketball programs. In 2021, the school system honored Crews for his contributions to the community by naming Swansboro’s middle school gymnasium the “Claude E. Crews Annex Gymnasium.” In a newspaper article recounting the event, words like “role model, dependable, selfless, dedicated, respected and friend” were used to describe his commitment to public service.

Crews continues to support the park where he started his career, serving as treasurer, board member and member of the park support group, the Friends of the Hammocks and Bear Island.

I, too, eventually became the superintendent at Hammocks Beach State Park, my dream job. During my years at the park, I was frequently asked about Crews by park visitors who remembered him from his time at the park.

“Where is Superintendent Crews?” they would ask with a smile on their faces.

These included his old friends wanting to catch up and say hello and some people just wanting to tell me a story about his kindness. Parents showed up with their children, hoping to introducing them to Superintendent Crews. A true ambassador of North Carolina State Parks, people still ask about Crews today.

Recently, Crews was honored by the North Carolina Coastal Federation with a Pelican Award for “Leadership and Dedication to Coastal Protection, Recreation, and Cultural Resources,” a well-deserved honor to recognize his contributions to our coastal heritage.

There is a Bob Dylan song where he sings in search of dignity. “Searching high, searching low, Searching everywhere I know.” Finally, he sings, “Have you seen Dignity?”

Dylan may not have found dignity, but I can point him in the right direction. Claude Crews, a man of character, dignity and grace, a person whom we would all do well to emulate.

Editor’s Note: After Sam Bland retired from his position as superintendent at Hammocks Beach State Park, he joined the staff of the North Carolina Coastal Federation. During his time as a coastal specialist in the 2010s, he would periodically write about his time in the field for Coastal Review. Now traveling the country, Bland drops a line every once in a while to share a new adventure with his readers, such as the following:

In northwestern Wyoming, just south of the town of Jackson, a 20-mile stretch of road makes its way through the mountains down to the town of Alpine.

It’s a gorgeous drive any time of year with towering mountain hills covered in pine, fir, cottonwood and aspen trees. Identified as the Snake River Canyon, Grand Canyon of the Snake or Alpine Canyon, the river slithers right beside the road.

The upper part of the river runs slow enough in the canyon that beavers dam off braids of the river, forming placid ponds and wetlands beneficial to all wildlife. Gradually, the grade of the river begins to drop and the velocity of the water picks up the pace.

During our travels out west into Wyoming, Idaho and Utah, my wife, Bright, and I have driven this road many times.

We look for the beavers and otters swimming in the ponds, the moose in the willows, elk in the meadows and mountain goats high on the steep cliffs. Much of the landscape on both sides of the road are public lands, part of the Bridger-Teton National Forest.

Every few miles, there are access areas for hiking, camping, fishing and picnicking. One access area sign caught our eye, but we would always drive past. The sign simply stated, “Lunch Counter” with the word “Kahuna” underneath it.

The use of the word “kahuna” on a national forest sign in Wyoming was quite intriguing. A Hawaiian word, kahuna is used to signify a professional expert, such as a doctor.

During my years of surfing the North Carolina coast, I would occasionally hear the word being called out as a big swell began to roll in. In late spring, fascinated by the sign, we drove down to the Lunch Counter to see what was cooking.

Arriving in the parking lot, we saw a man in a full wetsuit with a surfboard tucked under his arm disappear down a wooded trail towards the river. Wait, what? This looked so out of place in cowboy country. We dashed down the trail, and from an overlook we could see the Class III rapids of the Snake River.

The serene beaver pond waters of the upper river were now a raging whitewater serpent. In the mist of the aquatic chaos was a lone surfer riding the face of a large, standing wave. We now understood, the Lunch Counter and Kahuna referred to the rapids.

The Snake River Canyon was formed millions of years ago with tectonic plates butting heads, creating thrust-fold belts along with glacial gouging and erosion by the river itself.

At some point, geologic forces created a flat shelf with a large boulder lodged against it in the riverbed. Perhaps a massive flood rolled the boulder into just the right place. Prior to reaching the Kahuna and Lunch Counter rapids, the width of the river narrows with small granite walls on each side. It is here that the water shoots through like a firehose against the rocks creating the standing wave.

The wave is seasonal though, peaking in late spring and early summer due to melting snowpack. North of the Snake River Canyon, the flow is controlled by the Jackson Lake dam in Grand Teton National Park.

In early spring, the gates of the dam are cracked open to keep downstream reservoirs topped off for agricultural irrigation. Snowmelt from streams and creeks below the dam spills into the Snake River, causing the river to gush a high flow rate of 14,000 cubic feet per second.

Water flowing over the Lunch Counter at 7,000 to 13,000 cubic feet per second creates a wave tempting enough to lure a surfer into the maelstrom. Dam control, snowpack and daily temperatures dictate when and for how long this river surfbreak will last.

The flow can be variable. Thus, the wave may last for a month, a few days or not at all.

The Lunch Counter was first named in the 1960s by David Hansen, a local whitewater rafting guide. Out on his raft, with the undulating walls of waves looming ahead, he has been quoted as saying “if we are going to eat our lunch, it’s going to be right here.” The unique quote has become the identity of the Lunch Counter ever since.

It wasn’t until 1978 when a trio of brave whitewater rafting guides eyed the wave with envy, scrounged up a surfboard without an ocean in sight, and gave it a try. Surfing on the Snake was born. Like a siren, the wave continues to taunt, tempt and seduce surfers today.

Bright and I made our way down the worn gravel trail to a water-smoothed granite shelf along the river. Almost a dozen wetsuit-clad surfers were scattered about. Adorned with booties, gloves and a 5/4mm taped wetsuit, they were protected from the frigid 40- to 50-degree snowmelt.

One surfer was on the wave while another was drifting downstream after being bucked off the watery horse. Six surfers were sitting in a lineup on a rocky bench waiting for their turn on the curl as if kids patiently waiting for the music of an ice cream truck.

Watching the surfers, the first thing that hit me was that the power of the water is coming at you, not from behind like an ocean wave. What an adjustment for the mind and body for an ocean surfer.

Just to get to the wave was an endeavor in itself. First, you must jump off a rocky cliff with the surfboard underneath you, landing into a lower trough of water created by the uneven stream bottom. This trough, what the surfers called “the seam,” would then drift them into position below the standing wave.

Here, the current would pull them up and into the wave. Paddle, paddle, paddle in the whiteout of foamy madness before you are chewed up and spit out. Most of the surfers would quickly find the sweet spot at the base of the wave where they would lay on the board, adjusting their balance to keep the board forward on the wave. Then they would pop up, and if the surf gods are willing, ride a river wave.

Some surfers would just chill in the pocket of the wave, occasionally drifting up the face and back down. Off to the right of the wave, the pulsing waters would create a bit of a swell that allowed some surfers to drift to the right with a quick rip to the left, fanning the water up like a rooster tail.

Unlike ocean waves, some of these rides lasted for minutes. The more experienced riders would, at times, voluntarily bail on the wave, granting others a chance to catch the Snake. But more often than not, surfers were victims of a cold face-plant due to wandering concentration. Wipe out here and you are treated to another ride, rag-dolling down the rapids and tossed like a salad.

Here, the surfers are on high alert, keeping an eye out for hazards such as a tree branch hurling toward them like a water javelin. They also have to share the break with the hundreds of kayakers and rafting boats charging into the wave seeking their own thrill.

Whitewater kayakers in their short, stubby boats would back into the wave as well. Paddling to stay in the curl, they would dance on the wave, spinning circles much to the delight of the cheering surfers. A train of rafts might come along, aiming straight for wave.

Like a powerful bronco, the wave would try to throw them out of the boat under a shower of cold river rain.

We watched about a dozen surfers of various skill levels ride the standing wave. A few were still learning this break, but, for the most part, all the riders were solid.

One in particular, Amanda Studdard, originally of Portland, Oregon, was one with the wave.

Studdard’s movements on the wave were smooth and sure, taming the current surging under her board. She was calm and at peace on the wave while the chaos off the river surrounded her — a true soul surfer. At times, she would break away from the Zen of it all. Drifting higher and to her right on the wave, she would then make a slashing left turn gouging the wave with her stick. A wall of spray in her wake added to the watery mayhem.

A lover of river surfing, Studdard was on her lunchbreak, sneaking in a few rides. An appropriate thing to do while at the Lunch Counter. She has been hooked on river surfing ever since she dropped in on a wave at a human-made break in a waterpark in Bend, Oregon. Her occupation allows her flexibility to work remotely and drift down to the Lunch Counter each year — an idyllic life shared with her two dogs Loki and Laska along with her playful kitten, Violet. Her feel and connection with the wave were obvious, what she describes simply as “magical.”

Studdard was joined by her friend, Natalie Catania. After tasting the wave four years ago, she has returned each spring to get her fill. Catania, without hesitation, leaps off the bank, drifts the seam perfectly into the face of the wave and springs onto the deck of the board, making it look so easy. After learning to surf on river waves, she prefers them to ocean swells. Even her board is designed for river surfing.

She explained that with the evolution of river surfing, board shapers are now designing specifically for the river waves. An ocean board will do, but a board carved to meet the distinctive aspects of the river will provide better performance. Freshwater is less buoyant than saltwater, thus, a river board needs to be thicker to provide better lift. They are also wider and shorter, 4.5 to 6 feet in length. Different river waves might also require a uniquely shaped board, resulting in a surfer having a number of boards in their quiver.

Having ridden a number of other river waves, the Lunch Counter always coaxes Catania back to Wyoming. “It’s a raw experience,” she said. “Even though it is intense, you find a state of bliss.”

When I think of some of the famous surf breaks, places like Mavericks, Pe’ahi (Jaws), Banzai Pipeline, Teahupo’o, and Nazare come to mind. Now, I will need to add the Lunch Counter to the list.

River surfing is gaining popularity throughout the world with breaks in Germany, Austria, Norway, New Zealand and Canada. The Lunch Counter is thought to be one of, if not the, best natural river surf break in the United States.

Surfer Today has listed it as one of the best river surfing waves in the world. American Surf Magazine has it on the top of their list of best river surfing destinations in the U.S.

You would think with such a heady reputation that the surfers would be territorial. Quite the contrary. The vibe is peaceful, welcoming, encouraging and supportive. Compared to ocean lineups where I have seen punches thrown, this was a breath of fresh mountain air. Even the few youngsters who were cutting their teeth on this river wave were given the same respect and opportunity as the adults. And these grommets could shred.

While the melting of the snowpack diminishes and the gates of the reservoir dams are cranked down, the wave will subside as if a low tide. By mid-July, the wave will retreat into the riverbed, hibernating, waiting to roar again next spring.

As the wave-creating snow blankets the mountains this coming winter, the surfers will grow hungry — hungry with an appetite that can only be satisfied by a seasonal special found only at the Lunch Counter.

As darkness began to drape around the remnants of a dying orange sunset, the ferry boat captain slowly spun the boat around and left the protection of the harbor. A small group of us were headed to Cape Lookout National Seashore to view the historic lighthouse completely illuminated with bright lights as a special treat during the Christmas holiday season.

We had barely left the harbor when the first mate said, “dolphins ahead,” in a hushed yet excited tone. Everyone was protected from the cold evening breeze in heavy coats, caps and facemasks, leaving only their eyes exposed. The mild winds created only small waves on the surface of the water, making it easy to locate the dolphins. In silence, we drifted along, and the dolphins came closer to the boat, their dorsal fins slicing the water. A few yards from the boat, the bulbous head of a dolphin surfaced, exhaling air in a fine mist. Muffled under her mask and through happy tears, a woman softly exclaimed in awe, “you can hear them breathing.” In a testimony of nature, hardened layers of defenses dissolved, opening our emotions in a millisecond.

In the distance, the dolphins evaporated into the waves and the captain pushed down on the throttles. I could feel the ferry lifted up on the water. I have felt the sensation of a boat rising and getting on plane thousands of times without giving it much thought. But on this night, it gave me the felling of home, of being on the water, on the sounds and back on the barrier islands. These are places I am familiar with, where I have had the great fortune to work and play for most of my life. The sand dunes, maritime forests, salt marsh, beaches, mud flats, the waters of the sound and, of course, the mighty, mighty ocean. But I had missed these places more than I had known and the simple motion of a boat rising on the water caused my emotions to flood like an incoming tide on a full moon.

For 14 months, I, along with my wife Bright Walker, had vanished from this familiarity. A familiarity of the common place that urged us to venture away and explore the great beauty and wildlife that was unfamiliar to us.

We headed west, straight to Colorado, where we hiked and drove high into the Rocky Mountains. We saw, moose, elk, big-horn sheep and mountain goats. Down in the valleys we saw burrowing owls, prairie dogs and rattle snakes. We went to places of great geologic beauty, including Zion, Bryce, Arches and Painted Desert National Parks. We were able to venture into the sacred Antelope Canyon of the Navajo Tribe in Arizona. A lot of our time was spent in Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks, where we headed out early every morning for months. We found great gray and pigmy owls, golden eagles, coyotes, badgers, foxes, weasels, pronghorn, bison and moose. Our observations of wolves and grizzly bears were so profound and personal to me that I have no way of adequately expressing it. There were countless emotional, spiritual and healing moments that nourished our soul almost daily — a truly profound experience.

Then it was time to come home, and sadness washed over us. We didn’t want to leave. These magical places were flirting with us, trying to steal our hearts.

You can go home again

As we traveled east, crossing the Mississippi River, I thought of the journey of the “Great River” traveling to the Gulf of Mexico and how our journey was now leading us home to coastal North Carolina. The title of the Thomas Wolfe novel, “You Can’t Go Home Again,” popped into my mind. I’m not a literary expert, by any means, but I think it relates to change and expectations. Once you leave a place, changes that may have occurred cause you to feel unfulfilled when you return.

We were greeted back on North Carolina coast with a warm, moist hug on a hot, humid and sticky July day. The cool, crisp, dry air that we had grown accustomed to was far behind us, 2,400 miles west, on the elevated slopes of Jackson, Wyoming. We settled back into the familiarity of the coast and took it for granted. But after being home for a while, we began to realize and appreciate the simple things of coastal life that we had missed. Our senses feasted on the banquet before us.

Trips to the barrier islands brought back the sounds hanging in the air, waiting for us to hear. Least terns flying over a nesting area, a hopeful laughing gull circling the sand, or a clapper rail yapping in the marsh — different voices reflected the mood of the ocean, from melancholy to contrary. You could hear it in the surging waves. The salty taste of the ocean could also be felt and smelled in the fine mist created by crashing waves. Sunsets filled our eyes, reflecting a crimson glow on the marsh with the silhouette of   ancient live oaks trees lining the shore. I agree with the poet, Joyce Kilmer, a poem is not as “lovely as a tree.”

Yes, Mr. Wolfe, you can come back home again, and it is as glorious as ever.

So, just like our trip out west, we went out looking for beauty and wildlife here at home in coastal North Carolina. We headed to the Outer Banks to look for some wayward birds that rarely frequent our coast. Learning that a snowy owl had been sighted, we hiked the sandy beaches and dunes of Bodie Island without a sighting. We then checked areas as far south as Cape Point on Hatteras Island, but no luck. So, we decided to look instead for some rough, tough shorebirds called purple sandpipers along the rock jetty at Oregon Inlet.

As we hiked to the jetty, we saw a few people with spotting scopes pointed toward the dunes. There, sitting atop a small dune, was a plume of white feathers, a high Arctic dweller on a winter sojourn to the sunny south. Snowy owls are rare in North Carolina, but every few years they show up in what is known as an irruption. This is when a number of a specific species shows up in areas that are not part of their native winter range. Snowy owls don’t usually venture south of the northern tips of the states that border Canada. Factors such as the lack of prey, competition with other owls, severe winter weather and thick snowpack will push them south in search of food.

Under bright, sunny skies, we watched the owl. It remained fairly stoic, occasionally turning its head or scratching and preening. At one point, it seemed bored and let out a big yawn. To stay warm in the deadly Arctic cold, they are thickly covered in down and feathers, making them the heaviest owl in North America. It appeared that the owl soon became overheated in the mild temperatures as it walked a foot or two to get in the shade of the beach grasses.

I’m not sure if the appearance of this owl is the sign of a true irruption year or not. There have also been sightings of a snowy owl in Hatteras Village as well as Ocracoke, but this is most likely the same bird. The last big irruption was in the winter of 2011-12, where 31 of the 50 states, including Hawaii, reported snowy owls. If you are lucky enough to see a snowy owl, please give it plenty of space and don’t cause it to flush. After traveling many miles out of their territory, they need to conserve energy, rest and focus on hunting to gain fat for their flight back north.

As we left the snowy, the setting sun gave way to a golden moon rising out of the ocean. The next morning, we were back at the Oregon Inlet jetty, hoping to see the snowy owl again and scanning the lumpy dunes to with binoculars. The owl was gone. Since we were already at the jetty, I again attempted to find the rock-hopping daredevil sandpipers.

I have been on this same jetty over the years looking for these birds but they eluded me every time. I walked along, searching every rock that had even a small patch of algae growing on it. These algae mats are where the sandpipers search for worms, snails, and small crabs to feed on. I slowly jumped from rock to rock, eventually reaching the end of the jetty. Here, covered with fuzzy green algae, was a large block of granite completely exposed by the low tide. Oblivious to the cascading water of incoming waves, three purple sandpipers were contently probing the algae for a meal among the chaos of the surging waves.

A bit of a misnomer, the purple sandpiper does not appear purple in color, but it is still a handsome bird. It is said that up close, in perfect light, you can see a sheen of purple on the wings. Another resident of the frozen North, these coastal birds venture south along the beaches as far as mid-South Carolina. As they migrate, they prefer habitat similar to the Northern rocky coastlines. Thus, here in North Carolina, they can be found along the man-made rock jetties along our coast.

The hunt for MacGillivray’s warbler

Feeling lucky that my rock hopping didn’t result in a broken leg, we headed north to look for another wandering bird in a location that didn’t require gymnastics. In the tiny coastal village of Duck, a tiny warbler had decided this tourist town would be perfect for a winter vacation.

In North America, this bird is almost exclusively found west of the Rocky Mountains and should be wintering in Central America. The town of Duck has an impressive boardwalk that goes out over the shoreline waters of Currituck Sound and through maritime shrub thickets and trees. From this boardwalk is where a MacGillivray’s warbler had been sighted.

As we walked along the wooden pathway, we noticed a downy woodpecker, a black and white warbler, an orange-crowned warbler and a few brown creepers in the trees, but nothing unusual. Unless I receive a tip about a special bird sighting, I’m not a good enough birder to notice anything unusual. But back on Dec. 3, 2020, this warbler didn’t escape the sharp eye of Nate Swick as he was birding along this same boardwalk. If it has feathers, it is unlikely to go unnoticed by Nate, author of the American Birding Association’s, “Field Guide to Birds of the Carolinas.” Nate’s reported sighting is what spurred us to find the MacGillivray’s over a month later.

Along the boardwalk we were not alone, as other birders were also searching for the elusive bird. But I had a secret weapon: My wife, Bright, is quite the wildlife spotter. We knew that this bird favored thick, dense vegetation and stays low, close to the ground. Bright stopped and began scanning for birds deep into a stand of common reed, also called phragmites. After finding a bird, she would look to see if it met the criteria: olive back, gray head, yellow belly and white eye crescents. I just stood back and let her do her thing.

About 20 minutes later, she said, “I think I found it.”

Hopping around on the ground among the stalks of the reeds was the MacGillivray’s warbler, eating ants, beetles or any bug it could find. It eventually flew to a clearing in the sun and began preening as if it knew I wanted to take some pictures. Looking at the cute little bird, I kept thinking, how did you get here?

Through an email, Nate was able to give some insight, stating, “It’s not uncommon for western species to show up in the eastern part of the continent. The reasons can be as simple as following the prevailing winds from west to east or some sort of genetic predisposition to misorientating.”

I also reached out to the inventory biologist for the North Carolina Division of Parks and Recreation, Ed Corey.

“Birds are often at the mercy of the winds,” he said. “If we have strong sustained winds during migration, individuals may be swept up and carried all the way across the country, landing wherever they can find shelter. Sometimes, these diminutive travelers only linger for a day or two while others wind up sticking around for months!”

So, it sounds like this MacGillivray’s may have fallen victim to some weather systems that blew it to the East Coast, and it decided to stay for a while. I just hope it is strong and healthy enough when it decides to migrate back to its home range. After seeing the MacGillivray’s, it was time for us to head back to our home range in Carteret County, where a couple of surprises were waiting for us there.

Seal sightings

Not long after returning from the Outer Banks, a friend texted me a picture of some tracks etched in the sand on the beach in Emerald Isle. From my years as a park ranger patrolling the beach of Bear Island, the tracks were familiar to me as those made by a seal hauling ashore to rest. A few days later, a seal was sighted resting ashore on the beach near the same area where the photo of the tracks was taken. As one would expect, this sighting attracted a curious crowd. Over a six-day period in mid-January there were seven seal sightings on the beaches along the town. From December through April, young seals are sometimes found on the Carolina beaches as they swim south, leaving the populations along the New England states. As they move down the coast, the younger seals are able to feed without competition from older, bigger adults.

Under the guidance of the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission and the Marine Mammal Stranding Project, Dale Baquer, director of the Emerald Isle Sea Turtle Patrol, coordinated the setup of a perimeter around the seal to distance excited onlookers. After traveling hundreds of miles, the seals need to get out of the water to warm up and rest.

During the six days, a team of sea turtle patrol volunteers rotated shifts and stood as sentries to protect the seal from being disturbed. According to Baquer, “Seals often frequent NC beaches this time of year as they migrate through and need a rest. We have Harp, Harbor and Gray seals visit our area. They do bite. You need to stay 150 yards from them. Do not get between them and the water, this causes them to feel threatened. They will flee before they are rested.”

Our final surprise appeared in our own backyard. Three birdfeeders had been attracting the usual chickadees and cardinals, while mourning doves and robins feed on the ground. One afternoon, there was a splash of color as a “flying rainbow” flew to the feeder from the safety of some shrubs. A male painted bunting quickly pecked out some millet and, in a flash, it was gone. We have continued to see it from time to time getting a quick meal but never staying too long. While it is not uncommon to see the spectacle of a painted bunting in the summer, a winter sighting is quite a treat.

Guided home

Back when I started this rambling story, I was on my way to visit one of my favorite places along the coast: Cape Lookout National Seashore. I have camped on the beaches here and always felt safe under a blanket of stars and at peace with the lullaby of the ocean in my ear. On this night, the diagonal black and white checkerboard painted on this famous column was illuminated with spotlights that shined like the sun. From high in the lantern room, the beacon swept across the night sky and out over the ocean.

As we walked around looking at the lighthouse from a number of vantage points, I thought about the early lighthouse keepers. Did they enjoy the solitude that I feel here or was it lonely isolation? I imagined the early keepers carrying heavy loads of whale oil up more than 200 steps before lighting the lamp that warned sailors of the deadly, shallow shoals.

In the darkness of the night, the captain gently glided the boat away from the dock and pointed its bow north. Behind us, the illuminated lighthouse reflected on the water as the vessel slowly found the deep waters of the channel. The reflection was blurred by small ripples on the water and reminded me of water depicted in some of Claude Monet’s paintings.

Up on the bow, the first mate, with a power spotlight in hand, found the reflective tape on each channel buoy as we headed north, back to Harkers Island. The night sky was now brilliant with sparkling glitter scattered across the heavens. To the east, I could see the belt of Orion, the hunter. An asterism made up of three bright stars Alnitak, Alnilam and Mintaka and is also known as the Three Sisters and the Three Kings. In the western horizon, I could see Jupiter and Saturn distancing from each other after the Great Conjunction in December. Then I looked to the south, and there she was, a constellation all her own, the Diamond Lady glowing on the horizon. Every 15 seconds, I could see her pulse, a pulse that has guided thousands of sailors and a pulse that will always guide me home.

LONGMONT, Colo. – After walking only a few hundred feet into the forest of lodgepole pine, spruce and fir trees, I turned off my headlamp. Darkness closed in around me and the earthy smell of evergreen dominated my senses. As I looked up into the darkness, my eyes slowly dilated to reveal the outline of towering trees dancing in the wind against a blanket of shiny stars draped across the night sky.

The gusty breeze rushed through the tree branches creating a roar that reminded me of ocean waves crashing onto the beach. I then couldn’t help but think about family and friends back home along the coast of North Carolina, busy preparing for yet another hurricane less than a year after the devastation caused by Hurricane Florence. Two thousand miles away, I could feel their sense of dread, anxiety and apprehension created by this cyclone named Dorian that was just hours away.

I stared up at the stars and took in a long deep breath, slowly exhaled, turned my headlamp back on and began the long hike up. Underneath my feet was a rugged trail that would lead me to my destination, Longs Peak in Rocky Mountain National Park.

This mountain at 14,259 feet above sea level, is easily visible from my adopted summer home in Longmont. In the distance, Longs Peak beckoned me like one of Homer’s Sirens, I cautiously lusted for it every day, like I would a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie.

Attempting to reach the summit was not a spur-of-the-moment irrational decision, it was unfinished business.

After living at close to 5,000 feet for three months, acclimation hikes up to 12,000 feet and watching weather reports for weeks, I was ready. Longs Peak and I had already a history, we tangled a number of years ago in an unsuccessful summit attempt with my brother-in-law. We became statistics of the over 50 % failure rate, driven off the mountain by high winds and the inability to find the trail markers. I was back, solo this time, to reach the summit. Motivated purely by the beauty of these mountains and the sensational views from the top, I hiked on.

Other hikers attempting to summit were well ahead of me, nowhere in sight. My research revealed that most Longs Peak hikers will start their hike at 3 a.m., knowing this, I started out at 5 a.m. in search of solitude, meditation with movement.

As I pushed up countless stone and log steps, my headlamp became less and less useful as a more powerful beam began to illuminate my surroundings. I walked alone through the forest and beside and over small streams fed by melting snowpack high on the mountain slopes. Throughout the forest, skeletons of ghost trees stood out among the healthy lush green trees. Some were still standing while others had crashed onto the ground, victims of the mountain pine beetle. Most of the dead trees are lodgepole pines, infested with beetles that had chewed deep enough into their trunk to kill them.

For many years now, milder winter temperatures allow more beetles to survive the cold winters and to also multiply more frequently, resulting in more beetles.

Throughout the park and the state of Colorado, these beetles have wreaked havoc on the pines leading to a cascade of potential environmental issues. The dead trees are no longer able to sequester carbon and are now actually releasing carbon into the atmosphere as they decay. This carbon becomes part of the cycle that fuels warmer global temperatures and a changing climate. The dead trees also increase the risk of wildfires, soil erosion and loss of habitat and food sources for wildlife.

This reminds me of the loss of pine forests in North Carolina adjacent to coastal water bodies that are slowly dying due to the incremental rising of sea level. Salty water infiltrates low lying areas or is pushed in by storms raising the salinity to the point where the trees can no longer survive. The bare, gray trees become a tombstone to themselves and eventually a salt marsh will follow. Saltwater intrusion is especially problematic when adjacent agricultural fields become barren and livelihoods are at stake.

The higher I hiked, the trees became much smaller as I entered the subalpine zone.

Gradually, my pace brought me above the tree line. Here, temperature and wind extremes team up to create conditions so severe that trees cannot survive at these altitudes. The alpine tundra is not, however, devoid of life. This fragile landscape is full of specially adapted plants that cling low to the ground anywhere there is a patch of soil among the exposed rock. The surrounding slopes along the trail were covered with boulders of various sizes. Among the nooks and crannies of the boulders I could frequently hear the sharp warning call of the American pika pierce the crisp morning air.

I pretended that they were cheering me on. A few weeks prior, I had spent hours photographing these adorable little furballs as they darted in and out of boulder piles.

They reminded me of ghost crabs on the beach that would quickly disappear into a burrow, only to pop up somewhere else. The pikas were busy making hay, harvesting mouthfuls of grasses and creating “haystacks” deep within the boulder piles. Since they don’t hibernate, they must store enough plant material to see them through the long, cold winter.

Looking like a miniature rabbit, pikas are not rodents but are actually closely related to rabbits. The pika thrives in the harsh cold, wet, windy alpine environment, but changing alpine conditions threaten their survival. Pikas are disappearing in much of their historic ranges and climate change is the culprit.

Warmer mountain temperatures, the amount of snowpack, drought, and vegetation growth all play a role in their survival. Numerous research studies have documented the vulnerabilities pikas face due to climate change and their future is bleak. However, recent research has shown that the pika is quite resilient and is showing signs of adapting in some areas.

Researchers are also considering a controversial idea called “assisted migration” to relocate populations of pikas to areas where conditions are more agreeable.

Above the tree line, with the trail rising higher, I was now starting to get views of the mountain. The sun was now peeking over the horizon and splashing a soft, golden glow on the east side of Longs Peak. This east facing wall of Longs Peak is a 900-foot sheer cliff known as “The Diamond,” a world-class alpine rock-climbing destination.

Sitting on top of the Diamond is the summit, the objective, my destination. I have neither the skill, experience, training or lack of common sense to attempt a summit climbing the vertical wall of The Diamond. My attack will be to sneak up from behind the Diamond along what is called the Keyhole Route on the west side of the mountain. But to get there I must finish hiking up 7 miles to what is called the Boulder Field.

The visible trail etched into the mountain eventually grew fainter as the rocks and boulders became larger and larger. Here, a large, sobering sign was strategically placed as a warning for all to consider.

“DO NOT CLIMB IF UNPREPARED” in red letters. “The Keyhole route is a climb that requires scrambling on exposed narrow ledges, loose rock and steep slabs. Sudden changes in weather may create high winds, lightening, rain, hail, snow, freezing temperatures and ice-covered rock at any time. A slip, trip or fall could be fatal. Rescue is difficult and may take hours to days. Self-reliance is essential. Stay on route and be willing to turn around at any time.” The sign finished with “Safety is your responsibility” in all red letters.

I took a long, deep breath and continued to the Boulder Field, a large talus pile where large rocks have weathered off of the side of the mountain. The Keyhole entrance at the top of this pile was now fully within reach. Getting there now required a dangerous game of hopscotch over boulders the size of a VW Beetle and tilted at various angles while going up a steep slope.

As the boulders became larger, the angle of repose became steeper, requiring climbing onto and over the boulders to reach the Keyhole. Throughout most of the Boulder Field, rock cairns were placed every so often to give the assumption of the easiest route, but it was only a suggestion.

I had now caught up with other climbers and passed a few as I climbed up to the Keyhole. Two young men that I assumed to be college students sat resting on boulders just inside of the Keyhole formation. As I stepped through the Keyhole, it was like walking through a portal into the grandeur of unimaginable beauty. Even the most jaded mountaineer would pause for a moment of reflection. I found a comfortable spot to sit and soaked in the view for about 10 minutes. Other climbers had now also reached the Keyhole, and after a quick glimpse of the start of the trail they decided to turn back down the mountain.

After 7 miles of serious uphill hiking, boulder hopping and rock scrambling, it was now time to evaluate continuing to the top. The Keyhole trail is all business, the trail is broken up into sections named The Ledges, The Trough, The Narrows, The Homestretch and The Summit. Each section has its own obstacles to scare the bejeebies out of you. The “trail” is now sporadically marked with red and yellow bull’s-eyes painted on some of the rocks.

With the markers in sight, I and the college kids started the Keyhole trail.

We soon came to our first ledge and the kid in the lead stopped and stared at the ledge. It was narrow, about 15 feet long, with a high wall on the left and the abyss on the right. He turned and looked at me.

“Are you turning around” I asked.

“No sir” he said, “I need a bathroom break.”

As he shuffled past me to take care of business, I stepped up to the ledge to walk across. I paused, not sure if I could continue. The kid was now back and he said, “let me take a look,”and then quickly moved across it with ease, like he was walking down the beach.

Following his lead, I stepped in his footfalls and knew that this adventure had really only just begun. The three of us took turns leading, and making our way across the side of the cliff we slowly made it to the base of the Trough. We had already been through enough ledges, troughs and narrows that I thought we were at the Homestretch. I asked a descending climber if this was the Homestretch, he just laughed and said “no.”

A bit dejected, but not discouraged, I looked up this wide gully of boulders of various sizes and could see the round trail markers rising steeply 600 feet up to the Narrows. While the Trough didn’t have any sheer drop-offs it was fairly steep in some sections requiring scrambling and reaching for handholds in the rock. You couldn’t stand upright and climb, you need a sturdy foot placement among sections of loose rock and good handholds. I played a game of connect the dots and gradually made it to the top and a ledge at the start of the Narrows. I had climbed ahead of my two companions and was now in the company of three jovial men that looked to be in their 30s.

The Narrows are just that, narrow. It is a long ribbon of a ledge etched into a sheer rock face on the south side of the peak. With other climbers returning from the top, the four of us had to wait our turn until the ledge was free of oncoming traffic. We moved slowly across the Narrows as a team, pointing out foot placement and handholds. I was so focused on foot and hand placement that I really didn’t notice the drop-off into oblivion.

After making it across the Narrows, we were now at the Homestretch, a steep, 300-foot climb up slick granite. Looking up to the top of this pitch, for the first time, I really thought I was going to reach the summit. But first, I had to get there. This section had a number of cracks and notches in the granite allowing for plentiful foot and handholds on the otherwise slippery and polished rock. Suffering from summit fever, I now powered up the last few hundred feet without stopping. After close to 5,000 feet of vertical elevation gain, I stood on the summit. It is wide and flat with views as vast as the oceans in all directions, the mountains and valleys, products of glaciers that carved out their shape millions of years ago.

The view from the summit is so astounding that it defies definition. Beauty is, indeed, in the eye of the beholder and I have trouble expressing it. As I stood on top of the highest boulder on the summit, a bronze U.S. Geological Survey benchmark was under my feet, it read 14,255 feet. While standing on the rock, it dawned on me that the wind was completely still. This was a rarity on this high mountain where winds rival that of a hurricane and are routinely over 100 mph and have gusted to over 200 mph. A ranger friend that had worked for years on North Carolina’s highest peak, Mount Mitchell, once told me a great analogy for mountain weather: “A hurricane,” he said, “is nothing but a warm blizzard.” But today it was calm on Longs Peak, and I was grateful.

As the other hikers trickled up, there was a group of about seven of us on the summit. There were no victory yelps, just silent, exhausted elation. We spoke in hushed tones, with reverence as if we were in a church, and for me, it was indeed, a spiritual experience.

We lingered at the top congratulating each other and shaking hands but we all knew that we were only at the halfway point. With clouds brewing and a dark rain cloud in the distance, I said farewell and began the tricky descent. With great caution and patience, I gradually made my way back through all the trail sections and just as I arrived back at the Keyhole the sky began to rumble. Large, fat raindrops began to splatter on the boulders. Large clouds were now developing behind me on the west side of the mountain. I needed to get down below tree line as fast as possible. I picked my way through the Boulder Field and was soon back on the trail that leads to the trailhead parking lot, 7 miles away.

The fast-moving clouds quickly caught me out in the open as the rain turned into sleet and hail. Small rocks of hail began to stab my ears like icepick projectiles. My ears started to become numb, forcing me to cup my hands over them for protection. After about an hour, the raining and hailing stopped, and the sun popped out just as I was descending back into the tree line. Parts of the trail were now wet with standing water and water-bars diverted gullies of rainwater toward the now-rushing streams.

Colorado is one of the driest states in the nation and any type of precipitation is a precious commodity. Their main source of water comes from annual winter snows that produces a thick snowpack. Each spring, the melting snow flows down the mountain providing 70% of the water to fill up reservoirs for municipal and agricultural uses. One of the fastest-warming states, Colorado has seen the average temperature jump 2 degrees over the past 30 years. The spring melt now arrives 15 to 30 days earlier, with less available for thirsty farm fields later in the summer. Past snowfall records indicate a downward trend in annual snowpack accumulation that will be available. For the winter sports industry, snow is money, with fewer days for people on the slopes, revenues are down and jobs are fewer.

Climate change is occurring globally, but we experience these changes locally.

Along the coast of North Carolina, sea level rise, coastal flooding and more frequent and more powerful hurricanes are two of the biggest issues. In Colorado, snowpack, water availability and pests top the list. Some people feel it is arrogant to think human activity can cause these changes, I feel it is arrogant to think that we don’t.

Can we stop the warming of the earth? Are we too late for meaningful actions that will make a difference? Remember when the hole in the ozone layer was discovered in the 1980s and found to be due to the gases, chlorofluorocarbons, spewing out of aerosol cans? Over 30 years ago, countries agreed to limit and stop using these gases that thinned the ozone layer.

Scientists are now reporting that the ozone layer is on the mend and that the hole is closing. Can we do the same to reverse climate change or have we passed the tipping point while the politicians were pondering, bickering and denying?

Any serious mitigation efforts to confront climate change will require a serious reduction of greenhouse gas emissions. Politics will not allow this to happen quickly, in the meantime we can change behaviors and practices individually and as a community.

Something as simple as planting C0₂-absorbing trees will help. We must also adapt to the realities of climate change and be prepared for what the future may bring.

Almost 12 hours after I started, I was back at the trailhead, bone-weary.

The following morning, I looked west toward Longs Peak, and the mountain was shrouded in a cloak of mist and fog. I teased my wife that the peak was embarrassed to show itself after being conquered by an old guy that has lived his life at sea level. But I knew I was fortunate to climb on a day where the mountain had the sky all to itself.

When I was on the top of Longs Peak, I could see patches of white snowpack scattered throughout the Rockies like whitecaps dancing on a troubled sea.

BOGUE BANKS — A friend of mine who grew up in the sleepy barrier island village of Salter Path would frequently use interesting local colloquialisms that were like secret code words.

Whenever the tidewaters in Bogue Sound were higher than usual he would cheerfully announce, “The sharks are eating collards.” This meant that the tide had flooded so high into the soundside gardens that sharks could swim right in and get a bite of these leafy greens. I love this saying, it always makes me smile.

Whenever he used this saying it was usually during the full or new moon perigean spring high tides when the moon is closest to the Earth in its orbit. The new, nonscientific buzzword for these high tides is “king tide.”

Outside of the king tide events, many low-lying coastal areas now flood more frequently during coastal storms of varying degrees of intensities. Some areas that didn’t flood in the past are now being breached. “Sunny day” flood tides are also occurring without any apparent celestial or climatic influence. Thanks to sea level rise, it looks like the sharks will have many opportunities to feast on the collards.

Global warming, or climate change, and sea level rise are conspiring to bring change to coastal North Carolina. According to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s National Ocean Service, the global sea level has been inching up for more than 100 years and is currently rising one-eighth of an inch annually. Local sea level rise could be more or less than the global rate. The scientific community is largely in agreement that our planet is warming.

As the Earth gets warmer, so do the ocean waters. The warmer water expands, creating sea level rise. Add in the melting of land-based glaciers and ice sheets and, you got it, more sea level rise. Over the years, much of the sea level rise research was focused on thermal expansion of ocean waters and glacial melting in the Arctic. More recently, scientists are now looking at what is perceived to be a ticking time bomb, the massive ice sheet of Antarctica. The future of our coast could lie in the windy land of the penguins.

Land of Contradictions

The continent of Antarctica is a land of contradictions. It is the coldest place on Earth, yet it has a lake that never freezes, despite temperatures that can dip to minus 60 degrees Celsius, or minus 76 degrees Fahrenheit. Its land, about one and a half times larger than the United States, is almost completely covered by a massive ice sheet. It has 7 million cubic miles of ice holding roughly 70 percent of the world’s fresh water, yet its annual precipitation is so low that it is classified as a desert.

Truly a land of fire and ice, a volcano, Mount Erebus, rises above the Antarctic landscape, its crater gurgling with molten lava. The massive ice sheet averages a mile thick with some areas towering 3 to 4 miles above the bedrock. Underneath all that ice, there are hundreds of freshwater unfrozen subglacial lakes, formed by the topography of the land, geothermal heat and intense pressure.

Antarctica holds 90% of the ice on Earth in the form of glaciers, ice caps and ice shelves that reach out into the Southern Ocean. Each winter, Antarctica appears to double in size as ocean waters surrounding the continent freeze, creating sea ice that attaches to the ice shelves and shoreline.

If the Antarctic is such a dry place, how did it get so frosty? For thousands of years, the annual snowfall accumulates and never melts because of the cold temperatures. As the snow piles up, the weight eventually compresses the snow into a thick layer of ice. The Antarctica ice sheet is divided into three areas, East and West Antarctica and the Antarctica Peninsula. East Antarctica is the largest of the three, sits well above sea level on solid bedrock and covers mountain ranges. The smaller western side is divided from the east by the Transantarctic Mountains. Much of the western sheet sits on bedrock above and below sea level surrounding a number of islands. It is considered a marine ice sheet and contains large ice shelves including the Ross and Ronne. The Antarctica peninsula is a ridge of mountains running north on the west side of the continent and encased within the ice sheet.

In some parts of West Antarctica and the Antarctica Peninsula, the ice sheet is losing mass as glaciers and ice shelves are being pushed out into the ocean. In 2008, scientists got a wake-up call when analyzed satellite images revealed that the West Antarctica Thwaites Glacier was on the move and dropping more ice into the sea.

This glacier is so big that seal level could rise 2 feet if it were to completely slide into the sea. Once in the ocean, the ice will gradually melt because of warm ocean currents and break up into icebergs.

Not to be outdone, in 2017, the Larsen C ice shelf in the Antarctic Peninsula carved off an iceberg the size of Delaware. This enormous iceberg will not add volume to the sea level rise since it was already in the water. However, if the ice shelf continues to fall apart it will no longer be able to prevent inland glaciers from moving out into the sea.

Researchers basically agree that East Antarctica is relatively stable in terms of loss of ice contributing to sea level rise. It is here, that studies conducted by NASA indicate that there is no net loss of ice due to the accumulation of new annual snow fall. However, studies indicate that future snow fall amounts will not be able to keep pace in mitigating the loss of ice.

But global warming might not be the only player in the melting of Antarctica ice. Earthquake activity around the world is being studied to determine if far away earthquakes can provoke “icequakes” in the ice sheets that result in glacier movement. This movement can cause glaciers to reach the ocean quicker.

Researchers are also trying to determine how changes in Earth’s orbit around the sun and the tilt of the Earth on its axis are affecting solar energy dispersal. Warmer waters could accelerate melting of the sea ice and ice shelves that help hold the land based glaciers in check.

Gulf Stream Effects

In an interesting study closer to home, oceanographers are studying what effect these meltwaters have on the ocean currents, specifically the Gulf Stream. It appears that as sea levels rise, the Gulf Stream is slowing down as it flows from the Gulf of Mexico to the North Atlantic.  A fast-moving Gulf Stream pulls water away from the coastline, but as it slows it pushes the water into the shoreline, causing higher flood tides.

A  study published in the Yale Environment 360 indicates that sea level rose close to 5 inches in some areas from North Carolina to Florida during a five-year period. This extraordinary deviation from the global average was attributed to changes in weather patterns, the El Niño effect and a possibly slower-moving Gulf Stream.

As global warming melts the ice in Antarctica, as well as the huge ice sheet covering Greenland, sea level rise isn’t the only concern. Meltwaters will disrupt and change ocean currents that dictate climate patterns around the world as well as the distribution of ocean animal species.

Seasonal weather patterns, specifically rainfall, temperatures and storms, could change significantly. Scientists predict more intense hurricanes, “sunny day” high tide flooding, and saltwater intrusion that kills forests and crops.

Scientists may bicker about the extent of global warming and sea level rise, but there is generally consensus that man-made climate change is occurring. Squabbling about how much rise and how fast is ongoing is what scientists do, they review new research then try to prove or disprove the findings.

This is good, it helps us learn more and broaden our understanding. A lot is left to learn. A new study using satellite imagery and computer models concluded that Antarctica is melting six times faster than 40 years ago. If this type of melting continues to occur, Antarctica will contribute significantly to sea level rise for hundreds of years.

Conversely, another study found that previous predictions of ice shelves crumbling into the sea are not as dire as first thought. Yet another study suggests that as marine glaciers melt, the ground under them will rebound, or uplift, enough to hold ice sheets in check, preventing them from advancing into the ocean. Meanwhile, the policymakers will cherry pick the scientific studies to support their particular narratives.

Any large-scale collapse of Antarctic ice is probably hundreds of years in the future. Unless worldwide changes are made to halt rising global temperature, research predicts the melting will continue. Scientists have even discussed large-scale engineering projects on a scale unknown to mankind to keep the glaciers from sliding into the sea. We arrogantly think we can control nature, but not this time.

Realistic policies are needed now to address the human causes of climate change to make sure that the sharks are only eating our collards and not living in our houses.

Featured Photo

The sunset casts a golden glow over the beach earlier this week at the Point, the westernmost tip of Emerald Isle on Bogue Banks in Carteret County. Photo: Sam Bland

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“Maybe the wolf is in love with the moon, and each month it cries for a love, that it will never reach.”

Tiffani Zbikowski

Ever since humans have walked this earth, they have looked up into the night sky, in reverence and perplexity, at the stars, planets and also the moon. The silvery moon shines bright like a star, yet it doesn’t create its own light. It must give thanks to the sun for its radiant glow by reflecting light off of its sun-kissed face. This big hunk of rock is also denied the status of a planet since it orbits the Earth and not the sun.

The moon is, well, a moon, one of several (around 146) in our solar system. As the moon rises this Sunday, it will have so much going on that it may appear to be just showing off. Not only is it going to be full, but it will be super full, and it will also bring along an animal friend to be a full super wolf moon. Then, as it arcs across the celestial sky, it will perform a magic trick with a lunar eclipse. But wait; to bring more drama to this event, there will be blood. So, you will not want to miss out on this full super wolf blood lunar eclipse moon.

I’ll be out there looking, excited, waiting for the performance. I love the full moon and each month my inner werewolf takes me outside to watch it rise. Like an actor stepping onto a stage, the moon calls for your attention as it enters the horizon and begins to project its soft, warm glow. With all the sensationalism about Luna this month, lets breakdown what is really going on.

Every month we have a full moon as it orbits the Earth. The amount of sunlight on the face of the moon will slowly grow in phases due to the position of the moon to the sun as it orbits Earth. When the Earth is between the moon and the sun, the moon is tilted enough in its orbit for sunlight to completely illuminate the moon.

During a full moon, the moon is either above or below the shadow of the Earth. When the moon is directly between the sun and Earth, the face of the moon as seen from Earth does not receive any sunlight causing a dark or “new” moon.

Now what is so super about a supermoon? The term “supermoon” is a relatively new term that refers to when the moon is closest to the Earth during its monthly orbit and is also a full moon. Astronomically, this is called “perigee syzygy.” Since the moon is closer to Earth, it can appear to be bigger and brighter, thus, “super,” as compared to when it is farthest away from the Earth during its orbit. Some comparisons claim that the moon can look 30 percent brighter and 14 percent bigger. The size of the moon will look most exaggerated when it is just above the horizon and over an object such as a building. As it rises higher in the sky, it will appear more in size to what we always see.

Native American tribes, as well as other cultures, created names for each full moon that celebrated nature and the seasonal changes. During a time when wolves were much more numerous, their howl would punctuate the cold January air. Howling is a form of communication to locate pack members, intimidate rival packs and most importantly, locate a mate. Wolf breeding season starts in January and their howling becomes more urgent and obvious, leading to the January moon being called the “wolf moon.” At the Alligator River National Wildlife Refuge in eastern North Carolina, the opportunity to experience a real wolf moon still exists. The refuge is home to a small wild population of the endangered red wolf.

Emerging cultures throughout the world tried to make sense of celestial events, such as a lunar eclipse. The moon in particular invoked wonder but it also could summon fear. Stories, which became legends, were created to explain such unusual happenings.

The Inca of South America told the story of a giant jaguar that ate the moon. The Cherokee also have a legend about a hungry frog that swallows the moon. Some of the myths also try to rationalize why the moon turns a reddish, or “blood,” color during the eclipse. Natives of Brazil, the Ge, tell the story of the moon and sun fighting when a boy shoots the moon with an arrow, causing it to bleed red as its light slowly fades. A shaman then treats the wound and the moon recovers.

These imaginative stories are quite entertaining, but what is really happening is just as fascinating. A total eclipse of the moon occurs only during a full moon when the Earth is between the moon and sun. The moon, Earth and sun must be in alignment so that the moon passes through the shadow of the Earth created by the sun. This happens when the orbital path of both the moon and Earth meet during a full moon. The crimson color is caused by sunlight being refracted around and through the Earth’s atmosphere. Some colors are filtered out but the red and orange shades pass through and onto the surface of the moon.

The moon is a powerful presence in our lives, often without us even realizing it or at least taking it for granted. Here on the coast, it is most evident in the ebb and flow of the tides and must be contemplated by those that work, and play, on the water. The moon is thought by many to influence unsettling human behavior giving rise to the term “lunatic.” It features prominently in literature and song. The moon-infatuated poet William Wordsworth was definitely under its spell when he wrote “Strange Fits of Passion I Have Known.” And I can’t help but remember a popular song during my teenage years, “Dancing in the Moonlight,” by King Harvest.

The moon has inspired wonder and fear throughout the ages. So go outside and watch it glide into the sky, it will make you wonder but you have nothing to fear. Let’s hope for clear skies.

Jan. 20 Full Moon Timeline

• Moonrise: 5:02 p.m.
• Total Eclipse Begins: 11:41 p.m.
• Middle of Totality: 12:12 a.m.
• Total Eclipse Ends: 12:44 a.m.

Coastal Full Moon Events:

• Hammocks Beach State Park-Lunar Eclipse Night Hike
• Swansboro Super Moon Boat Cruise
• Cape Lookout National Seashore-Lunar Eclipse Viewing

The Christmas season is a time full of traditions, each with its own unique history. We decorate trees, sing carols, string lights, stuff stockings, give gifts, send cards, light luminarias and, of course, ignore the dreaded fruitcake. A few hundred years ago, candy canes were given to children prior to lengthy Christmas church celebrations to keep them quiet during the nativity services.

Near the end of the 19^th century, hunters participated in a popular Christmas tradition known as a “side hunt.” The hunters would establish teams or “sides” and go out into the woods and fields and blast away at anything that moves. The team that killed the most birds and animals was declared the victor. This unnecessary and wasteful practice alarmed many conservations, biologist and nature lovers.

At this time, a fledgling Audubon Society was beginning to spread its wings. In 1900, one of its officers and members, ornithologist Frank M. Chapman, came up with a great idea. In a magazine he published called Bird-Lore, Chapman suggested “a new kind of Christmas side hunt, in the form of a Christmas bird-census.” This would be a “hunt” to count bird species and numbers rather than a meaningless slaughter. On Christmas Day, 1900, 27 people hiked the countryside and counted 18,500 individual birds representing 89 species. Twenty-five count areas were canvassed in 13 states and two Canadian provinces. More than 100 years later, the Audubon Christmas Bird Count is still going strong.

Since the original bird count, the protocol for the surveys has pretty much remained the same. Volunteer birders, from seasoned academic ornithologist to greenhorns, search the forests, fields, beaches, lakes, oceans and rivers for anything that flies. The search, or “count” area, is a circle 15 miles in diameter from a center point. This area must be searched on one chosen day only, midnight to midnight, during Dec. 14 through Jan. 5. The birds must be visually identified or recognized by their song or calls. Any bird seen outside the count circle cannot be included on the tally sheet.

The birding community really gets up for this. Prior to their count day, they will conduct practice runs, scouting the areas that will hopefully produce the most bird species or an unusual sighting, possibly a snowy owl! Like the side hunters of old, the birders compete for bragging rights for the most species in a count circle or the most species identified by an individual. Anytime a count area can add a new species to their circle it is a cause for celebration. The distribution of the laurels is, however, usually decided by the weather leading up to and during the count day. Wind, rain, snow, temperature, hurricanes, drought and even wildfires play a role on the distribution of birds.

In 2018, there were close to 2,600 count circles in the United States, Canada, Latin America, Pacific Islands and the Caribbean. Nearly 77,000 people counted close to 60 million birds representing 2,673 species. In North Carolina, this included 51 count areas counting over a million birds of 224 different species. The Morehead City and Wilmington count areas tied with the highest number of species identified, with each circle counting 164 species.

This year will be the 119^th Audubon Christmas Bird Count. Walker Golder, director of the National Audubon Society’s Atlantic Flyway Coast Strategy, states that the “Christmas Bird Count is a tradition for birders across North Carolina and North America, and an exciting time for birding.  As the longest-running bird census in North America, the data from the Christmas Bird Count provides a snapshot of winter birds and enables conservation scientists to study the long-term status and trends in bird populations.”

The Audubon count may also be the nation’s, if not the world’s, longest-active, community-based science research project. For many of the people participating in the bird count, it is just a good excuse to get outdoors and enjoy a day of recreation. However, to scientists, biologists and conservationists, this is serious data that has been piling up year after year. Many researchers have been sifting through this treasure trove of data, resulting in hundreds of peer-reviewed papers and articles. Articles written from this information include broad-ranging topics related to the population and distribution of birds. The data has also been narrowed down to study specific issues such as the effects of the West Nile virus on loggerhead shrikes.

More recently, the Christmas count reports, along with other studies, have contributed greatly in the study of the shifts in winter ranges of birds due to climate change; habitat protection strategies; how birds respond to habitat recovery; and the overall health of individual bird species.

As the Christmas bird count for 2018 is underway I am reminded of the Christmas carol, “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” The composer of this carol must have been a bird lover, since six, and perhaps even seven, of the gifts are birds.

In North Carolina, I think we have an equal substitute for each bird to include them in the Christmas count. One “partridge in a pear tree” can be a ruffed grouse, since the old-timers refer to a grouse as a partridge. Two mourning doves will be suitable for “turtle doves.” “Three French hens,” that’s a tough one, but a wild turkey might be as close to a French hen as we can get. “Four calling birds” will be black birds since the early versions of the carol reference “collie” or “colly” birds, which means black. Now bear with me, the “five golden rings” may not actually be a reference to jewelry. Some interpretations of the song think the rings refer to the ring-necked pheasant. The “six geese a-laying” is an easy one, as we can pick from a Canada, cackling or snow goose. Finally, with the “seven swans a-swimming,” we have our choice of tundra or trumpeter swans.

Take Part in the Count

• Get involved and be part of this amazing citizen-science endeavor. To locate an active Christmas Bird Count circle in your area check out Audubon’s interactive map.
• Learn more about the Audubon Society

“Hear the music, the thunder of the wings. Love the wild swan” — Robinson Jeffers, American poet

The warm, long golden days of summer are behind us, blown aside by the windy cold fronts bellowing out of the Arctic. Hitching a ride on these southbound frigid blasts of air are tundra swans. The silent hands on nature’s clock have activated the alarm. Urged on by instincts for eons, the swans have followed an invisible highway etched in the sky by previous generations.

These large white birds with a long elegant neck will sometimes cruise along at 50 miles per hour and as high as 5 miles up to reach their destination. Many things in nature are constant, yet, they represent a change.

As reliable as the sun rising out of the darkness and into a new day, each autumn the tundra swans return to the lakes and fields of northeastern North Carolina.

Also known as the whistling swan, explorer Meriwether Lewis designated them as such due to the sound its wings make while flying. The more formal name, tundra, indicates the location of its breeding grounds high in this Arctic habitat. Here, the swans nest and raise their young during the short warm summer before migrating close to 2,500 miles to the east coast.

From high in the sky, their destination stands out like the bull’s eye on a target. Lake Mattamuskeet, at close to 18 miles long and 5 miles wide, is an important way station for migratory waterfowl along the Atlantic Flyway.

As the swans begin to trickle in during November, the lake provides the perfect habitat for the birds to survive the winter and fatten up before the return trip in the spring. The 40,000-acre lake is shallow with an average depth of about two and a half feet. This is ideal for the swans to reach submerged vegetation with their long necks.

Managed as a National Wildlife Refuge, it also includes 2,600 acres of marsh impoundments that provide food and cover for the birds.

The expansive agricultural fields surrounding the refuge are also loaded with kernels of golden corn, littered by the harvester, which the swans will quickly scavenge.

As thousands of the swans converge on Lake Mattamuskeet, the National Wildlife Refuge and the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission organize a daylong festival of activities to celebrate their arrival. Known as Swan Days, the event is held annually on the second Saturday in December, this year set for Dec. 8.

Events for the festival are staged out of the Mattamuskeet High School on U.S. 264 starting at 10 a.m. All parking for the event is at the high school and shuttles will transport participants for the activities conducted in the refuge, including the popular guided birding tram tours. Some activities will be in the refuge and some will take place at the school.

Free activities include birding tram tours, a lecture on the history of Lake Mattamuskeet, Sylvan Heights Bird Park display with live birds including a black swan, kids programs, decoy carving, “Lunch with the Guides” storytelling with tour guides and nature photography workshop. Additionally, there will be presentations offered on several topics such as the diversity of bird life around the lake, the Mattamuskeet Lodge renovation and Native American history as well as an exhibit by the North Carolina Estuarium on local plants and animals and vendors with arts, crafts and food.

Swans are a fixture in cultural lore throughout the world and have come to represent love, beauty, purity and grace. As they feed in the fields, marshes and on the lake, the chorus of their calling can be heard from great distances.

It is an enjoyable sound to hear, so much so that E.B. White wrote in his children’s book “Trumpet of the Swan,” that “There is nothing in all the world I like better than the trumpet of the swan.”

Swan Days isn’t the only wildlife-related festival going on during the second weekend in December.

Nearby, the encore edition of the Wings Over Water Wildlife Festival will be offering birding field trips at the Alligator River, Pea Island and Lake Mattamuskeet National Wildlife Refuges and Cape Hatteras National Seashore. The event was started in 1997 to inspire the public to visit and learn about the diversity of wildlife and their habitat within our National Wildlife Refuges.

Sponsored by the Coastal Wildlife Refuge Society as an annual fundraiser, the bulk of this event occurs in mid-October with more than 80 field trips venturing into six refuges.

Since many migratory bird species aren’t present during the October session, an encore session of 13 field trips is offered Dec. 7-9.

The field trips, led by expert trip leaders, will venture into the refuges to look for a variety of migratory waterfowl, song birds, shorebirds and birds of prey species.

Participants might see the American avocet, purple sandpiper, American white pelican, piping plover, peregrine falcon, snow geese, tundra swans and a variety of ducks.

Birds aren’t the only game in town though; the refuges are also home to black bear, red wolves, river otters, foxes and bobcats. Each year these animals are routinely sighted during the outings. Registration and a fee are required to attend these field trips.

These two events offer an extraordinary opportunity to get outdoors and connect, reconnect or continue your love affair with nature by observing some magnificent wildlife. It’s waiting for you, just go!

Learn More

• Swan Days Festival
• Wings Over Water Wildlife Festival

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Featured Photo

Mature and immature blue herons hunker down during the deluge of Hurricane Florence. Photo: Sam Bland

When I think of the coast, I think of the crashing ocean waves, the sandy beach and sea oats swaying in a soft sea breeze like a downy feather.

Sea oats are perhaps the most recognizable plants along our coast and a classic remembrance of a summer trip to the beach. Most people can easily identify sea oats and may also be able to identify a few of the coastal trees such as live oak, cedar and pine.

But there is an abundance of plant life along our coast that is of interest to not only the seasoned botanist but to the casual observer as well. Even though the native habitats of the coast have been fragmented by development we are fortunate that much has been preserved within the national seashores, state parks, wildlife refuges and reserves.

During my early days as a park ranger, I was guilty of not knowing the plants as well as I should. I was more interested in the animals with fur, feathers or scales that could run, fly or crawl. I eagerly learned more about the animals so that I could share the fascinating nuances of our wildlife to park visitors.

Over time, I slowly realized that the plants are just as intriguing as the wildlife. To help me identify plants, I relied on an old text book from my college botany class, “Manual of the Vascular Flora of the Carolinas.” A big tome of a book that took a while to weed through to key out a plant. Since I wanted to interpret the coastal plants, I needed a book that narrowed the focus to plants of the barrier islands.

While working at Fort Macon State Park in the late 1970s I received a copy of “Seacoast Plants of the Carolinas,” which was given to me by the author himself, Karl E. Graetz. Two state parks, Fort Macon and Hammocks Beach were used as research sites by Graetz to test the ability of different plant species to help stabilize the mobile sand dunes.

I earned my copy of the book by helping Graetz plant hundreds of plants and rubbing my fingers raw by stripping thousands of sea oats seeds off the stem. Graetz then germinated the seeds in a greenhouse and the following year we would plant them in areas of the sand dunes that were barren of plants.

While Graetz’s guide was a good source to learn some of the native plants it was primarily designed to assist beach home owners in landscaping their property to prevent the sand from blowing away.

First published in 1973 by the U.S. Department of Agriculture and North Carolina Sea Grant, this guide recommended many species that were non-native, invasive and would not be recommended today since they compete with and displace the native species.

But this was the best coastal plant guide at that time and my copy was well used, it now sits in a bookcase, faded, water stained and dog-eared. I haven’t pulled it off the shelf in years.

Recently, the editor of Coastal Review Online, Mark Hibbs asked me to take a look at a new recently published guide on coastal plants and left a copy of it on my desk while I was out of the office.

When I returned, I glanced at the handsome cover of the book and saw a familiar title “Seacoast Plants of the Carolinas.” Reading the title, my mind immediately thought of my fingers wrapped in thick white athletic tape. This was the trick Graetz taught me years ago to protect my fingers while collecting the sea oat seeds.

After recognizing the need to update the popular Graetz seacoast plant guide, the North Carolina Sea Grant program spearheaded getting a new version published.

Dr. Paul Hosier, professor emeritus of botany at the University of North Carolina Wilmington, stepped forward to author the new guide. Together, the University of North Carolina Press, Chapel Hill and North Carolina Sea Grant provided the funding, editing and distribution of the book.

Long before he actually started writing the book, Hosier compiled a master list of plants from published botanical studies conducted along the North and South Carolina coasts. With the list in hand, he spent countless weekends hiking though all the habitat types of the barrier islands documenting and photographing the plants.

He trekked into the salt, brackish and freshwater marshes, ponds, dunes, shrub thickets, maritime forests and the beach strand. Many times he received wary curious looks from people as he meandered around, head down, looking for plants. With his camera in hand, Hosier went about the extraordinary task of photographing the plants in flower or in fruit with many of the plants featuring more than one image in the guide.

The beautiful color photography, I think, makes it an extremely helpful guide to easily identify the plants in the field. With 745 photographs depicting over 200 plants any green thumb should be able to stroll through the dunes and impress others with their botanical skills.

This exquisite book is more than just a list of plants; it goes into great detail discussing the environment and ecology of the barrier islands and how even ocean currents influence what plants grow where. It reveals how the different habitat types are formed and shaped through the influence of salt spray, temperature, wind, tides and weather. These limiting factors created the adaptations these plants need to survive in such a harsh environment.

As well as a guide with attractive photographs, this book has an amazingly thorough profile of each species listed. The plants are nicely organized in sections listing ferns, graminoids, herbs, vines, shrubs and trees.

Each plant profile lists the common and scientific name, range, habitat, when the plant is in flower or fruit, its wetland status and whether the plant is native or exotic. Each plant is given a thorough description so that if you can’t identify the plant by the photograph, then the details help confirm its identification.

The profile goes on to provide the environmental conditions, such as soil, water and sunlight needs, where the plant will thrive. The wildlife, ecological and human significance of each species is also discussed. Take the common frogfruit, deer like to eat it, it is the host plant for the phaon crescent butterfly and it offers a splash of color if planted along pathways.

The many tables and charts in the book take the guesswork out of how to decide what to plant where in the different plant habitats. In the wake of Hurricane Florence, there is even a table that suggests which shrubs and trees are more or less tolerant to wind conditions.

Truly a labor of love, Hosier has produced more than a guide to the plants of the barrier islands. Anyone that loves these islands with their smooth cordgrass marshes, little bluestem sand dunes and live oak maritime forests will surely benefit by having a copy of this guide on their bookshelf. The guide could also be used as a text book for academic applications in high schools and universities and would be useful to town planners of coastal communities.

While searching the islands for plants, usually in the heat of the day, Hosier would occasionally come across surprises that brought him great satisfaction. A few of the plants are rare and difficult to find. One such plant, seabeach knotweed, caused him to call out “there it is, there it is” when he stumbled across it at the foot of the sand dunes not far from the crashing waves. There were also a few letdowns. If he couldn’t get a good representative photograph of a plant in flower or fruit, it didn’t make the cut to be included in the book. Sorry devil’s walkingstick.

While talking to Hosier about his book, I asked “while cataloging the plants, did you have a favorite?”

His reply didn’t surprise me, “sea oats” he said without hesitation. “When seeing this plant in bloom, it can make my heart flutter and I know where I am.”

Hosier will be in Wilmington in November to make presentations at the Cape Fear Audubon Society monthly meeting 7 p.m. Nov. 12 in Halyburton Park as well as at the Extension Master Gardener Association 11 a.m. Nov. 19 in the New Hanover County Arboretum Auditorium at 6206 Oleander Drive.

Hosier will hold a booksigning in conjunction with Planet Ocean Series meeting 6:30 p.m. Nov. 13 at the Center for Marine Science on Marvin Moss Lane.

Hurricane Florence, we knew she was coming well in advance. After she blew off the coast of Africa on Aug. 30 advanced hurricane tracking and forecasting technology provided all of the information necessary to keep my anxiety just below the berserk level as she reached “Cat4cane” status on Sept. 5.

Two days later, the storm had lost steam and downgraded into a tropical storm where it quickly left my consciousness. A few days later, she was back as a Category 1 storm that quickly blew up into a Category 4 hellion with winds howling at 140 miles per hour.

With the speed of a slow turtle, she made her way across the Atlantic, her steady approach aimed at the Carolina coast. Sept. 10 through Sept. 12 were worrisome days as she maintained her clout as a Category 4 tempest.

While pondering the idea of evacuating, the song by the Clash, “Should I Stay or Should I Go” became an earworm in my head. Everyone prepared as best they could, and many evacuated the barrier islands and immediate coast. It felt like the Kraken was going to rise out of the ocean.

On the late afternoon of Wednesday, Sept. 12, I had completed all of the tasks that my wife implored me to do, and I decided to go for a bike ride on the deserted roads of Bogue Banks.

In what remained of a beautiful day, I rode down the streets surrounded by a quiet stillness, the “lull before the storm” as they say. I stopped near the Point at the west end of Emerald Isle and took a long look at my little slice of paradise knowing that hurricanes come with the territory if you want to live on the coast.

I took a few cell phone pictures of the lumpy sand dunes as a remembrance in case it would all get washed away. As I approached my house, I heard the loud hooting of a couple great horned owls. It swept away my anxiety and left me with a peacefulness I find hard to describe.

Later that night, after weather forecasts predicted a downgraded Category 1 storm making landfall, my wife and I decided to stay at our home and ride out the storm like we had so many other hurricanes.

Early the next morning, I went out to the beach and took a few photos of the imposing waves. As they crested, the strong north wind sheared off a plume of sea spray that looked like the flowing mane of a galloping horse. Magnificent waves, spilling with beauty, displayed the strength of Florence and the anxiety crept back in with a sense of dread.

I ran back home to beat the town-imposed curfew, closed the doors and waited. The conditions gradually deteriorated throughout the day with the power failing around 4 in the afternoon. As the day grew dark, everything going on outside was magnified. My wife and I sat through the night as Florence stalled with the eye wall grinding away just offshore of the barrier islands.

The rattling of one particular hurricane shutter became my gauge for the intensity of the storm. We tried to sleep, but that silent dark curtain would not fall. We distracted ourselves by perusing the internet on our cell phones and listening to weather reports on an ancient battery powered television.

As the gray morning light began to arrive, so did the reports and images of hurricane destruction on social media sites. Houses, businesses and roads flooded, roofs ripped off, boats sunk and everywhere, trees snapped and shredded.

Even though Florence was still churning away, the storm surge that she had already launched earlier as a more powerful storm was now flooding the sounds, tidal creeks and coastal rivers. Swansboro, Salter Path, the Down East communities of Carteret County and New Bern took the brunt of the storm. Utter devastation for some, lives changed forever.

And then the rains came, as Flo was reluctant to take her leave, drenching the coast and inland areas for three days. Monumental rainfall now surged into the rivers, creeks, ditches and low spots spilling over and filling areas that have never flooded before. Desperation for those that had to flee, leaving most of what they owned and part of their lives behind.

Hurricane Florence had left behind quite a mess in her wake. Not just the physical destruction, but she wounded our psyche as well. As I talked to people, I could see the hurt in their eyes and many were just one extra straw on the camel’s back from losing it. They were walking a tightrope between hope and despair and not sure on which side they would land.

Even with the rain still falling, people began to try to put their lives back together and resume a sense of normality. For some it was a simple task of raking leaves off of a lawn. For others, it was abandoning their house or placing their entire, flood-soaked possessions at the curb of the street. Beds, stoves, refrigerators, desks, dressers, couches, chairs, drywall and insulation created mountains of human detritus. Many people had just lost more than their home; some had lost their business or their job. Life as they knew it would need to find a new normal.

The days following the storm brought out the best in people. Family, friends, neighbors and strangers were helping one another, as best they could, get through this tragedy. When they weren’t cleaning yards, repairing roofs or preparing hot meals for others, they were there to listen, to hug and offer a shoulder to cry on.

Among all the human suffering, the storm was also fatal for all kinds of wildlife. Seabirds called shearwaters littered the beach in the aftermath.

We were able to rescue a few live animals and get them to a wildlife shelter: a shearwater and a crazy looking freshwater salamander called a siren.

A little over a week after the storm, my wife suggested that we go to the Bogue Inlet Pier and watch the moon rise over the ocean. Even though Flo gave it her best shot, most of the pier was still standing. Two sections were washed out, but 400 feet of the fishing platform reached out into the Atlantic from the pier house. Though battered and dinged, the pier had already reopened. The defiant pier reminded me of the scene in the movie “Forrest Gump” where Lt. Dan screams into a hurricane “you call this a storm?”

Built in 1957, the pier has been around almost as long as the town of Emerald Isle. It has battled many a storm with only hurricanes Diane in 1984, Fran in 1996 and Irene in 2011 knocking it to the canvas. But each time the pier was repaired and remains the iconic landmark of Emerald Isle.

In my teens, my brothers and I spent quite a few evenings fishing or just hanging out at the pier. It’s more than a fishing pier; it’s an introduction to the ocean. People from all over the nation make their way down this pier. Here, grandparents teaching their grandkids to fish, mingle with the sightseers. Those not even interested in fishing can’t resist a stroll down the thick wooden planks. Tourists, quickly licking their ice cream cones in the warm summer air, parade to the observation deck, as the scent of perfume drifts in the air.

On the beach west of the pier, I walked down about a quarter mile to take photographs of the moon rising over the pier as I had done many times before. I wanted to capture the moon near the damaged part of the pier as a poignant reminder of the power of nature. I set up my tripod and took a few frames and stood back taking in the scene. The ocean, moon and waves created a restoring sense of balance from the chaotic experience of the storm.

Excitedly, my wife says, “pelicans are coming.” The birds were already upon us and I only had time to reach for the shutter release cable and take two images without framing the birds in the viewfinder. We then went onto the pier and walked down to the end where the first section had been ripped away. To those fishing, it was as if the storm never happened. They whipped their rods, flinging the lead weight along with the bait into the night followed by a splash.

We went home and I downloaded the moon rise pictures. One image with the pelicans stood out, I looked at it for a while on the computer screen. It captivated me and gave me the same sense of calm that I had felt on the beach before the storm. I posted the image on Facebook with the comment: “This full Harvest Moon is a sign of the changing seasons and it also represents a big change in the lives of so many people. I’m sure that everyone knows someone who has lost little and someone who has lost everything. But what I have witnessed is that there is a resiliency of the human spirit that will always rise like a full moon, big and bright. “

I didn’t think much about it until I checked the site a few hours later and was surprised with the responses. With all that people had been through it seemed to strike a chord with folks. One comment read: “Repairable, but a visual reminder that there is a sense of “brokenness” for many right now.” Another: “And beauty peeks her head back out after the storm to remind us why we live here and to give us hope.”

There were also numerous comments about the pier that others shared expressing their love, affection and emotional attachment to the pier. I realized it is more than just a pier, it is special memories that people hold dear such as memorial services, weddings, fireworks and young love.

Yes, we have been beat down by Hurricane Florence, and for a while, our emotions will continue flow like the tides, with highs and lows.

I will continue to return to the pier when the full moon rises, sit out over the ocean, breathe in the salt air and feel the pulse of the ocean roll through its pilings. I will watch the pelicans glide over the glassy waves and feel the power and beauty of the coast and know that our love for it will never be stolen by a hurricane.

EMERALD ISLE – They came and set up their beach chairs in the darkness and waited while the lullaby of crashing waves attempted to sooth them asleep. Yet, they were too excited for sleep and would not surrender to that dark silent curtain.

For 11 nights, volunteers endured rain, tortuous mosquitoes, howling wind and on one night it was so cool that they wrapped up in blankets sipping on hot tea. They told stories to pass the time and on clear nights, they gazed deep into the stars and into the misty Milky Way. On one of these nights, they were able to see the International Space Station as it arched across the sky. As it streaked by at 17,500 miles per hour, one of the observers, commented, “It is kind of a juxtaposition staring up at modern technology while waiting on something from prehistoric years.”

Sea turtles are thought to have been swimming the oceans of the Earth since the late Jurassic period, around 150 million years ago.

After walking day after day, scouring the beach for sea turtle tracks carved in the sand, citizen-science volunteers hope to find a nest full of eggs. Almost two months of patience is then required for the warm summer sun to incubate the eggs deep in their sandy den. After 50 days of incubation, the volunteer nest-sitters will start their nightly vigil. They now wait for their reward, to see baby hatchlings make their trek to the ocean.

On May 20, around 4:30 p.m., one of these primeval beasts swam ashore and crawled up the sloping beach to the base of the primary dune in Emerald Isle. However, this particular turtle was different from the typical loggerhead sea turtles that we have come to expect along the North Carolina coast. Much to the surprise of a few beachcombers, this female nested during the daytime, which would be unusual for a loggerhead or green sea turtle. In addition, the tracks etched in the sand were quite narrow for these large reptiles. These clues led to the conclusion that this nesting female was a Kemp’s ridley sea turtle, a critically endangered species.

The rarest and the smallest of all seven species of sea turtles, the Kemp’s ridley weighs in at around 100 pounds with an oval-shaped, olive-grey-colored shell reaching 2 feet in length. This is less than half the size of a loggerhead. What makes this nest even more interesting is that Kemp’s are mostly found in the shallow waters of the Gulf of Mexico, where they munch on crabs, shrimp and shellfish. Some of these sea turtles make their way around the Florida Keys and head up the Atlantic Coast all the way to Nova Scotia. Some have even crossed the pond and have been found off the coast of Ireland. These wandering turtles are usually juveniles that have taken a ride on powerful ocean currents.

The Kemp’s ridley has been a bit of a mystery, a riddle, if you will. Noticed by early sailors and fishermen, it was long thought to be a hybrid sea turtle unable to produce eggs, since no one had ever documented a nesting female.

This small sea turtle caught the eye of a fisherman from Key West, Florida, Richard Kemp. He recognized distinctions that led him to believe that this was a unique species and sent a specimen to Harvard University. In 1906, his study and identification of this reptile led scientists to name the turtle in his honor.

Knowledge about the Kemp’s ridley nesting biology remained a conundrum for scientists for another 56 years. Since biologists have never seen them nest, it was theorized that the female might produce live hatchlings. It was also thought that the Kemp’s species had somehow become infertile and that the species would eventually die out.

In 1947, Andres Herrera, identified as an engineer, sportsman, naturalist and a tourist in various writings, was flying his small plane along the coast between United States and Mexico. Looking down on a beach near the Mexican town of Rancho Nuevo, Herrera witnessed not hundreds, but thousands of Kemp’s ridley sea turtles on the beach and those in the water he described as “blotches of confetti.”

Herrera had heard rumors and whispers of a nesting spectacle such as this and came prepared with a 16 mm camera. He landed his plane on a nearby beach and began filming this daytime mass nesting known as an “arribada,” or mass arrival. At last, the riddle was solved! All the biologists now knew where the Kemp’s ridley nests.

Well, hold on, not just yet.

Satisfied with his find, Herrera put aside the film, perhaps in a drawer where it sat for 13 years. Somehow, in 1960, the film came to be viewed by the eccentric Henry Hildebrand, a marine biologist. Hildebrand shared the film with the scientific community much to the delight of famed sea turtle researcher Archie Carr.

Carr, who, for years, had walked hundreds of miles of ocean shoreline in search of nesting Kemp’s, was so excited that he proclaimed,“It made Andrés Herrera in my mind suddenly a cinematographer far finer than Fellini, Alfred Hithcock, or Walt Disney could ever aspire to be. … to me Andrés Herrera is a man who ought to be knighted, or to get a Nobel Prize, or some kind of prize.”

A study of Herrera’s film determined that close to 40,000 Kemp’s nested on that day alone along a stretch of beach 16 miles long. With the cat now out of the bag, researchers descended on Rancho Nuevo. But upon arrival, they were surprised to find only around 2,000 nesting individuals.

Since the time of the Herrera discovery, the harvesting of the eggs and the turtles themselves had severely decimated the population. Thought to be a powerful aphrodisiac, the eggs were like gold, fetching a high price. With each turtle laying around 100 eggs, this was a lucrative business.

With this being the only significant nesting site for the Kemp’s ridley, the Mexican government took action to protect this nesting site. However, the numbers continued to fall due to poaching and their accidental capture in fishing trawl nets. The species was on the road to extinction.

In the late 1970s, the United States and Mexican governments collaborated with biologists through the Kemp’s Ridley Sea Turtle Restoration and Enhancement Project to establish a new nesting colony at Padre Island National Seashore in Texas. This bold experiment would test the theory that sea turtle hatchlings somehow imprint on the beach where they hatched.

Newly laid eggs on the beaches of Mexico were transported to Padre Island. Here they were incubated and as the hatchlings scampered down the beach, they would hopefully, pick up on natures cues that this is “their” beach. Recent research indicates that they somehow utilize the earth’s geomagnetic field to find their way home. Thousands of eggs were relocated for years and in 1996 the first nesting adult female returned. In 2017, 353 Kemp’s nested on Padre Island National Seashore. After 40 years, this project is continuing to foster the recovery of this species.

As some of the Emerald Isle nest-sitters were distracted by the bioluminescent algae glowing in the surf, at 1:30 a.m. one of the volunteers noticed a depression in the sand above the nest chamber. After 60 days, the eager hatchlings were climbing on the backs of each other like rungs on a ladder. Finally, just before dawn, the tiny creatures seemed to boil from the sand. Cautious at first, they began to crawl toward the ocean with the escort and protection of their volunteer guardians. As the incoming waves reached out to greet them, they scrambled down the beach where their beaks were finally kissed by the sea.

Their journey had just begun.

A few days after the nest hatched, Dale Baquer, Emerald Isle Sea Turtle Patrol program coordinator, supervised an excavation of the nest to inventory the contents. Zone coordinators Jami Thomas and Sue Toth began the delicate task of digging through the sand to locate the empty eggshells and rescue any stragglers still in the nest. After a little digging, the white leather-like shells spilled from each handful of sand. The shells were organized in neat rows to ensure an accurate count.

Quite a crowd had now gathered, curious to see what was going on. A murmur of excitement jolted the group like an electrical current as two tiny hatchlings were found deep beneath the empty shells. Families with children were lucky to be strolling down the beach at just the right time. Like security guards protecting a celebrity, the sea turtle volunteers kept the giddy crowd at a distance as these two strutted to the ocean on a carpet of sand. This nest was a great success, out of 86 eggs, 82 developed into strong hatchlings that made it into the ocean.

As I watched the hatchlings, I realized that of the hundreds of nests that I excavated and inventoried during my career as a park ranger, I had never seen a Kemp’s ridley hatchling. I watched them closely, urged toward the ocean by an instinctual zest for survival and on a collision course with the baptism of a white, foamy wave that would sweep them into their ocean home.

Featured Photo

Thunderstorm clouds roll in Sunday over Emerald Isle in Carteret County. Photo: Sam Bland

PINE KNOLL SHORES — I guided my kayak down the wooden launch rails and into the shallow marsh waters at a dock behind the North Carolina Aquarium. As I stepped into the water, a small blue crab scurried away and quickly disappeared into the soft organic soil.

Nearby, a sea squirt attached to a dock piling and spit a stream of salty water in my direction. I settled into my kayak and set out in pursuit of two kayaks off in the distance heading west. With steady strokes, the blades of the paddle bit the water and pulled me nicely along.

As I glided past the suspicious eyes of royal terns and gulls roosting on an exposed grey sandbar, a laughing gull let a call with the drama of a steaming tea kettle whistle. I was quickly gaining on the paddlers ahead of me as they were not paddling with urgency, but rather with more deliberation.

Dr. Craig Harms, veterinarian and director of the Marine Health Program at North Carolina State’s Center for Marine Sciences and Technology in Morehead City, laid his paddle on the kayak rails and leaned forward staring into the screen of a smartphone. After a few seconds, he sat up, grabbed his paddle, spoke a few words to his companion and adjusted the course of their boats.

Alongside Harms, the other kayaker, Jason Eller, frequently raised a pair of binoculars and slowly scanned the surface of the water looking toward the shore about a hundred yards away. This navigator and spotter team was following a predetermined route in search of the only type of turtle that exists solely in the estuarine waters of North America, the diamondback terrapin. The men were participating in a citizen-science program that documents the location and abundance of this jewel of the marsh.

Mellissa Dionesotes, coastal wildlife technician with the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission, was also in the water, paddling east in her quest to find terrapins. She is charged with managing this program to get a handle on the health of this species in North Carolina. The program started five years ago with the help of the North Carolina Coastal Reserve and National Estuarine Research Reserve with 10 survey routes around Masonboro Island near Wilmington.

“The diamondback terrapin is a unique reptile that fills an important niche within our estuarine environment. It is vital that we understand its population density and distribution throughout North Carolina” said Dionesotes. “This monitoring project utilizes citizen science to answer these questions while engaging the local community in its conservation.”

This spring, two new routes were added in the marsh behind the aquarium when Carol Price, conservation research coordinator at the aquarium, partnered with the Wildlife Resources Commission to expand the research project.

“The aquarium wants to support protection of and promote appreciation for this beautiful at risk rare estuarine turtle,” said Price, who helped establish the search routes and put out the word to recruit enthusiastic kayakers with a keen eye.

The diamondback terrapin swims the brackish waters from Cape Cod, Massachusetts, along the East Coast to Florida and along the Gulf Coast to Texas. Named for the markings on the carapace, or hard upper portion of its shell, it has the most striking color of any turtle. The light grey skin color is painted with a unique pattern of black spots, lines, splotches and dots.

In contrast to their larger sea turtle cousins, these terrapins are small with the males having a 6-inch shell and the females reaching 10 inches. There are seven subspecies of the terrapin with two, the Northern and Carolina, occurring in North Carolina.

The diamondback terrapin is well adapted for its salty aquatic life. Unlike sea turtles, they don’t have flippers, but are still powerful swimmers utilizing their webbed feet, which can be pulled inside their shell. These terrapins can tolerate a wide range of salinity from almost fresh to ocean water. Their skin is capable of preventing the intrusion of salt and when salt does enter their bodies, it is removed by salt glands with little loss of water.

During periods of heavy rain, diamondbacks are also known to drink the freshwater that collects on the surface of the saltwater. At times they will even stick their head above the surface of the water and open their mouth in hopes of gulping a few raindrops. When salinity levels are high, they refrain from drinking until they can find lower levels.

Terrapins are vital to the health of the lush green gardens of smooth saltmarsh cordgrass throughout the estuary. Large colonies of periwinkle snails that live and feed among the grass can spread a fungal disease leading to bare patches of mud. Terrapins gobble up periwinkles like candy. Without terrapins, the periwinkle populations explode, resulting in the loss of valuable saltmarsh habitat.

Known as the “wind turtle,” the terrapins were once thought to possess supernatural abilities. Fishermen feared capturing a terrapin in their nets, believing it would then summon the storms to blow a gale.

Bones and shells of the terrapin have been found in Native American burial sites indicating that it is considered a sacred animal. Healers carried pieces of the shell in their pouches. Their culture includes fantastic stories about the “trickster” antics of the terrapin. Even though Native Americans held the terrapin in high regard, they also ate them.

Terrapin is an Algonquian word meaning little, edible turtle. Shells and bones of terrapins have been found in midden piles all along the Atlantic coast. Early Colonists learned from the natives that the terrapin was an important source of food. During the 1700s, terrapins were so plentiful and cheap that they were the dominant food that coastal plantation owners fed their slaves and servants. In Maryland, past records indicate that the monotony of eating terrapin day after day led to a law that restricted how often terrapin could be served.

During the mid-1800s, the humble food once fit only for slaves was now the food bon vivant of the elite. What was once considered trash fouling the nets of fishermen was now fetching high prices at the market. Terrapin soup and stew was the gastronomic hit at any celebration or wedding and was the food of presidents. Terrapins were being harvested by the thousands, by any means possible. Dogs were trained to sniff them out as the females came ashore to lay their eggs.

With demand high, terrapin populations began to tumble, threatening this important fishery. In 1902, the newly established Federal Fisheries Laboratory in Beaufort was tasked with raising diamondback terrapins to supplement wild populations. From 1909 until 1940, raising and releasing terrapins was the primary mission of the lab. However, during this time two events that rocked the nation played an important role in the future of the terrapin. Prohibition of alcohol from 1920-1933 eliminated a key ingredient from terrapin dishes. Without the amber-colored wine known as sherry, the now teetotaling soups and stews became passé. Then with money scares during the Great Depression this ritzy fare was too extravagant. Terrapins were still harvested, but the heyday of terrapin on the menu had passed.

Enough terrapins evaded the stew pot to keep the species swimming. However, the peril they face today presents a serious threat to their survival. Loss of salt marsh habitat, boat strikes, pet trade, road kill of nesting females, hardened shorelines, jewelry, the meat trade and entrapment in crab pots have contributed to declining populations.

Attracted to bait in crab pots, a terrapin will become trapped in the cage. Even though they can hold their breath from 45 minutes to a few hours, if the pot isn’t pulled to the surface in time, they will drown. They are especially vulnerable to “ghost” or abandoned crab pots that, if not removed from the water, will kill over and over.

Only four of 16 states within the range of the terrapin require fishermen to use a bycatch-reduction device on their crab traps. These devices prevent the larger terrapins from entering the traps while still catching crabs. Popularity of the devices isn’t overwhelming, despite studies that indicate 70 percent of terrapins are unable to enter the traps, while the crabs can easily enter.

In North Carolina, the terrapin is listed as a species of special concern by the state and federal governments while the World Conservation Union listed it as a threatened species. Although listed as a priority species in the North Carolina Wildlife Action Plan, a guide for wildlife conservation, little funding is allocated for comprehensive research on the lowly terrapin. This is why the collaboration between the Wildlife Resources Commission, North Carolina Coastal Reserve and National Estuarine Research Reserve, North Carolina Aquariums and citizen volunteers is so important. Terrapins exhibit site fidelity, meaning that they are frequently found in the same areas or “hot spots.”

Dionesotes said she hopes to continue expanding the volunteer survey across the state and wants to hear from kayakers, boaters and fishermen on where terrapins are being seen.

As I paddled alongside Harms, I asked why he felt compelled to spend his time searching for terrapins.  “If you have seen them, you want to participate in protecting this neglected, almost sea turtle,” he said.

To participate in the terrapin survey project or report terrapin sightings contact Dionesotes at mellissa.dionesotes@ncwildlife.org.

EMERALD ISLE – Near the shoreline of Bogue Inlet at the western end of Bogue Banks, the open sandy beach is decorated with small lumpy dunes and patches of shaggy grasses.

The gritty sound of the blades of my post hole diggers biting into the sandy soil is answered by the groan of oil-thirsty hinges as I pull the handles apart. A loose clump of sand is captured by my diggers and added to a small pile on the beach as the hole gets deeper.

Around me, people are placing posts with signs into the holes that I’ve dug while others are pulling a thick string between the posts and tying on bright orange flagging tape. As we work, curious beach strollers casually walk over and ask “what are you doing,” while overhead, the alarm of irritated shorebirds fills the air.

Each spring, all along the coastal sandy barrier islands, estuary islands and dredge spoil islands of North Carolina, thousands of shorebirds of several different species have arrived to breed and nest. Instinctually drawn to these critical habitats, they begin an arduous journey of survival. As the warm spring temperatures begin to climb, these same habitats also attract hundreds of thousands of beachgoers, boaters and anglers.

The North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission is tasked with protecting shorebird nesting areas where birds nest in large groups, or colonies. But for these birds to thrive, they need our help, just simple actions that can keep these birds flying for generations to come.

To participate in the shorebird stewardship program, contact Diane Midness at dmidness@gnail.com.

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BEAUFORT — They have gone now. They have vamoosed, skedaddled, cleared out and hit the road. There will no longer be a daily vigil to check on their whereabouts in the open grasslands that lay fallow or among the dry stubble of corn stalks in the fields near town.

A large gray bird of modest plumage, stained with rusty streaks along its back, had delighted birders that flocked to see this rare visitor.

A pair of sandhill cranes took a detour during their fall migration to the wintering grounds in Florida and decided to linger a bit in coastal North Carolina. There are three subspecies of this gangly bird: the greater, lesser and Canadian, that migrate and breed in North America, Canada and parts of Siberia. Three other subspecies, the Cuban, Florida and Mississippi, are more sedentary and do not migrate.

In North America, some of the migratory populations utilize a number of different flyways. It appears that this particular pair of greater sandhill cranes started their migration from the Great Lakes region of the U.S. and Canada heading to their southern wintering grounds. Along the way, whatever possessed them to do so; they decided to take a hard left turn about midway down the Eastern Flyway to see what the East Coast had to offer. By mid-December, they found the bounty of the Crystal Coast to their liking, most likely the corn waste scattered on recently harvested fields.

I was one those avian spectators that sought out the birds after news of their arrival spread. Many trips to Beaufort resulted in disappointment as these conspicuous birds eluded my scant surveillance. A bird this big should be easy to find. At almost 4 feet tall with a 7-foot wingspan and weighing in at 10 pounds, finding one of these relics should be easy. Thought to be one of the oldest birds in existence, unearthed fossils of these birds are close to 10 million years old.

On one of my scouting trips to find the birds, I scanned an open field with my binoculars seeing nothing but protruding corn stalks cut low to the ground by the harvester. I lowered the glasses and stared out into the field when my eye caught some movement in a ditch separating the fields. There in the ditch, I saw three heads at the end of long necks peering over the ditch bank. Lifting the binoculars, I focused in on one of the heads only to see the familiar face of a great blue heron.

Unhopeful, I swiveled to view the other two birds when the white cheek patch and bright red forehead of a sandhill crane came into view. There they were down in a ditch cavorting with a great blue heron. The cranes made their way out of the ditch, leaving the heron behind, and began scouring the field for bits of corn and insects. I suspect they were in the ditch looking for frogs.

I watched the birds for a just a while, their long legs, long necks and sturdy bodies moved with an elegance and grace I thought not possible. That was until one of them half jumped, half flew over the ditch with a spastic motion, yet landed delicately with a flick of its head as if to say, “I nailed it.” These two stuck close together, obviously a mated pair that will stay together for life. Even though I was a ways off, the pair were alert to my presence so I moved on allowing them to forage undisturbed.

Paula Gillikin, central sites manager for the North Carolina Coastal Reserve and National Estuarine Research Reserve, is quite familiar with this pair of winter wanderers. She has been documenting their visits to the Beaufort area since 2013. While the pair spends their days in the farm fields looking for food, they seek refuge at night at the nearby Rachel Carson Reserve, a site that Gillikin manages that is only two and a half miles away, as the crane flies, from the feeding sites.

The shallow open tidal flats on the south side of the reserve are a perfect roosting spot for the birds. Here their vision is unobstructed and any predator, such as a coyote, would be reluctant to enter the water. If threatened, these avian giants will not back down. They will stand tall, open their enormous wings and hiss as if they are possessed. If the confrontation turns physical, they will throw out some damaging kicks that would leave any martial arts instructor impressed.

Gillikin is fascinated with how predictable and habitual the birds are with their annual arrival and departure as well as their daily routine.

“Each day, around sunrise and sunset, they follow the same flight path over Gordon Street to reach the reserve,” Gillikin said. She has watched their movement within the reserve as well with her remote camera, catching images of them strolling among the wild horses on part of the reserve called Town Marsh.

Soon after they arrived in Beaufort, local birding enthusiast Marty Wall saw them flying early in the morning over Broad Street in the middle of town. Wall observed them 21 times in the Beaufort area; the most memorable when he witnessed them perform their elaborate mating dance as they called to each other. In an email he stated, “To see such large birds hopping up and down, flapping their wings, and singing loudly was a real treat.”

The pair is now obviously returning to their northern nesting grounds. To conserve energy, they will soar high in the sky, at times reaching up to 12,000 feet, taking advantage of strong thermal winds if they are in their favor. A benevolent breeze can help them cruise up to 50 miles an hour and cover 150-400 miles in a day. During migration, especially the spring return, they need to fuel up to replenish fat reserves.

One of the greatest spectacles of animal migration occurs each spring when sandhill cranes stream northward following the Central Flyway. Half a million of these birds will rendezvous in controlled chaos along a 70-mile stretch of the Platte River in the plains of Nebraska. Here they will add on two pounds, fattening up on field corn and invertebrates found in the marshes along the river.

After about four weeks of gorging, they will continue on to their northern breeding grounds. This stopover is so important, it has been designated as an Important Bird Area of Global Significance.

Sandhill cranes, as well as other species of cranes, have been prominently portrayed in cultures throughout the world. They have been symbols of good luck, vanity, loyalty, longevity and good fishing. The shape of a crane is arguably the most popular shape used in the Japanese art of origami. The Greek storyteller Aesop used the crane in a number of his moral-laced fables. One such fable, tells the story of a wolf that rewarded a crane by not eating it after the crane removed a bone from the throat of the choking wolf.

Annual sightings of these cranes in North Carolina are becoming more formal. Along with the Beaufort pair, three sandhills spent the winter in the Pungo Unit of the Pocosin Lakes National Wildlife Refuge. A group of four of the birds made the Swansboro area their winter home in 2007-09. In 2015, a pair hung out in the parking lot of a Bojangles restaurant in Sanford for four weeks during the spring migration.

Sandhill cranes are numerous, and some populations are increasing, although the non-migratory populations are diminished by loss of habitat. But it was not that long ago that overhunting and loss of wetland habitat had this species heading to extinction.

Sandhill cranes were once so imperiled that the great conservationist Aldo Leopold stated “the last crane will trumpet his farewell and spiral skyward …” Protection by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act along with the preservation and restoration of wetlands within their traditional range has been critical to their recovery and survival.

Sandhill cranes are well known for their call, often described as a trumpet or bugle, which can be heard for more than a mile. It is a call of the wild and a call for wilderness.

“When we hear his call we hear no mere bird. We hear the trumpet in the orchestra of evolution. He is the symbol of our untamable past, of that incredible sweep of millennia which underlies and conditions the daily affairs of birds and men.”

— “Marshland Elegy” by Aldo Leopold

Featured Photo

Sam Bland captured this photo in Emerald Isle Saturday of a gull with a puffer fish trapped in its beak. Bland said that the gull captured the fish in Bogue Inlet, brought it to shore and eventually deflated the puffer by repeatedly pinching it with its beak and before finally gobbling it down.

Featured Photo

Snow geese take flight over the Pungo Unit of the Pocosin Lakes National Wildlife Refuge in northeastern North Carolina in this photo by Sam Bland.

The refuge stretches through Hyde, Tyrrell, and Washington counties, covering 110,106 acres. The 12,350-acre Pungo Unit was established in the early 1960s to provide wintering habitat for waterfowl and other migratory birds. Large numbers of waterfowl concentrate on this relatively small area in the winter with peak numbers of more than 100,000 each winter.  Species that winter on Pungo include tundra swan, snow goose and more than 20 species of ducks including wood duck, teal, mallard and pintail.

Learn More

• Pocosin Lakes National Wildlife Refuge

Featured Photo

During my many years as a park ranger at Hammocks Beach State Park, I was fortunate to patrol the pristine beaches of Bear Island on an almost daily basis.

After piloting a boat across the fickle waters of the sound to this remote Island, I would hop into a truck of questionable reliability and head toward the beach. Driving down a narrow path through the dunes, the vegetation was a stubble of stunted wax myrtle, yaupon and live oak as I neared the ocean. Struggling up the primary dune, the truck sputtered along as I crested the dune and made my way onto the beach.

At low tide, the beach would be as wide and flat as an airport runway. So much so that the last private owner of the island, Dr. William Sharpe, described the beach in his book, “Brain Surgeon,” as “a four mile stretch of Atlantic Beach, wide, level, and firm enough to permit the landing of airplanes-another Daytona.”

At high tide, the beach would be a narrow strip of dry, fluffy white sand. Each ebb and flow of the tidal waters deposited wrack along the shoreline. Wrack is all of the debris, natural or man-made, that washes in each day from the ocean. The debris that accumulates at the height of the last high tide is known as the wrack line.

This is where all of the seashell hounds stroll, intoxicated by the salt spray, looking for a complete scotch bonnet, sand dollar or lettered olive.

During these beach patrols, all of the park rangers patrolled the wrack line as well, but we were not looking for seashells, well, maybe sometimes. We were scouring the beach to pick up all of the trash and other human detritus that washed ashore. All too often, among the glass and plastic bottles, we would find colorful balloons with a long tale of ribbons attached. Sadly, at times, we would find a dead animal, usually a bird, tangled in the trailing streamers.

For some reason, we celebrate sporting events, business openings, weddings, festivals and even funerals by releasing hundreds, sometimes thousands, of balloons into the air.

Whether released intentionally or not, once a balloon sails up into the atmosphere, they will expand and burst, falling back to earth and onto our lands and into our oceans. This trash is now a potential landmine that can harm, maim and kill wildlife.

All types of balloons, latex, mylar or plastic, once they return to earth, either whole or in pieces, is mistaken by wildlife as a source of food. Out in our oceans, whales, dolphins and sea turtles are enticed by these discarded party favors.

Some species of sea turtles are especially vulnerable as a floating balloon mimics one of their favorite foods, jellyfish. Once balloons or its pieces are ingested, they block the digestive tract causing the animal to eventually starve to death.

The long decorative tether ribbon that usually accompanies the balloon acts like a snare that can entangle birds and other wildlife, restricting their ability to fly or move and thus, their chances for survival.

As a young child, Lisa Rider learned about these dangers as a volunteer at the Outer Banks Wildlife Shelter. She was shocked to discover the amount of wildlife being harmed by this type of marine debris and decided to take action. This put her on a passionate quest to remove and reduce the amount of marine debris awash in our oceans.

For more than 25 years, Rider has been involved with various organizations cleaning our waterways and shoreline of marine debris. Rider created and implements the Marine Debris Symposium to create a partnership of organizations dedicated to reducing and eliminating all types of debris.

“When we have the knowledge of how marine litter impacts us, we can then focus on the consumer decisions that prevent it,” said Rider. “Voting with our wallet allows us the control of how we, as individuals, can do our part. By choosing not to buy balloons or choosing a better alternative to balloons, we can make a difference.”

Surveys conducted during marine debris and beach litter cleanups indicated that the amount of balloon litter has increased three fold over the past 10 years. Once balloons are released, they can travel great distances and litter remote and pristine lands.

Balloons can take years to breakdown or degrade. Even balloon products marketed as biodegradable or “earth friendly” do not degrade quickly enough to avoid being a danger to wildlife.

Some advocates also question the squandering of a finite resource, helium, to inflate these balloons. They feel that this precious gas is best conserved for medical and industrial applications.

In addition to being a threat to wildlife, balloon releases are littering without consequences. Fortunately, many state, city and local governments recognize this lack of responsibility and have implemented laws prohibiting or restricting balloon releases.

Like Rider, other individuals recognize and initiate activities that tackle this problem head-on. Bonnie Monteleone, founder and executive director of the Plastic Ocean Project, created the Blockade Runner Fishing 4 Plastic Tournament, where charter boats go out into the Atlantic Ocean with participants scooping up plastics with nets.

And guess what? A lot of balloons, maylar and latex, celebrating graduations, Valentine’s Day, birthdays and anniversaries were pulled from the sea along with their deadly ribbons.

Monteleone was surprised to catch so many balloons. “There has to be a more fulfilling way to celebrate activities rather than watching a balloon drift away for ten seconds,” she said.

Balloon releases have long been a way to bring awareness to an event. Even though these releases have good intentions, they cannot be a justification for the harmful aftermath.

Alternatives to balloon releases are gaining popularity. Events are now using kites, colored lights, giant bubbles and candles as a form of celebration. Memorials can be balloon free while promoting life and living by planting trees or putting up bird boxes.

On one of my Bear Island beach patrols, I came across a colorful cluster of balloons at the edge of a sand dune caught in the green dune grasses. Still inflated, the balloons danced around on their tethers in a gentle breeze.

I walked over and popped all the balloons then pulled up the strands of ribbon partially buried in the sand.

At the end of the streamers was a laminated index card asking the finder to return the card with location information. The information on the card indicated that the balloons had been from an elementary school as an experiment on wind direction.

I returned the card with information on the park but also included material on how balloon releases put our wildlife in danger.

A few weeks later, I received a package from the school full of colorings of animals along with a pledge to not release balloons. I was delighted. I still remember and have kept one of the colorings. The drawing was of a pelican, a pelican with four legs. I smile just thinking about it.

Learn More

• Alternatives to Balloon Releases

The hypnotic hymn of the cicadas has been fading like a dying wind each evening as the air grows cooler with the arrival of autumn.

In the night sky, the Big Dipper, called the Celestial Bear in Micmac Native American legend, is spilling fall colors onto the foliage of trees.

Among the neighborhoods, seasonal decorations are blooming like the yellow goldenrod sprouting throughout the sand dunes and along the roadsides.

Halloween is on prominent display in some yards, with skeletons, ghosts, witches, monsters and bats creating spooky dioramas. Of all these goblins, the bat is the least scary to me.

In fact, bats are downright cool and have suffered for millennia from bad publicity. Bats are not blind, they are not rodents, they are not dirty, they do not attack people and they will not lay eggs in your hair no matter what Barney Fife said on the “Andy Griffith Show.”

Also, they do not want to bite you on the neck and suck your blood, well, unless you are a cow living in Latin America.

There are more than 1,300 species of bats throughout the world with 17 species in North Carolina. Among mammals, they are the only species that can take to wing and fly. Along the coastal plain and the barrier islands, the eastern red, evening, big brown, tri-color and Seminole bats are most common.

I remember as a young boy waiting on muggy summer evenings for the flickering mercury-vapor streetlights to illuminate their greenish glow under a darkening sky. Soon, the insects, mesmerized by the light, would swirl around like clouds of a gathering storm. Then, the bats would show up, zipping in and out of the curtain of darkness surrounding the light, gobbling up the bugs.

All the bat species in North Carolina are insect eaters and one bat can consume thousands in just one night. Without the bats, think of all the extra mosquitos buzzing around looking for exposed flesh. Mosquitos are the ones that want to drink your blood, not bats. Bats leave their roosting sites at dusk and head out to forage for insects throughout the night. Some bat species prefer terrestrial insects, some like aquatic insects and some consume both.

Many of these insects are not only the irritating pests that buzz around our heads, but they also are like flying teeth that take a big financial bite out of agricultural operations. As a natural pesticide, it is estimated that bats save around $3 billion annually on pest-control activities and reduce damage to crops.

Bats are agile pilots and use their echolocation system to navigate and locate prey. Their flight may look erratic and spastic as they nimbly maneuver after prey that are desperate to escape. Their flight is powered by wings that are pretty much like our hands with webbing between the fingers. To catch a bug, they emit a high-frequency vibration from their throat and nose. This sound wave then bounces off an insect, which the bat can hear with its ears. It can then pinpoint the size and location of the insect and close in for the capture.

As mentioned earlier, bats are not blind, contrary to the old saying “blind as a bat.” This adage has been credited to the philosopher Aristotle when he penned, “For as the eyes of bats are to the blaze of day, so is the reason in our soul to the things which are by nature most evident of all.” With apologies to Aristotle, most bats have good vision and use their sight when flying beyond the reach of their echolocation abilities.

Bats are in trouble though. Loss of habitat through development and human activities, the use of pesticides limiting their food source, disease and the outright killing of bats are taking its toll. In North Carolina, three species are listed as endangered, one is threatened and a few others are listed as special concern.

One disease in particular is devastating some bat species. The fungus Pseudogymnoascus destructans, is the cause of a disease called white-nose syndrome, which was detected in North Carolina in 2011. This fungus will grow on the exposed skin of bats, their nose, ears and wings, causing tissue damage. The disease also causes them to become active during winter hibernation. Bats rely on their body fat to provide just enough energy while at rest during hibernation to hold them over until they emerge when food sources become available. This activity causes them to use twice as much energy during a time of year when they are not feeding. Burning these fat reserves leads to starvation and dehydration.

The fungus favors damp temperatures ranging from 54 to 67 degrees Fahrenheit and is transmitted by contact. The disease easily spreads when bats congregate in proximity to roost and hibernate in cool moist places like caves. Bats can live 10 to 20 years, but since they usually have only one pup a year, this disease can cause localized populations to disappear quickly. In North Carolina, the disease is mostly in the mountains and the Piedmont without yet being detected on the coast.

Even though misleading myths and superstitions continue to swirl around them, bats do have a few champions. Dr. Matina Kalcounis-Rüeppell, professor and department head of biology at the University of North Carolina Greensboro, has been studying bats for more than 25 years after spending a summer assisting with bat research as a young undergraduate student.

One of her studies focused on the relationship between water quality and the feeding behavior of bats in the Piedmont region of North Carolina. Bat feeding activity was monitored upstream and downstream along a creek where effluent was discharged from a wastewater treatment plant. Nutrient levels downstream from the discharge resulted in poor water quality. Bats were observed feeding on insects above and below the discharge area. Of the five bat species present, one species favored foraging for insects in the area of poor water quality, two species avoided the area of poor water quality and two species did not have a preference.

“Bats respond to water quality,” says Kalcounis-Rüeppell. Her study suggests that patterns of feeding activity by certain bat species may be a way to gauge the water quality in urban watersheds.

Ed Corey, inventory biologist with the North Carolina Division of Parks and Recreation, has been documenting bat activity within the state parks. Corey has spent many long nights setting up mist nets to capture and study the diversity of bats.

Since some bats are wary of the nets, Corey can also identify the different species through acoustical monitoring. Each bat species has a different signature call that is recorded and then identified. Corey is also looking for the presence of white-nose syndrome to determine whether the disease is spreading east. He relates the disease as an “intense athlete’s foot” that irritates the skin, resulting in itching that burns precious fat. He cautions that even though white-nose syndrome has not been documented on the coast, “lack of detection does not mean that it is not there.”

It is theorized that the coastal temperatures may be too warm for the fungus to thrive. Corey’s work documenting bats and other park flora and fauna contributes to the responsible development of park facilities and trails ensuring that species are not negatively impacted.

Spooky or not, bats are beneficial. Some bats prefer eating nectar, pollen or fruit, and thus, help pollinate plants and spread seeds. Even though we have our own Transylvania County in North Carolina, we do not have any of the three species of vampire bats.

Despite their reputation, the medical community is looking upon vampire bats favorably. An enzyme in their saliva, called desmoteplase, shows promise as a clot-busting drug for stroke patients. With a sense of humor, the researchers have named the drug Draculin in honor of Count Dracula. The use of their saliva also dispels the myth that all bats are carriers of rabies. Like a dog or cat, bats can catch rabies, but they are not naturally infected with the virus. Interestingly, the military experimented with a use for bats that is downright scary. During World War II, extensive research, called Project X-Ray, was conducted by the military to assess the feasibility of bats to deliver incendiary bombs into enemy territory.

Even the superhero Batman used the sinister reputation of bats as a weapon against his adversaries. In Detective Comics No. 33, 1939, Bruce Wayne stated, “So my disguise must be able to strike terror into their hearts. I must be a creature of the night, black, terrible … a … a … a bat! That’s it! It’s an omen. I shall become a bat!”

Even though bats are often referenced as evil, macabre and linked to the underworld, many cultures view bats positively. They represent happiness, good fortune, life, transition, rebirth and courage to face our darkest fears. Even with the good, I think it will be hard for bats to overcome their preconceptions. Any respectable Halloween story should probably have started out describing a dark and stormy night with flashes of lightening illuminating an abandoned mansion full of bats flowing out into a thick, low fog and flying above the silhouettes of shadowy mummies lumbering with outstretched arms. As the spooks and goblins venture out tonight looking for treats, I think a number of them will resent the good in bats and be dressed as the Caped Crusader.

How to Help Bats

• Protect and restore their habitats.
• Construct and install bat boxes.
• Do not disturb roosting bats.
• Do not use pesticides.
• Do not intentionally kill bats.
• Learn about bats and educate others.
• Support bat conservation organizations.

Learn More

• Help Wildlife Scientists: “Where Are the Bats?”
• Coexist With Bats

A lone snowy egret patrols the edge of the salt marsh just where the water meets the long slender strands of the bright green grass. Its white feathers appear to have been recently preened, creating an impeccable image of elegance.

Egrets and herons are the iconic symbols, sentinels, if you will, of our coastal estuaries. These are the amazing places where the heavy salty ocean waters meet with the lighter fresh river waters to swirl together into a rich cocktail creating one of the most productive ecosystems on earth. Along the North Carolina coast, 300 miles of sandy barrier islands keep the ocean waves from pounding on the shore of the mainland. However, 20 inlets, from Oregon Inlet to Little River Inlet, cut through the barrier islands allowing the briny water to flood in behind the banks to mingle with the freshwater. A number of large, open, lagoon-like sounds, the Pamlico, Albemarle, Croatan, Currituck, Roanoke, Core and Bogue, form the largest estuary contained within a single state and the second-largest estuary in North America.

Over the years, tidal currents, wind, sediment, storms and the shape of the surrounding shoreline have conspired to create various habitats in and around these shallow waters. You can find a labyrinth of emerald green islands of smooth cordgrass salt marshes, shallow open waters, mudflats, sand flats, oyster reefs, seagrass beds, shorelines and tidal creeks. These habitats are so productive that estuaries are often referred to as nurseries or “cradles of the ocean.”

Because of the protection from the barrier islands, these waters are fairly well sheltered. This security creates a favorable environment for fish, shellfish and crustaceans to breed and live here. These “nurseries” provides habitat for spawning, feeding and protection from predators. It is estimated that more than 70 percent of the recreational and commercial seafood species spend part of, or their entire life in estuaries. This contributes billions of dollars and millions of jobs into the economy providing us with the fish, crabs, clams, scallops, oysters and shrimp we love to consume.

However, estuaries are more than just moneymakers, they are the sponges and filters that help reduce the chemicals, nutrients, sediments and pathogens in our coastal waters. Plants such as smooth cordgrass act as filters and stabilize shorelines as pollutants run off into the estuaries during rainstorms. Due to the high salinity, it is amazing that the prolific marsh grass can grow at all. Nevertheless, it can withstand the biting sting of the brine due to salt filters in its roots and the ability to exude salt through its leaves. Oysters and other filter-feeding shellfish strain out pollutants suspended in the water column. It is estimated that one oyster can filter close to 50 gallons of water a day. The estuarine systems reduce or eliminate the pesticides, insecticides, oils, fertilizer, bacteria, viruses and algae that are harmful to all the species that live in these waters.

Even those who do not care much for fishing or even eating seafood, crazy as they are, still flock to the coastal waters. Recreational swimming, boating, birdwatching and photography, along with the undeniable allure of being in proximity to estuaries, draw millions of visitors every year. For me, the greatest enticement of estuaries are their seductive beauty and charismatic wildlife and flora. The habitats that are above the tidal marshes in the form of hammocks or the maritime shrub thickets provide shelter, food and breeding services for native animals. You can find egrets, pelicans and herons that establish rookeries in the safety of an isolated island in the sound, or the oystercatcher that lays its eggs in a scrape among the shells of an old oyster reef. In the summer, painted buntings hide in the wax myrtle thickets, preparing their nests. I look forward to every fall when the pickleweed creates an explosion of bright red among the green salt marsh grass. Even the crowd-pleasing bottlenose dolphin cruises the estuary channels looking for food.

Our estuaries are in trouble though. For many years, numerous acres have been and still are being lost to land clearing, dredging, draining and filling associated with development. However, in 1972, estuarine sanctuaries were created through the Coastal Zone Management Act. Today, the National Estuarine Research Reserve throughout the Unites States and Puerto Rico manages 29 coastal areas. The national North Carolina reserve sites include Currituck Banks, Rachel Carson, Masonboro Island and Zeke’s Island. The mission of the sites is “To promote informed management and stewardship of North Carolina’s estuarine and coastal habitats through research, education and example.”

In 2000, the Estuary Restoration Act was established to advocate for the protection and restoration of coastal estuaries through the creation of a restoration plan between government and private groups. Nonprofit organizations such as Restore America’s Estuaries and the North Carolina Coastal Federation have led the way in restoring and protecting these vital habitats.

During the past 30 years, the federation has been preserving and restoring estuarine habitat. Here are just a few examples of their work:

• 3,000 acres of wetlands have been restore to eliminate polluted stormwater from entering our coastal waters.
• 47 living shoreline projects have been installed.
• 3 miles of fringing wetlands restored.
• 700,000 wetland plants and nearly 1 million native coastal trees and shrubs have been planted.
• 10,000 acres of conservation lands along the coast through conservation easements have been preserved.
• 200 stormwater retrofit projects such as rain gardens, cisterns and infiltration systems have been installed.
• More than 110 acres of oyster habitat, using over 200,000 bushels of native oyster shell and nearly 70,000 tons of marine limestone have been restored.

Get involved and volunteer with agencies that promote protecting and restoring our estuaries. Do your part by eliminating or reducing the use of insecticides, pesticides and fertilizers near coastal waters. Maintain a vegetative buffer on waterfront property. Use native plants for landscaping. Make sure septic tanks are working and dispose of pet waste properly.

This week, Restore America’s Estuaries and its partnering organizations are celebrating National Estuaries Week, Sept. 16-23, to raise awareness and appreciation of our coastal natural heritage. Even after this week, and throughout the year, you can have your own personal celebration of estuaries.

Anytime you see a group of black skimmers gracefully gliding inches above the water in the golden glow of a sunset, celebrate. Anytime you watch an osprey snatch a fish out of the sound, celebrate. Anytime you go for a refreshing swim, catch a fish or take a beautiful photograph of the marsh, celebrate. Anytime you paddle your kayak along a tidal creek, celebrate. Anytime you eat a shrimp dinner, celebrate. Well, you get the picture.

Learn More

• North Carolina Coastal Reserve Sites
• Restore America’s Estuaries

Featured Photo

Our Sam Bland captured this image of the Milky Way Aug. 20 from a public beach access boardwalk near the point of Bogue Banks in Emerald Isle.

Got a photo you’d like to share with Coastal Review Online readers? Please read our submission guidelines.

Featured Photo

Our Sam Bland captured this image of the solar eclipse near its peak Monday at the North Carolina Coastal Federation’s headquarters near Newport.

Got a photo you’d like to share with Coastal Review Online readers? Please read our submission guidelines.

Reprinted from the Tideland News

EASTERN NORTH CAROLINA — In late winter of March 1970, three young boys, not quite teenagers, stood in an open field awash with brilliant sunshine in rural eastern North Carolina. They hovered over a rickety science project that was going to show them one of the greatest natural phenomenons to be witnessed on earth.

With their homemade pinhole solar projector in place, they waited; they waited to see the total eclipse of the sun. For these kids, the thought of the moon blotting out the sun was spooky, eerie and downright scary, but they weren’t going to miss it for anything.

On Aug. 21, eastern North Carolina is going to witness another solar eclipse.

While the central North Carolina coast is not in the path of totality, we will experience a close to 95 percent partial eclipse. As the moon begins to pass between the sun and the earth, those first to fall under darkness will be on the west coast in Oregon.

A 70-mile wide shadow, called the umbra of the moon, will begin to race diagonally across the states at 1,452 miles per hour until it spills into the Atlantic Ocean at Cape Island, South Carolina.

It will take the shadow just under 100 minutes to pass through 12 states, which include the extreme western tip of North Carolina.

If you want to see the total eclipse you are going to need to travel. From our coastal area, the best option is to travel to the Georgetown or Charleston, South Carolina area. Otherwise, viewing in the central coast of North Carolina will consist of a big bite taken out of the sun without complete coverage by the moon. Thus, the much anticipated corona halo will not be visible.

The solar eclipse has long fascinated cultures throughout the world resulting in many myths and legends. Many of these myths have a common theme with the sun being eaten by giant animals such as a frog, wolf, snake and even a dragon. One myth involves a big dog trying to steal the sun. Maybe this is why dogs never want to bring the ball back when playing fetch.

The eclipse is also seen as a struggle or fight between the moon and the sun with the sun always prevailing. The intriguing Native American Choctaw legend places responsibility for the solar eclipse directly on a hungry black squirrel. The black squirrel had a strong taste for the sun and would, from time to time, climb into the sky to have a picnic.

Related: What About Solar Power During A Total Eclipse?

The tribe realized that if the black squirrel consumed the life-giving sun that their world would be plunged into darkness. Whenever the black squirrel headed into the sky to take a chunk out of the sun, the tribe would create as much of a frightening commotion as possible to scare away the squirrel. They would bang drums, yell, scream and even incite their dogs to bark and howl. Each time, the tactic worked as the sun was restored whole.

Even today, it is customary in some cultures to make noise to scare away the spirits that are blocking the sun.

During the period of a total eclipse, nature’s rhythm is temporarily out of beat as darkness descends during the middle of the day. Animals and insects that are active during the day may begin to seek shelter for the night and nocturnal animals may begin to stir. However, as brief as the total eclipse is, they will quickly resume normal behavior.

Even though a total solar eclipse occurs about every 18 months, seeing one in a specific area is quite rare. It is estimated, on average, that a total solar eclipse will occur in a specific area only once every 375 years.

I was one of those excited boys in 1970 standing in the field waiting on the eclipse. I remember the image of a crescent shape biting into the ball of sun illuminated through our pinhole projector.

“It’s happening, it’s really happening”, we exclaimed, under a darkening sky.

We watched the moon chew through the sun until the sun was obscured. One of my friends had brought along a thick plate of smoke-colored glass used in welding helmets that his grandfather let us borrow. Stunned, we took turns looking at the corona through the scratched, dark welding glass, fearful that our eyes would be vaporized otherwise.

For some reason, I remember dogs barking and roosters crowing. Whether this was reality or a memory embellished, I don’t really recall. As the moon slipped away and the sun returned to its glory, we were proud little scientists. We had seen a solar eclipse and survived to tell the tale.

According to the website timeanddate.com, in the Emerald Isle, North Carolina area, the duration of the eclipse will last for 2 hours and 48 minutes starting at 1:21 p.m. with the peak coverage at 2:49 p.m. and ending at 4:10 p.m.

I’ll be hoping for clear weather on Aug. 21, to see, once again, this spectacle of our amazing world.

Experience the Eclipse

• How to safely view a partial eclipse
• Ocracoke will have a ringside seat to see almost all of a total solar eclipse Aug. 21
• Solar Eclipse Experience with Core Sound Waterfowl Museum, Cape Lookout
• NC Aquarium at Roanoke Island Solar Eclipse Event
• Solar Eclipse Party at Arlie Gardens in Wilmington
• Ingram Planetarium at Sunset Beach
• Dismal Swamp State Park Eclipse Viewing Party
• Hammocks Beach State Park’s A Shadow Show: Solar Eclipse
• Goose Creek State Park Solar Eclipse Party
• Pettigrew State Park Solar Eclipse Viewing Party
• Jockey’s Ridge State Park Partial Solar Eclipse Viewing

This story is provided courtesy of the Tideland News, a weekly newspaper in Swansboro. Coastal Review Online is partnering with the Tideland to provide readers with more environmental and lifestyle stories of interest about our coast. You can read other stories about the Swansboro area here.

A late-afternoon shower swept in from the northwest and cruised over Bogue Sound, its ominous clouds scraping over the lumpy dunes of the banks, producing a welcoming rain that extinguished the sticky, muggy heat of an oppressive day. As the storm drifted away to the east, with a few drops of rain still trickling from the sky, my wife and I headed to the beach in search of one of my favorite beach critters.

Crossing the dunes, we were greeted by the freshly blooming seed heads of sea oats swaying in a golden light as weak beams from the sun penetrated the breaking clouds. The rain-dampened sand was firm and cool to our bare feet. As we walked toward the water, a least tern urgently flew past with a small fish firmly clamped in its bill as it winged its way to a nearby nesting colony with a meal for its mate or a newly hatched chick. As the rain clouds drifted away like the sails of a ship, a dramatic meteorological phenomenon spilled out over the Atlantic Ocean.

The colorful arc of a rainbow bloomed like a rare flower across the eastern sky. We stood in awed silence, with the exception of a southwest wind, the crashing sea and the cries of a few shorebirds.

Unlike most rainbows that are delicate and fragile, disappearing in a matter of seconds, this rainbow was strong and vibrant with its complete radiant arc dominating the landscape. The sky above the rainbow was a bit darker than the sky under its arc, creating the illusion of a portal, inviting you to step into its allure. Its beauty was unescapable to all the beachgoers that had returned to the shore after the rain shower. Some stopped to pay homage, their outstretched arms holding cell phones high into the air as if in praise, while they took photos.

Nearby, a young couple, hand in hand, stopped to gaze at the rainbow, then embraced and kissed as if intoxicated by a powerful aphrodisiac. Joy and happiness was now the theme of the day as complete strangers stopped to say hello and comment to each other on the magnificence laid out before them. It was amazing to see how the simple placement of light and moisture could produce such a festive mood of delight.

After about 50 minutes, as I stood in the swash zone with my feet sinking into the sand, the rainbow slowly dissolved into a lasting memory. Small waves raced up the beach and washed around my legs and up to my knees, snapping me back to reality.

Around my sand-buried feet I could feel what felt like small rocks. But I knew they weren’t rocks, I had accidentally found what I came to the beach to look for: coquina clams.

These are those small, 1-inch, colorful, wedge-shaped clams that are seen being washed around by waves at the water’s edge. We see them briefly before their powerful, muscular foot quickly pulls them into the soft sand making them seem to disappear.

During visits to the beach as a child, I remember digging up the tiny mollusks, placing a handful on the surface of the sand and watching them quickly dig back in. Once under the protection of the sand, they will extend their incurrent and excurrent siphons to draw in and expel seawater.

As a filter feeder, the incoming water washes over the gills, which extract oxygen and collect minute particles of algae, detritus and phytoplankton. Once collected by the gills, the food is moved along by cilia, which resembles hair, to be digested.

These bivalves are an important part of the shore-zone food chain, where they are a valuable source of food for fish such as pompano and are favored by migrating shorebirds such as the red knot. Native Americans and early settlers relied on the coquina for food, making a chowder or broth. Even today, some folks will try it as a frivolous cuisine.

At times, during the spring, I have seen large mats of thousands of coquina tightly compacted together and exposed at low tide. Since reproduction is external through the release of eggs and sperm, I assume that this is a mating behavior and increases the chances of fertilization. When the clam is exposed like this it is easy to see their diversity of colors.

Brilliantly colored bands of blue, violet, red, orange, brown, yellow and white decorate these tiny bivalves. Part of their scientific name is variabilis, which refers to their range of colors. Once they are preyed upon by shorebirds, the flashy discarded shells are easy to spot on the beach. Sometimes both halves of the shell are still attached resembling the wings of a butterfly resulting in it also being called the butterfly shell clam.

Even though we might think of shellfish as being sedentary, the coquina clam needs to move daily to position itself for the best feeding opportunities.

They strategically position themselves in the rough and tumble surf zone, where the suspended particles of food they prefer are most abundant.

But how can a clam move up and down the beach as the tide advances and retreats? Well, “Cowabunga dude,” they go body surfing. Research shows that they move shoreward during an incoming tide and seaward during a receding tide.

About an hour after a low tide as the waves begin to roll in, the clams will hop out of the sand allowing them to ride the incoming waves that wash them up the beach where they quickly dig in and begin filter feeding.

Like all surfers, they like the big waves. It is thought that they can sense and feel vibrations from the tumbling waves and instinctively select the biggest waves that will get them up the beach more efficiently. By riding just a few big waves, this reduces the number of times they are exposed and vulnerable to predators. As the tide falls, they do the same, riding the swash back towards the ocean.

Coquinas have long-been viewed by biologists as an indicator species, signifying a healthy and diverse beach. These clams are vulnerable to beach re-nourishment projects where they are buried under massive amounts of sand and unable to escape. This important food source for migrating shorebirds and fish is then unavailable for a year or two until the area repopulates. As a filter feeder, their ability to remove pollutants from the water is also lost. So abundant have these clams been in the past that their shells created a limestone formation found along the East Coast.

As the soft light of a replete day began to fade, I held a hand full of coquina shells towards the extinguishing light. The multiple hues and the vivid radial bands of color glowed like a rainbow, like little rainbows of the sand.

ORIENTAL – My kayak skimmed effortlessly across the smooth glassy waters of a protected channel on a sleepy afternoon near this Pamlico County town. Tall pine trees lining the cut were perfectly reflected on the surface of the water. The images soon became distorted and twisted as if in a house of mirrors as the wake of the boat disturbed the water’s silence. I was off to look for bald eagles after a photographer friend tipped me off to their presence. Last spring, I kayaked these familiar waters in an attempt to find the eagles, but became distracted by a nest of great horned owl chicks.

The stone-lined canal spilled out into an open bay that accepted the flow from a number of different creeks. I pointed my kayak to the east where these estuary waters flood into the lower Neuse River and soon into the Pamlico Sound. To my right, a thin peninsula protected me from the wind as a jumping mullet escorted my progress. Every few seconds, the mullet would jump, smacking the water with an audible splash. I tried to keep up, but the mullet outpaced me and veered off into deeper water. Preoccupied with the oily fish, I failed to notice a bald eagle and an osprey roosting in a large pine until they both launched into flight and flew in different directions. The eagle was most likely trying to steal a fish away from the osprey, a standard practice. With my camera gear stowed securely in waterproof bags, a photo was unlikely anyway.

Fearful that I would miss another opportunity, I guided the kayak to the near shore as the chattering of an annoyed kingfisher protested my arrival. Under the branches of a gnarled old live oak tree, I prepared my camera. The wind-stunted oak tree quickly had occupants as a group of five red-winged blackbirds flew in to investigate my presence. With my camera ready, I shoved off and was soon in open water where the creek met the Neuse River. The wind was significant enough to stir up some chop that smacked the kayak broadside. To keep the swells at a more manageable angle, I had to navigate a big V pattern to reach my destination. As I paddled into the waves, an osprey flew low, just above the water, with a large branch in its talons. It landed on a channel marker where it was building a nest over the water in the mouth of the creek.

Paddling across the mouth of the creek, toward the next peninsula, the bald eagle returned and flew a lazy circle over of a section of pines on the peninsula. Mature bald eagles are dark brown to nearly black with a white head and tail feathers. The word “bald” refers to the color white, not the lack of feathers. They are large birds with a seven-foot wing span and can weigh up to 14 pounds. It flew off and landed about a half-mile away on the skeleton of a ghost tree perched on the edge of the river. Alerted to the stand of pines, I took out my binoculars and surveyed the trees. I quickly saw the object of the eagle’s attention, a large, bulky nest high in the tree. This was obviously not an osprey nest. An eagle nest can be five feet wide and, since the pair will use the nest year after year, it can grow up to 10 feet wide and weigh more than a ton. Through the binoculars I could see three heads popping up like periscopes, baby bald eagles.

I paddled to the far shore to put distance between myself and the nest tree. Here, under the cover of wax myrtles, I set up my camera outfitted with a telephoto lens and waited. Every now and then, one of the chicks’ heads would peer out for a second or two. Then out of nowhere, an eagle appeared over the pines. It made one loop then flew into the wind, navigating the pine branches, and landed on the side of the nest. The parent was greeted with loud, high-pitched chirping from the chicks. The chicks could now easily be seen as they hopped about and jockeyed for position, waiting for the adult eagle to drop the partially eaten fish firmly gripped in its sharp talons. It was now easy to see that these “chicks” would soon be ready to fledge as they were almost as big as the adult.

After the feeding frenzy, one of the chicks moved out of the cramped nest and onto a nearby branch where it would occasionally open its wings. The young displayed dark brown feathers on the backside and brown and white streaking on the breast and underneath. They will not acquire the iconic plumage of an adult until their sixth year. It appeared that this chick was starting the “branching” phase where they venture out onto branches of the nest tree and exercise their wings with short hover flights. As they gain strength, they may take short flights among the branches before they attempt to fly away from the nest. To inspire their first flight, the adults will land on a tree near the nest, appetizing them with a fish.

After dropping off the fish for the eaglets, the adult flew to the branch of a dead pine tree close to the nest. After a few sharp calls that impaled the surrounding silence, it then flew for a brief stay at two other roosting trees, each time moving farther from the nest. With one last call of dominance, it then flew high into the air and out of sight. All this action lasted for no more than five to 10 minutes. I then settled in to wait for more activity. However, the only action to take my mind off the mosquitos and gnats feasting on my flesh was a pair of killdeer plovers tending to a nest of three eggs on a spit of sand. Then, there was a lone lizard, a Carolina anole, climbing the wax myrtle while displaying its bright red dewlap in a desperate attempt to attract a mate.

I noticed the eagle chick that was out of the nest and on the branch was always looking in the same direction, rarely surveying the surroundings. I moved out of my shrub blind and looked east down the shoreline. About a half-mile down on a dead snag was one of the adults and another half-mile down was the other parent. Both were on dead trees overlooking the river, hunting for fish. Using their amazing eyesight, the chick was keeping an eye on the parents in anticipation of the next feeding. The eye of an eagle has two areas of focus that allows them to see straight ahead as well as excellent peripheral vision. They can spot prey a mile away and as they gain elevation they can see even farther.

Native to only North America, bald eagle numbers were once thought to be close to half a million birds prior to colonization. They occupied the east and west coastlines and all the major rivers and large lakes throughout the U.S. However, by 1963 there were only 417 nesting pairs left in the lower 48 states. Declared an endangered species in most of the United States in 1967, this raptor has made a steady comeback from its decline that resulted from loss of habitat, shootings, poisoning and pesticide ingestion. With public awareness programs and government bans of certain pesticides, the raptor started to recover.

In 1982, the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission established the Bald Eagle Project to reintroduce bald eagles in the eastern part of the state. The project was a success with a wild bald eagle nest found in 1984 near Lake Mattamuskeet. Commission biologists continue to conduct surveys to determine the number of nesting pairs in the state. The eagles nest throughout the state with the greatest concentration in the coastal plain and the fewest in the mountains. The most recent surveys conservatively estimate that 48 active nests were located along the coastal areas. In 2007, the bald eagle was removed from the federal list of endangered and threatened species. The birds still benefit from the continued protection of the Bald and Golden Eagle Protection Act and are still listed as a threatened species in North Carolina. Sadly though, these protections can’t stop idiocy. In February, a mature bald eagle was found shot in the head in Chatham County.

Scientists are still vigilant, learning more about these creatures. North Carolina State University professors Ted Simons and Roland Kays have partnered with wildlife rehabilitation organizations to attach global positioning system, or GPS, transmitters on eagles. Once injured birds are ready for release back into the wild, they fly away with a miniature solar-powered transmitter backpack. Two eagles, a male named Freedom and a female named Yangchen, are providing information about migration, mating and nesting activity. During the past year, Freedom has ventured as far south as Edisto Beach, South Carolina, and as far north as Montreal, Canada, while spending time along the shore of Lake Erie. Yangchen has been less adventurous, sticking to the coastal plain of northeast North Carolina and southern Virginia. Their tracked movements can be viewed by downloading the app “Animal Tracker” on a mobile device.

With the shadows of the trees growing longer, the stillness of the day gave way to a breezy wind that gained strength across the open water. In the golden light of a fading sun, I shoved off into a conspiring wind. As the swells bit the bow of the kayak, a fine mist sprayed into the air, properly soaking me. After about a half-hour of paddling, I turned the boat into a following sea and a generous wind. Soon, I was behind the protection of land and plowed the boat through the placid water. High overhead, I spotted a lone eagle soaring out over the river. The bald eagle has dominated the human conscious for thousands of years. Researchers have found eagle claws where Neanderthals, 130,000 years ago, fashioned them into jewelry, perhaps a necklace of symbolic importance.

I began to think about the Native Americans and their reverence for the bald eagle. They are thought to be spiritual messengers, healers and possess magical powers. In 1782, the fledgling United States selected the bald eagle to represent the nation as its official emblem and it graces the Great Seal of the United States. It is also the national bird, its image printed on money and embossed on a number of official seals. It represents power; strength; truth; integrity; honesty; wisdom; vision; and freedom. We use the image of the eagle in hopes that these virtues will represent what we want to see in ourselves. We must continue to protect the eagle and all wildlife so that the children of future generations can nourish their growing spirit with the wildness of this great earth.

Tired from paddling, I leaned back and let the kayak drift. Looking into the clear blue skies, the eagle soared on a thermal as the lyrics of a favorite old song began to sing in my head:

Above the ridge an eagle flies
In lazy circles in the western skies
I want to fly with him
I want to walk the spirit trail

— Dan Fogelberg, “Spirit Trail”

Featured Photo

The late-afternoon sunlight casts rich hues over the dunes at Bogue Inlet in Emerald Isle. Photo: Sam Bland

“While watching a sunset, it also pays off to check the light behind you,” Sam said of his image captured on March 19. “The one thing that I thought about after taking the picture is that even the tiniest grain of sand casts a shadow. In this case the angle of the sun caused the sand grains to cast a shadow that created the contrast to accentuate the sand ripples.”

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BOGUE BANKS — After a day of strong gusty southwest winds, the ocean was now soothed by a mild northerly wind. No longer agitated, it lay as calm and flat as an aqua blanket stretching to the cloudless horizon. Large clumps of sea foam were scattered up and down the beach, pushed by the cool breeze as if they were alive and capable of running on invisible feet. As I walked the beach under the golden glow of a rising sun, my feet crunched over the bits and pieces of mollusk shells crushed and broken by the churning waves.

Among the shattered sea shell parts were the remains of other ocean creatures, especially different species of crabs. I suspected that the crabs washed up more or less whole and were then picked apart by the satiated-looking herring gulls that loitered nearby on the sand. I then came across the complete carcass of a small blue crab that appeared to be lifeless and cradled it in the palm of my hand. As I examined it, it slowly raised a claw as if to say “I’m not done yet.” Placing the creature back into the calm waters, a childhood memory flooded into my mind.

While wading in the ocean surf as a young boy, I suddenly felt a sharp pain on the big toe of my right foot. Slowly raising my foot out of the water I expected to see it sliced open by a broken bottle. Instead, the claw of a huge blue crab was tightly wrapped around the digit refusing to let go after a vigorous shaking of the foot. I had to hop to shore as if on a pogo stick where I squirmed in the sand like a worm on dry pavement. After enjoying my state of discomfort, one of my brothers eventually pried open the claw to relieve me from my tormentor.

Blue crabs, notorious for their nasty temperament, are an animal species known as decapod crustaceans. These are the mainly aquatic animals that have an exoskeleton made out of chitin and calcium carbonate. They have five pairs of appendages with the first pair usually being a formidable type of claw or pincher. The main large feature of their body is the head and thorax which is protected by the hard and rigid carapace commonly referred to as the shell. They have compound eyes positioned on long stalks that project like periscopes when they are hiding in the sand or mud.

Most people are familiar with the blue crab as a tasty menu item at any seafood restaurant. They are the backbone of the commercial seafood industry with average landings of 27 million pounds valued at 26 million dollars. But blue crabs aren’t the only fish, uh … crab, in the sea.

Park rangers at our ocean and estuarine state parks have been formally documenting all coastal species for many years. For more than 20 years, Fort Macon State Park superintendent Randy Newman has been scouring the beaches, dunes and waters of the 423-acre park listing every animal and plant that he can find. An expert naturalist, Newman has not shied away from also discovering what lurks in the ocean, inlet and sound waters that surround the park. He has found the familiar species, but also discovered even more species that most of us have never heard of or will ever see.

But Newman has had some help adding to his list. Elliott Coues, an Army doctor stationed at Fort Macon in 1870, was an avid naturalist that prepared an inventory list of crustaceans as well.

Newman was able to track down a copy of Coues’ writings, “Notes on the Natural History of Fort Macon,” and add species to the list. He has also been able to find references and add species from the works of other biologists including scientists working in 1939 with the Smithsonian Department of Invertebrate of Zoology.

More than 50 species of crabs have been found at Fort Macon and they represent species that you would typically expect to find along our entire coast.

Hermit crabs are the interesting-looking creatures that live in the cavity of gastropod mollusk shells. Even though they are crustaceans, they are not true crabs because they are soft-bodied and don’t possess a protective shell. That is why they live inside the protective amour of a seashell. Even though we collectively call them all hermit crabs, there are at least six species off the waters of our state parks. Most common, is the striped, but we also have the dwarf, banded, flat-clawed, clam shell and giant red hermit crabs.

Along the edges of our marshes, it is easy to find the semi-terrestrial fiddler crabs. Sand, mud and brackish water fiddler crabs can be found in their so-named habitats. The male of these species is known for its large fiddle-shaped claw that it waves about to attract females or threaten other males.

Coues noted in his writings his experience with the tiny fiddler crab, “The great claw of the larger individuals is sufficiently strong to bring blood from the finger.”

Large groups of fiddler crabs seen at low tide in the marsh are referred to as a cast of crabs.

Most crabs use their legs for walking, however one family of crabs is adapted for swimming. The fifth pairs of legs on speckled, lady and blue crabs are flattened and used like paddles. Along with their thin, streamlined shell they are able to propel quickly and pugnaciously through the water in search of prey.

Other species of swimming crabs are the iridescent, flat-surface, plain lady and Pacific. The Pacific crab is a rare intruder to the mid-Atlantic coast, most likely being deposited into our waters through the bilge water of foreign ships.

Out in the estuaries, a number of crab species rely on the oyster reef community for food and protection. Spider crabs, known for their long spider-like legs, are masters at camouflaging themselves among the oyster shells. These crabs will decorate themselves with algae to blend in with their surroundings. Some will even attach live sea anemones on their shells to ward off predators with their stinging tentacles.

The oysters themselves host a species of crab that lives inside their shell. The oyster pea crab lives completely inside the oyster shell that provides them with food and safety. They are called a kleptoparasites, because they rob food from the oyster, interfering with its ability to feed.

One of our most colorful crabs is the calico crab that is also referred to as the leopard crab due to large red spots on the pale yellow shell. These crabs are scavengers that feed on the bits and pieces of decaying plants and animals. It is rivaled in beauty by the purse crab, a small crab with a rounded carapace and delicate legs. With a good imagination, the shape of the shell is said to resemble that of a purse.

The biggest bruiser of a crab in our area is the stone crab. Their shell can get up to seven inches wide and is protected with fat boxing glove-like claws. The claw has one movable finger and an immovable palm that can crush and cut into oysters and other mollusks. Like all crabs they must molt as they grow. After molting, their shell is soft, rendering them vulnerable to predators. To avoid detection while molting they usually shed their old shell under the darkness of night. If the molting process starts during the day, they can excrete a hormone from their eyestalk that halts the molting progress until it is dark again.

Having all these crabs in our coastal waters is a good thing. The diversity of these crab species is a good indicator of a healthy ecosystem, even if we get our feet pinched once in a while.

CHURCHILL, Manitoba — What do polar bears have to do with the future of coastal North Carolina? Nothing and everything. At least that is my conclusion after having the opportunity to learn about and witness these magnificent creatures in the wind-swept wilds of Manitoba, Canada. This iconic beast of the permafrost-covered tundra has become the poster child representing global warming and thus, climate change and sea-level rise.

My wife, Bright Walker, has long been fascinated with polar bears and made arrangements for us to meet these arctic beasts. I’ve also wanted to see polar bears in their wild native habitat. Why, I’m not sure, but I think it has to do with their ability to exist in the extreme harsh conditions of the arctic and subarctic. They live in such remote locations that they are almost mythical, like a unicorn. Put the words polar and bear together and that’s an animal I want to see.

Our desire to see polar bears became a reality in November as we looked out the window of the plane on its approach to Churchill. Churchill, the “Polar Bear Capital of the World,” is at the mouth of the Churchill River where it empties into Hudson Bay. It is here, during mid-October through mid-November, where the white bears migrate and congregate along the shore waiting for the bay to freeze. By late November, the bay is usually frozen enough for the bears to venture out on the packed ice in search of their favorite prey, ringed and bearded seals.

Stepping off of the plane, I expected to be chilled by the numbing, subfreezing cold that is typical for Churchill this time of year. Instead, it was a relatively balmy 40 degrees, close to 30 degrees warmer than normal. In a town where the bears outnumber the people, I was expecting to see bears meandering everywhere, each with a bottle of Coke in its paw. To avoid bear-human conflicts, a Polar Bear Alert Team, through Manitoba Conservation, maintains a control zone around the town and conditions any curious bear, through the use of startling tactics, to stay out of town. Some of the more stubborn bears are captured in live traps and taken to the Polar Bear Holding Facility, locally referred to as “polar bear jail.” When the bay finally freezes, the bears are released out on the ice, well away from town.

A bus took us and the group we were traveling with to what was called the “tundra rover launch.” Here, a fleet of these massive vehicles waited to transport polar bear-loving tourists. The rover we stepped into was brand new, a tour bus hopped up on steroids with a bathroom, hot beverages and plush seats. A massive windshield and long rows of windows provided a great view for all passengers. The toasty rover rolled away and headed to a tundra lodge, where we would spend the next few nights. The strategically placed lodge looks like an overgrown train with five cars where the group is housed and fed in a prime sea bear viewing area.

Arriving at the lodge as darkness fell, a lone polar bear slowly rambled over to the lodge with its nose in the air. Viewing from the safety of the lodge deck, someone in the group asked, “Is it smelling the cooking from the kitchen?” Our guide replied, “No, it is smelling us.” Polar bears may appear cute and cuddly, but they are all business when it comes to looking for food. Though attacks on humans are rare, its best not to tempt the apex predator of the Arctic when it is has been fasting for more than three months.

The next morning, the rover headed out on a viewing safari through a maze of roads along the shores of the bay that are part of the Churchill Wilderness Management Area. The rover rolled past outcroppings of large gray rock jutting up through the ground like worn-smooth teeth. Rock that shows the scars and polish from the weight of a 9,000-foot glacier that once dominated the land. The landscape was pockmarked with numerous small, shallow, frozen water holes called kettle ponds that were formed by huge chunks of ice that calved off of the retreating glacier. Here and there, 500-year-old white spruce trees stood stunted by years of cold, their diminutive height betraying their ancient age.

Out on the tundra, with the iceless waters of the Hudson Bay within sight, our guide instructed us to look for the color of a potato chip among the shrub line of the kettle ponds. Here, the bears will be resting in the lee of the willows protected from the wind. Bright was a keen spotter, finding bears that the rest of us would have overlooked. Throughout the morning, we came across individual bears biding their time, curled up in soft beads of kelp that were deposited along the high-tide line of the bay. They were so acclimated to the rovers that they only reluctantly acknowledged our presence and then went back to sleep.

Female bears with cubs were more alert, vigilant and moving around to avoid complacency. Under the desperation of hunger, if the opportunity presents itself, an adult male will prey on the cubs. We witnessed this drama unfold as a female and two cubs were snuggled together among some willows. As we oohed and aahed at the cute sight, the female suddenly lifted her head high as she caught the scent of an unseen male. She quickly guided the cubs out across a large, frozen kettle pond as a bruiser of a male exited the willow thicket and made his way onto the pond. The female and cubs then exploded into an all-out escape run as the talking in the tundra rover fell silent. Our guide quietly and calmly reminded the group about the harshness of nature. I could then hear soft chants of “run, run, run” to encourage the cubs. The male gave a halfhearted chase and quickly gave up as it began to overheat in the moderated temperatures.

To protect the permafrost and not disrupt the bear’s behavior, the rovers are restricted to road travel only. Thus, sometimes the viewing was from quite a distance, but frequently we were treated to up close viewing that made you really appreciate these specialized animals.

Perfectly Adapted

Physically, the sea bear is perfectly adapted to their cold, wet and icy home. Their fur color provides perfect camouflage for capturing prey. A thick layer of fat and two coats of waterproof fur maintain a steady body temperature even when temperatures dip to 30 below zero. Their tiny ears and a small tail significantly reduce the surface area where heat radiates from the body. The huge, island-sized paws have adaptations for many purposes. Sharp grappling hook-like claws make capturing prey easy. Their feet are wide and massive to help distribute the weight of their more than 1,000-pound bodies, reducing the likelihood of falling through the ice. The bottoms of their feet are covered with tiny bumps called papillae that act like snow chains on a tire for traction. A bit of webbing between the toes of their front paws propels them through the water at 6 mph, leaving any Olympic swimmer in their wake. Classified as a marine mammal, their hollow hair provides buoyancy when swimming long distances between ice flows.

Their bodies and lifestyle are so specialized that they are vulnerable to the consequences of global warming and the loss of life-giving sea ice. Sea ice now forms later each year and melts earlier, resulting in fewer weeks for the polar bears to hunt seals before the ice melts. Winter is when the food is abundant, thus polar bears don’t hibernate. After the melt when the bears are back on land, food is limited and they basically fast and wander in what is called a “walking hibernation.”

Overwhelmingly, the scientific community agrees that carbon dioxide and methane emissions along with deforestation are the major causes that prevent heat from escaping the atmosphere, resulting in global warming. In the Arctic, sea ice and glaciers help to steady global temperatures by keeping the polar areas cool. The arctic ice and snow reflect sunlight and act as a protective barrier, preventing the warming of land and waters under it. However, because of warming polar temperatures, there is now less surface area of sea ice and glaciers and fewer days of seasonal sea ice. The amount of Arctic sea ice in 2016 was at a record low with more land and water exposed to absorb the heat rather than reflect it.

So, what do polar bears have in common with coastal North Carolina? As they lose their habitat, so will we. The loss of sea ice magnifies the warming of our oceans causing thermal expansion, resulting in sea-level rise. This thermal expansion, along with the melting of land-based glaciers, raises the sea level. Many scientific researchers say that even if we immediately start taking serious measures to combat global warming, the tidal wave we have launched cannot be called back, it will eventually reach the shore. It is already evident and will continue in the form of erosion, flooding and saltwater intrusion. Additionally, ocean acidification from carbon emissions may soon have a corrosive effect on developing shellfish shells and climate change could bring us more severe hurricanes.

Under a cloudy evening sky, I stood out on the deck of the tundra lodge as one of the bears silently walked by with the swagger of the “Lord of the Arctic.” The joy and excitement of seeing polar bears was personal and deeply emotional to many of the visitors. Our guide mentioned at the end of one of our trips across the tundra, “I saw tears today; it has been a good day.”

The layer of clouds evaporated and green curtains from the heavens began to spread across the sky. Alive and vibrant, the northern lights shimmered, undulated and cascaded in the atmosphere above the lodge. It danced like a ballet without the dancers; it was a song without sound and a poem without words. As the neon lights above me began to fade, I began to think about the polar bears and whether they too will fade into a memory and become as mythical as a unicorn.

CARTERET COUNTY — During a recent early morning walk along the shores of Bogue Banks, the spreading rays of the rising sun pushed the remaining darkness below the horizon and released a brilliant blue sky. A restless cool northwest wind had all the beach grasses, little blue stem, sea oats and the dune shrub branches of yaupon and wax myrtle dancing and swinging. As I made my way off the beach and through a cluster of small lumpy sand dunes, I found a lone monarch butterfly among the tattered seed head of a sea oat plant. It was gripping the stalk of the plant tightly as it swayed in the breeze.

Because of the cool morning air, this monarch would be grounded from flight until the radiant sun warmed its body into a takeoff temperature of about 86 degrees. I left the monarch to sunbathe in the golden morning light, knowing that it would soon be fluttering off to continue its daunting 2,000-mile journey to Mexico.

The king of butterflies, the Monarch, was named by entomologist Samuel Scudder, the first to document the name in 1847 because, as he put it, “it is one of the largest of our butterflies, and rules a vast domain.” It can be found from central Mexico north into the United States and all the way up to Canada. Monarchs have fascinated us because of their mysterious but magical metamorphosis, phenomenal migration and secretive hibernation. Their scientific name, Danaus plexippus, translated from Greek, refers to their “sleepy transformation.”

Each spring, the generation of monarchs that hibernated in the mountains of central Mexico will be awakened by the longer warmer days. They will mate and by early March they will be heading north looking for their host plants, many different species of milkweed plants, where they lay their eggs. When these eggs hatch, the tiny caterpillars will grow as they munch on the leaves and they will be the first of four generations of monarchs for that year.

The adults of the first three generations live for about two to six weeks, leap frogging farther north laying eggs as they go throughout spring and summer. By fall, the fourth and final generation of the year will begin heading south ahead of the cold fall temperatures and on to Mexico to complete the cycle. This last group will live about nine months and along the trip to Mexico they do not mate or lay eggs. They are mainly focused on finding flowers abundant with nectar to fuel their bodies along their long trek.

Souls of the Departed

It will take the insects almost three months to reach the wintering ground, traveling about 30 miles a day. To conserve energy, the monarch will often fly thousands of feet into the air where it can hitch a ride and glide on northerly wind currents and thermals. Each year some areas may miss seeing the showy mass migration in their communities because the butterflies are high in the air and not visible from the ground. Eventually they will return to the ground to refuel. They actually need to suck up enough nectar to gain weight during this energy burning marathon. Once at the hibernation site, they need to arrive with enough fat reserves to see them through the winter.

The arrival of the monarch in Mexico is culturally significant as the country celebrates Oct. 31-Nov. 2 the Day of the Dead or Dia de los Muertos. This holiday honors relatives that have already passed on and celebrates their return with feasts. The appearance of the monarchs in late October is a homecoming of sorts; legend holds that they are the souls of the departed returning to earth.

As if the harrowing migration isn’t enough to stress this species, they also have to overcome predators, loss of habitat, poison and climate change. The larval stage of the monarch is most vulnerable to spiders, ants and wasps while the pupae stage has few worries. Adult monarchs do, however, have a secret weapon to deter their main predator, birds.

During life as a caterpillar, the monarch has consumed the leaves of milkweed plants that contain a compound called cardiac glycoside. These compounds now reside in the adult, and when eaten by birds, cause them to displeasingly vomit. So potent is this unpleasant experience, the birds quickly learn to avoid this black and orange gastronomic menace.

A Vulnerable Species

Monarch populations are in a decline for a number of reasons, most notably is the loss of habitat that provides their most basic needs: a host plant, nectaring flowers and shelter. Milkweed is needed to lay the eggs where caterpillars will have abundant leaves to feed on, and flowering plants produce nectar to energize the flying adults. Critical habitats that support these plants have been lost to development or rendered unsuitable due to excessive mowing practices and the heavy use of herbicides. Adult monarchs also die outright from the indiscriminate use of insecticides. The size of their hibernation sites, which provide shelter from the weather, continues to shrink from deforestation.

These forests, where it is estimated close to 50 million monarchs hibernate in huge clusters on the branches of oyamel fir trees, are high in the Sierra Madre Mountains. At close to 10,000 feet, the site is cool enough, without freezing, that the monarchs do not metabolize and, thus, conserve their fat reserves. The forest is frequently covered in clouds and fog which keep the insects moist and provide water to drink. Finally, the surrounding forest forms a protective buffer from high winds during storms. This site, known as the Monarch Butterfly Biosphere Reserve, is so special that it has been designated as a World Heritage Site.

With most of the world’s monarchs hibernating in one small location, the entire species is vulnerable to catastrophic storm events spawned by climate change. Extreme weather events and unseasonable fluctuations in temperatures, attributed to climate change, could wipe out millions of monarchs in one day. Global warming temperatures also make the oyamel fir trees vulnerable to damaging insects that normally don’t tolerate cooler temperatures. One researcher, Dr. Cuauhtémoc Sáenz Romero, has proposed a proactive solution: Start planting oyamel trees at higher elevations to provide wintering habitat for the monarchs when the lower elevation trees start dying out.

It has been estimated that monarch populations have been reduced by 90 percent just in the last 20 years alone. The monarch isn’t in dire straits just yet, but the potential for disaster still exists. The International Union for Conservation of Nature considers the monarch near threatened and their migration spectacle a threatened phenomenon. Monarch Watch, established as a nonprofit in 1992 through the University of Kansas, has been a leader in promoting education, research and conservation of monarchs. The program relies on volunteers, teachers, researchers and students to tag and observe monarchs to learn more about their migration. They also are promoting their Monarch Waystation Habitat program to create fields of milkweed and flowering habitat at schools, public land and commercial and residential landscaping. We can all contribute by doing the same in our yards and discontinuing the use of insecticides and herbicides on our properties.

Promoting Conservation

For the past three years, the central regional office of the North Carolina Coastal Federation has been working with teachers and students to promote monarch conservation through educational programs and enhancing rain gardens with milkweed and nectar producing flowers. We recently went to a primary school where the federation had constructed a rain garden to eliminate stormwater runoff from a school parking lot. We talked with the kids about the value of reducing water pollution by creating the rain garden but also spoke of the importance of the rain garden plants for pollinators such as butterflies and bees.

The addition of pollinator education into our rain garden programs is supported by a U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service grant. This grant creates critical habitat for pollinating insects such as the monarch. We helped the children create their own paper monarch, place a tag on it and practice capturing it in a butterfly net. The final activity was to tag and release a live monarch. The children sat in front of me on the grassy lawn with their wide eyes staring up at me in anticipation. I began to really appreciate the tough job that our teachers face every day on how to reach their young minds. I enjoy teaching school kids, but first-graders, that’s a tough crowd; I’d rather wrestle a grizzly bear.

As I placed the tag on the monarch, I thought about how important it is to be exposed to nature at a young age to foster appreciation and compassion for our natural world. I helped one of the students caress the monarch between her fingers and hold it over her head, then we released it. As it fluttered off into the cloudless sky and the kids oohed and awed, I heard one of the students say “have a safe trip to Mexico.”

EMERALD ISLE — The setting sun was moments from embracing the horizon as its last rays of light burst across the sky, dripping a stain of yellow and gold down into the waters of Bogue Inlet. Off in the distance, to the right of the sun, huge clouds towered towards the heavens, giving the flat coast a mirage of mountains. Out over the sound, a long line of pelicans glided in unison as they headed to seek refuge for the night.

Only a few days from the official start of autumn, I stepped out onto the back deck of my house and tried to make my way through an invisible curtain of heat and humidity that would not part. It was as if I had walked headlong into a large, sticky spider web. I stared into a green wall of live oak and holly leaves just a few feet away, searching for the source of the sound. A sound of summer, that when silent, signals the changing of the seasons.

In mid-summer, the sound starts gradually and gains strength each day as new members join the chorus. We grow so accustomed to the noise that we almost don’t even notice it. Like a sound machine, it is nature’s lullaby, the call of the cicada, a white noise that can lull you to sleep on the soft breeze of a summer afternoon.

The dog-day cicada is a type of annual cicada that emerges from underground every year. They differ from the periodical cicadas that emerge after 13 or 17 years. These cicadas begin their life as an egg that is laid by the female in tree branches. She uses her rasp-like ovipositor to cut a trough into the bark where she places her eggs. Each female will lay more than 500 eggs in clusters of 15 to 20 eggs. After about six weeks, the eggs will hatch and the tiny nymphs will fall to the ground. Using their powerful legs, they will burrow into the ground where they will spend practically their entire life. Here, they will search for tree roots, then sink their needle-like mouth parts into the roots and extract the sap for sustenance. After about three years of digging around in the dark, the nymphs will emerge from their subterranean home when the ground temperature reaches around 64 degrees. Once on the surface, they search for the base of a tree and climb a few feet up the trunk. The insect will go through a metamorphosis of sorts and begin life as an adult. Clutched to the bark of the tree, the exoskeleton of the nymph will split open on the dorsal side and the soft, plump light green shape of a winged adult cicada will soon crawl free of its past life. The dry husk of their exoskeleton will remain clinging to the trees bark like a rock climber frozen in time. The whole process may take up to a few hours before the insect has hardened, changed colors and is ready to fly into the safety of the trees.

Dog-day cicadas are named for the time of year during which they are noisily conspicuous. The dog days refer to the hot days of summer when the Dog Star Sirius, which is part of the constellation Canis Major, rises at dawn together with the sun. It was once thought that the combination of Sirius, our brightest star, and the hot sun united to create the hottest days of the summer.

As the days of summer continue, more and more cicadas emerge, creating a sound that has been described as a commotion; roar; fracas; clamor; blare; clatter; uproar; cacophony; and a buzz. A choir of cicadas can crank the volume up to about 100 decibels, sounding as loud as a chainsaw or circular saw. This sound is created by the insect vibrating a membrane, called a tymbal, on the side of its abdomen.

Why all the racket? Well love, of course. It is the male calling out to attract a female. Their call is heard most often during the day and seems to peak in the mornings and evenings. At times, their call will reach a crescendo and quickly taper off before cranking up again. This is because the muscle used to contract the tymbals gets fatigued and needs a short breather.

During a recent bike ride, I came along a section of road where a number of cicadas were littered on the pavement. I picked up one of the black creatures, which were less than two inches long, to examine it. Dark green color was mixed in on the top of its head and thorax. Cicadas will have a few color variations of green, brown and almost all black. Its clear wings completely sheltered the abdomen. I cupped the cicada in the palm of my hand and looked closely to see if it was still alive. I could easily see its two large compound eyes and could also make out their three simple eyes in between the big bug eyes. They only live a little more than a month while above ground with their only task to mate and lay eggs. Why they were all on the ground and not in the trees I do not know. Maybe they had just mated. Maybe they were females attracted to the sound of lawn mowers and leaf blowers that had recently manicured the lawns along the street. They have been known to be enamored with lawn equipment. So I tossed the one in my hand into the air to see if it was still alive and it took off with a clattering sound and shot into the trees like a wayward bottle rocket.

Because of their large numbers in the canopies of trees, cicadas have long been mistaken for and misidentified as locusts, which are a type of grasshopper. Cicadas are more closely related to crickets and have even been called “tree crickets.” They are also referred to as the “harvestfly” as they are present when crops are ripe for harvest in late summer and early fall. Their mass emergence over the course of a couple of months ensures that some will survive predators due to “safety in numbers”. Exposed in the open, cicadas are vulnerable to predators, the gift of flight and camouflage is its only defense. Birds will prey on them as will a wasp appropriately called the “cicada killer.” The most interesting predator of all is one you wouldn’t expect, the copperhead snake. Cicada nymphs emerge during the summer nights right around dark and continue to come out of the ground for a few hours. Copperheads have learned to search fields and lawns that are fairly open but contain a few large trees. As the nymphs crawl toward the trees to climb up the tree trunks, the copperheads are lying in wait. They will eat the nymph and the freshly emerged adult before it can fly. Because of the abundance of nymphs, numerous copperheads might congregate around a single tree. In Texas this past summer, 33 copperheads were observed in one lawn feeding on the cicada nymphs. After about midnight, the nightly emergence is over and the copperheads return to the cover of the woods.

Cicadas have long been a symbol of rebirth, immortality and change. As long ago as 200 BCE, jade carvings of cicadas were buried with the dead to aid in resurrection. When the Greek mythology character Tithonus was given the gift of immortality by Zeus, it did not include eternal youth. Thus he continued to age into a shell of a man and was eventually transformed into a cicada. In folklore, cicadas’ presence signals that fall is fast approaching and that the first frost will occur in six weeks.

Now, a few weeks have passed since the official arrival of fall and the cool mornings play the discernible silence of the cicadas. I will miss the cicadas until next year when we all can:

“Feel the freshness of the air; how pretty and pleasant it is; how it echoes with the summery, sweet song of the cicadas’ chorus!”

— “The Phaedrus,” by Plato

Learn More

• Listen to the song of the cicada.

ATLANTIC — I nervously sat in a college lecture room in 1978 waiting to be handed the results of my final paper for a course on technical writing. The professor strolled about the classroom tossing the papers onto our desks. I was relieved to see at the top of mine, about the eastern brown pelican, a high grade in red ink. At the bottom of the page, I noticed the hand written notation, “What has the world lost if there are no more pelicans?”

I was initially stunned, stunned that my instructor had no compassion for the other creatures of this earth. Then, I was irritated with myself. Maybe my paper had all the merits for technical writing but it didn’t have the content to turn a stuffy college professor into a pelican-loving tree-hugger.

The paper probably mentioned that they have a seven-foot wing span, weigh eight pounds and that their pouch can hold over two gallons of water. But, it obviously didn’t ooze with the joy I feel when I see a pelican at sunrise gliding inches above a cresting wave.

This memory flooded back to me as I stood in early July in chest-high stalks of fuzzy green dog fennel on an island in Core Sound with the uninviting name of New Dump Island. Since the early 1980s, the island has been an important rookery for hundreds of nesting brown pelicans.

The island is a big pile of sand consisting of dredge spoil remains, the results of hydraulic dredging to keep the local channels and inlet open for boat traffic. Ever since the island was created, the pelicans and other waterbirds have coveted it as a prime nesting site. In the open waters of Core Sound, New Dump Island has minimal vegetation and is free from predators such as raccoons and foxes, making it a pelican nesting utopia.

Managed by the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission, the island has been monitored for nesting activity since 1983 when 141 nests were counted. Each year since, hundreds of nests are identified on the island, with a peak in 2004 of 1,110 nests.

Earlier on that hot July morning, I, along with North Carolina Coastal Federation interns, gathered at a boat ramp in the Down East community of Atlantic. Here, we headed across the shallow waters of Core Sound on a homemade boat that looked much like a floating screened-in porch with an outboard motor.

As we approached the nesting island, some adult brown pelicans with their yellow head plumage were lounging on a nearby exposed sandbar, while others could be seen off in the distance plunging into the water in an effort to catch a pouch full of fish. Pelicans were flying in and out of the island as if it were a major airport hub.

The shallow water prevented the boat from reaching the island, so we abandoned ship and waded through the water, pausing to look at a huge live keyhole urchin.
Once on the island shore, we met up with two biologists, John Weske and Micou Browne, who have been banding brown pelicans and other shorebirds every summer throughout coastal North Carolina for much of their lives.

We were a group of green reinforcements here to help band this year’s brood of pelican chicks. A breeze somewhat weakened the heat of a hot summer morning as Weske gave us the history of the pelicans’ struggle for survival. In the late 1800s, pelicans and other colonial nesting birds were slaughtered to support a 30-year fashion craze for bird plumage. Once thought to be a threat to the commercial fish harvest, the pelicans were killed to eliminate what was perceived as competition.

Pelican populations were also victims of the broad application of pesticides, specifically DDT, on farm fields. Carried by stormwater runoff, the poison made its way through the food chain and into the pelicans, wreaking havoc on their reproductive system.

Though scientist still debate the validity of DDT harming pelicans, the chemical is thought to have caused the shells of their eggs to become thin and brittle, breaking, as the adults incubated them. To provide warmth to the developing embryo inside the egg, pelicans will actually stand on their eggs, transferring the warmth of their large, fleshy webbed feet. Under the weight of an adult pelican, the weakened eggs were often destroyed.

Populations plummeted and the eastern brown pelican was listed as an endangered species in 1970. After DDT was banned in 1972, along with other persistent pesticides, the pelican populations began to rebound, and in 2009, the species was completely delisted with populations now nesting as far north as Maryland.
With instructions from the scientists, we waded through the dog fennel and into the interior of the island in search of the chicks. While the interns were new fodder for the snapping young chicks, I was given the privilege of actually banding these white fluffy snowballs with wings. Adorned with a silver necklace of 50 aluminum bands and armed with a pair of needle nosed pliers, I waited to band my first pelican.

These bracelet-like bands will provide information on nesting site, longevity, migration, breeding age and population trends. This is knowledge that is needed to help biologists preserve and restore this coastal icon so that it is never threatened again.

Without flight feathers and unable to fly, the chicks raced into the safety of the low, grassy vegetation away from the intruders. They looked like clumsy little dinosaurs with their stubby white wings stretched out and held high as they ran away. As an intern reached in to pick up a chick, it would lunge at its pursuer with a mighty snapping of its long bill that resonated with the sound and power of a large rat trap. Once captured, the dangerous beak of the chick was secured by the intern’s left hand, with the right hand cradling the bird on the right hip as if holding a toddler.

I pulled the white downy wing and grabbed the chick’s warm leg. I then spread open one of the thick metal bands and wrapped it around the scaly leg. I crimped the band together with the pliers until the two ends met smoothly, leaving no gap that could allow discarded fishing line to entangle the bird.

Sounds simple right?

These pelican chicks hid in the dog fennel and one wasn’t too thrilled at the prospect of having a band attached to its leg.

Not so much for a novice. It took me minutes to get the bands just right while I watched the biologists attach the bands in seconds. Browne has been banding birds since he was 13 years old, and Weske has been doing it for over 50 years, including forest birds of the Peruvian Andes.

I studied their technique for pointers.

After banding tens of thousands of birds, they had the fast twitch muscle memory to apply the bands. With the strength of vice grip pliers, they would close the band with their hands then apply two quick squeezes of the needle-nose pliers. An audible snap could be heard when the ends of the band closed tight together.
The brave interns, now with battle scars from the sharp claws, scoured the island for hiding chicks. Disappearing into the head high fennel, they would reappear with the prehistoric-looking birds.

Once while applying a band, an intern holding a bird could feel the undulations of the pelican starting to throw up. She then expertly guided the beak away from us to avoid being hit by the shrapnel of partially digested fish. The resulting small made clear why this defense mechanism is so effective.

The personalities of the chicks varied, some were resistant, while others complied. Once captured, they were usually submissive, helplessly resigned to being assigned their own unique number etched on the shiny silver band.

As we left the chicks to be reunited with their parents, I began to think that my technical writing professor was sending me a veiled message with his comment about a world without pelicans. It was a defining moment for me, a challenge you might say. It was a way to provoke me into presenting information on nature and our wildlife in a way that will hopefully cultivate and inspire environmental advocates and stewards. However, I do have an answer to the question. A world without pelicans, or bears, wolves, whales, lions, elephants and all wildlife would be sterile and barren indeed, a world lost and without a soul.

KITTY HAWK — Like the seashells that are strewn along its beaches, the North Carolina coast is scattered with stories about its cultural history. Native Americans, European explorers, pirates, shipwrecks, lifesaving, lighthouses, fishermen and boat builders are all examples tucked away in its salty and sandy archive. As time has passed, remnants of our cultural landscape are becoming less familiar unless you take the time to seek them out.

One such gem, the Kitty Hawk Lifesaving Station, is unrecognizable, disguised as the Black Pelican restaurant along the Outer Banks. Even though the old station has already been moved twice to escape the ocean tides, large piles of brown sugar sand dunes are still needed to protect it from the surging waves. After many additions, the gingerbread trim near the peak of the gable roof is the only hint of its past life.

You know that old saying about talking walls telling tales? These old walls could spin yarns of triumph and achievement, anger and violence, hope and rescue. They could even whisper tales of ghosts and the supernatural.

In the mid 1800s, with the increase of maritime traffic along the East Coast, it became apparent that land-based rescue stations were needed to assist stranded and wrecked ships. When hurricanes and nor’easters pounded the coast, ships along the barrier islands frequently grounded on uncharted, invisible and deceptive sand bars. The early lifesaving stations relied on volunteers with rescue boats and equipment provided by the federal government. But a strong hurricane in 1854 revealed that these makeshift stations were overwhelmed by the task of rescuing sailors in rough seas.

By 1874, a number of lifesaving stations were constructed along the islands, including one in Kitty Hawk. The stations typically consisted of a crew of seven men, a keeper — usually referred to as captain — and six men with experience as mariners, sailors and fishermen. W.D. Tate was the station’s first keeper and was replaced a few years later by a man named James R. Hobbs. Like all keepers, Hobbs worked his crew six days a week keeping them sharp and prepared. They drilled often, launching their boat from the beach through the crashing breakers in all kinds of weather. They patrolled the beach up to five miles on foot, stood for hours in the lookout tower — chairs were forbidden — and practiced signaling and first aid.

The Kitty Hawk station was on a long stretch of open, sandy shoreline. The isolation here was no different than that of a becalmed sailing ship at sea. The crew worked together, lived together and in the confines of isolation may have gotten on each other’s nerves.

Theopolis L. Daniels, by some accounts was one of Hobbs’ men. Other accounts imply that he was a local after Hobbs’ job. Either way, Daniels leveled serious charges against Hobbs, accusing him of using his government position for personal benefit. This included using government-owned paint to paint his private boat, using the men under his charge to carry out chores on his personal farm and the serious accusation of absconding with goods from a shipwreck.

According to a Hobbs’ telegraph, Daniels detested him and always greeted him with unfiltered profanities, vulgarities and insults. It is reported that things went too far when Daniels insulted Hobbs’ wife and may have spit tobacco juice on her.

Daniels repeatedly reported the charges to Hobbs’ supervisor, and an investigator was sent to sort out the accusations and resolve the matter. Inside the station, the investigator began questioning Daniels, but once Hobbs stepped into the room, Daniels began threatening Hobbs and reached for the pistol in his pocket. As Daniels worked the gun out, Hobbs pulled a shotgun from a closet and fired twice, fatally wounding Daniels. Hobbs’ report about the incident stated, about Daniels, “He died with his revolver cocked in his hand.”  

Daniels’ body was said to have been buried at sea and the investigator declared it a case of self-defense.

But Daniels, it is said, is still restless. His spirit is said to bang about inside the old station house, now the Black Pelican restaurant, where he was killed. Workers at the restaurant report mysterious noises and shadowy figures lurking around. So prominent are these reports that the restaurant is listed as one of the spooky haunts of the Outer Banks.

Sixteen years after the killing of Daniels, in 1900, the Kitty Hawk station, which also served as a weather bureau and a telegraph office, was visited by two strangers from Ohio with big dreams of flying. The Wright Brothers, Wilbur and Orville, arrived to conduct glider tests at nearby Kill Devil Hills to see if the area was suitable for their experimental flying machine. At the station, they sent messages back home and received vital weather information.

Just down the beach from the Kitty Hawk station was the Kill Devil Hills lifesaving station. When off duty, the crew of the Kill Devil Hills station was frequently volunteering to assist the two brothers in their attempt to fly their homemade motorized flying contraption. Viewed as polite, lovable nuts, the Wright Brothers were welcomed by the men of the stations. Orville and Wilbur owe a debt to the men of the station as they were indispensable in running errands and were, essentially, the first ever airplane ground crew.

On Dec. 17, 1903, with a 30 mph northeast wind stinging their faces, the Kill Devil Hills crew never hesitated to help on that icy, cold morning when their plane glided above the dunes. The iconic first flight photo was actually snapped by one of the surfmen. With four successful flights, the brothers, after eating lunch, calmly hiked over to the Kitty Hawk lifesaving station. Here, as the heels of their shoes scuffed across the wooden floor, they handed the telegraph operator a note. The tapping of the telegraph machine was vibrating through the walls of the station sending the news of their triumph, manned flight had been achieved.

After the successful flights, the brothers continued to return to Kitty Hawk for a number of years refining their aircraft among the open dunes. They still relied on the generosity of the lifesaving stations and the crewmen. In 1908, they even nursed Wilbur back to health in the Kitty Hawk station when he came down with a bad case of the flu. Because of their relationship with the Wright brothers, many of the surfmen went on to become local celebrities.

Serving at one of these remote, lonely outposts was most likely, at times, quite boring. From the vantage point of the lookout tower, the men scanned the horizon for any sign of a ship in distress. Often, the gaze of the lookout spied the familiar shape of a lone pelican gliding above the mist of the ocean spray. This pelican was different however, it was not the colors of a typical brown pelican, it was completely black, the color of coal. It soon became apparent that the appearance of this bird was followed by incidents of bad weather or ships in need.

When the winds whipped the sea into frothy foam and storm clouds obscured the vision of the lookout, the black pelican appeared. This was a signal for the “storm warriors” to prepare their equipment. It is said that the bird often guided the boat crew through the waves locating wrecked boats and survivors to be rescued. If you think this is just a myth, Station Keeper Tate also mentioned the black pelican, which he referred to as a “watchdog” in his journal. Survivors of shipwrecks also noted in their diaries that the pelican glided just above the surface of the water and soared above giving them the hope of rescue in a dreadful situation.

Throughout the history of the station, crewmen reported the resolution of the black pelican to assist in rescues or to warn of dreadful weather. In 1915, the Life-Saving Service merged into what is now the U. S. Coast Guard. Eventually, many of the lifesaving stations were shuttered and abandoned and sightings of the black pelican became less and less frequent. Today, boaters along the Outer Banks continue to report a black pelican when weather is at its worst. Perhaps this soot-colored savior bird was merely a wayward magnificent frigatebird soaring the ocean skies. Maybe it was just a brown pelican with a rare melanistic color variation causing it to be all black. Either way, it doesn’t matter, for those in need it was a guardian angel, masquerading as a pelican.

While many fascinating stories of our cultural history are fading away, at least one legend of this sturdy old building lives on through the name of a restaurant.

The skiff smoothly skimmed across the flat glassy marsh waters tinged yellow by the rising sun. Movement of the boat created a breeze that washed away the sticky humidity on this muggy summer morning. I was headed to Bear Island, the National Natural Landmark that is part of Hammocks Beach State Park, to assist with the banding of some migratory song birds.

When I got to the banding site, two men, hidden behind a wooden partition, had already prepared the banding materials and equipment. They were now passing the time swatting the biting flies and no-see-ums that were torturing any exposed skin. They listened and stared intently towards a cluster of wax myrtles and yaupons, waiting, waiting for the bird some call “the flying rainbow.”

Nonpareil, a word of French origin, is defined as better than any other, having no equal, of unequaled excellence, unmatched and above comparison. These are the words used to describe the radiant beauty of the small finch that brings a splash of color to coastal North Carolina each spring. In mid-April, these beauties begin showing up among the coastal maritime shrub thickets near and along the salty estuarine waters. A Native American legend tells the story of the Great Father painting the world, once finished, he used all the remaining paint to color this bird.

Painted buntings, which are in the same family of birds as cardinals, have two separate populations that inhabit the United States. A larger bunting population is found in the southern central states and a smaller eastern group ranges from Florida to North Carolina. Although a few vagabonds do sometimes stray farther north, such as the male that showed up last December in Brooklyn, N.Y., at Prospect Park. Here in the big city, this gaudy bird received the same celebrity status as if Bigfoot were to sashay down Broadway Avenue.

With their technicolor plumage that would cause a peacock to blush with envy, the flashy male painted bunting arrives early along the N.C. coast to establish and defend its territory. When not breeding, the male seems shy and modest, hiding its good looks among the twigs and branches of shrubs. However, during the spring, it is pleased with its exotic good looks and will sing a sweet, melodious song from an exposed perch to show off for the ladies. The females, however, remain silent. The male will repeatedly sing as many as 10 songs a minute to assert its dominance. Agitated males will engage in aerial fighting that may end up in a physical ground struggle to settle any disputes. The winner must continue to remain vigilant, driving out any intruders. Once boundaries, about three acres, have been established, the male can relax a bit and concentrate on singing its song to attract a mate.

While the striking male painted buntings get all the attention, the females are always downplayed and described as drab. But I find their tropical, yellow-tinged green color quite attractive. The juvenile birds of either sex are also a green color. This green coloration provides great camouflage for the nesting females and young birds to avoid detection by predators. The males will make their magical transformation after they molt during their second fall season.

When the females arrive, about a week after the males, they select a mate and the pair will search for a nest site among the protection of the maritime shrub thickets. The female builds the nest, and then incubates the three-four eggs, while the male takes care of feeding her. After hatching, the female feeds the hatchlings until they fledge about two week later, unless she nests for a second time. At this point, the male will take over feeding the first brood and the nesting female as well. Using their stout, V-shaped beak, they will feed on a variety of seeds and insects.

By August, the pressure is off of the males and their territorial rage has subsided. They can even be spotted feeding calmly together at bird feeders. After spending the summer breeding and raising their young, by mid-September they are headed to the southern tip of Florida, Cuba and other Caribbean islands. Once back on the wintering grounds, some of them cluster in groups that are referred to as a mural or palette due to their artistic colors.

The arrival of painted buntings in North Carolina is celebrated every year by birdwatchers along the coast. Feeders are cleaned and filled with white millet, then strategically placed near a thicket edge where the birds have a quick escape to cover if threatened by larger birds. I hear stories of one-upmanship and bragging rights each summer as to who has the most painted buntings visiting their feeders. The breeding residents will range as far north as the tiny coastal village of Marshallberg in Carteret County. However, sightings of the bird at feeders in winter have been increasing over the years with sightings as far north as Buxton in Dare County. Enough winter sightings have occurred for it to almost be considered a winter resident.

These birds are in a bit of trouble though; their numbers have been in a steady decline for decades. Their favored habitat of maritime shrub thickets is disappearing. The eastern population of this species is most vulnerable to habitat loss, degradation and fragmentation due to the steady pace of continuing development along the coastal shorelines. However, residential and commercial properties can still be landscaped with native species and in a way to provide for the buntings.

Populations of the bird are also declining in the saddest way possible, the trapping and selling of wild male painted buntings. During the breeding season, the singing of a caged male painted bunting is used to entice a territorial wild bird into a trap, seizing the bird. They are then sold throughout Mexico, Central America, Cuba and Europe. Though it is illegal to possess these birds in the United States, they are readily available on the Florida black market. Every year arrests are made of people in possession of songbirds that are protected by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act. There is one amusing story of an individual that was prosecuted after posting photos of caged buntings on a Facebook site. Not only are the birds sold, but they are also held captive for tranquil gambling competitions. Once captured, they are held in cages and matched against each other in underground singing events where betting takes place. Bird song gambling, I swear, I’m not making this up. These matches, called a race, are where the first bird to sing an agreed-upon number of songs wins or where the bird that sings the longest song wins. Sometimes money is on the table, or in friendly bouts, a golden bird trophy is up for grabs.

The loss of habitat and the caged-bird trade has helped land the painted bunting on a number of dubious lists. In North Carolina, they are listed as a federal special concern species by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, they have been designated as a watch list species by Partners in Flight, and BirdLife International has categorized them as near-threatened.

Fortunately, there are concerned people out there doing good things to help ensure the survival of these magnificent creatures. In 2005, bird conservation specialist, Dr. Jamie Rotenberg, assistant professor of Environmental Studies at the University of North Carolina-Wilmington, set out to learn more about the decline of the painted bunting. Knowing that two eyes are better than one, he spearheaded the organization of what is now known as the Painted Bunting Observer Team. Their website states “PBOT’s goal is to observe, record, and catalogue sightings of this beautiful bird, whose population has been in decline for several decades.” Dr. Rotenberg has coordinated a network of “citizen scientists” to observe and record information such as date, location, time and individual numbers of the birds along the east coast from North Carolina to Florida. He has also banded hundreds of painted buntings at numerous sites and will soon be publishing his findings that include the data collected by the team.

Back on Bear Island, Keith Jensen and Ed Dombrofski were banding the buntings through the direction of John Gerwin with the N.C. Museum of Natural Science. Over a period of weeks, the birds are enticed to frequent feeders filled with tasty millet. On banding days, a cage with a feeder is placed at the same spot. At first the birds are confused by the different feeder, but they eventually figure out how to reach the seed. Once inside the cage, the birds are trapped similar to a crab pot. Keith and Ed delicately remove the birds and conduct a physical exam, recording data including weight, age, sex and measurements of their wing, bill and fat accumulation. Each bird receives an aluminum band with a unique identification number as well as three colored bands that reference where it was banded. The banded birds will help the citizen scientist’s better document the bird’s behavior giving insight into their migration routes, reproduction, life span and population estimates.

On this day, the bird was then handed over to a researcher from the University of Oklahoma to be fitted with a light-sensitive geolocator. As the buntings migrate in late summer, the geolocator will record the length of day and night for each day. The amount of day and night on a given day can then be calculated to reveal the latitude and longitude to pinpoint a specific location. In the coming years, if the bird is recaptured, the device will be retrieved. The collected data will give a better understanding of migratory routes and where habitat conservation efforts should be targeted.

As the morning temperatures increased to a sizzle, the buntings abandoned the feeder for a favorable retreat into the deep shade of the shrubs. As the researchers put away their banding gear, I was thankful for these individuals that have a deep respect and love for our wildlife. Their work will go a long way to hopefully ensuring that we will always be able to enjoy the magnificence of the painted bunting.

If you live along the coast, near salt or brackish water, set out a cage type bird feeder, one that provides protection from larger birds, fill it with white millet and be on the lookout for what the early Spanish explorers called “mariposa pintada” which translates to “a painted butterfly.”

Learn More

• Painted Bunting Observer Team
• Eastern Painted Bunting Population Assessment and Monitoring Project
• Audubon Guide to North American Birds

Throughout much of this winter, I have been out and about retreating into the solitude of nature by exploring the national seashores and wildlife refuges of coastal North Carolina. Throughout my excursions, there is one animal, a bird, that is a constant no matter where I roam.

Over the lumpy dune fields, salt marshes and open fields, this hawk is a reliable companion. Easy to spot, this slender bird can be seen flying low over open areas ready to pounce on unsuspecting rodents, reptiles, birds and even insects. It appears to be in no hurry, a lazy flight with a flutter and a wobble here and there, almost like a butterfly at times. Its most identifiable field marking is a distinctive, quite visible, white rump patch that makes me think of chipmunks and chuckle with laughter, but we’ll get to that later.

The northern harrier, also referred to as the marsh hawk and gray ghost, is a migrant along the coastal plain during the winter months. While it is the only one of many harrier species found in North America, it also ranges in Europe and Asia.

The term harrier has evolved from an Old English word that alludes to one that plunders or harasses. Its scientific name, Circus cyanus, is derived from Greek and Latin words that refer to a hawk that circles and has a grayish-blue color. It is, however, only the male that sports the gray color while the female is slightly larger and mostly brown in color.

Out on a cold outing recently, I watched as a northern harrier flapped its long wings and glided low up and over the dunes of a deserted barrier island. It would drop into the dune valleys, disappear from sight, only to reappear and circle back to where I first saw it.

As it glided back past me, its wings were in a modest “V” position while its long rump feathers trailed along behind like the tailcoat of a tuxedo. The attitude of its wings is another distinguishing feature that is also seen in turkey vultures. This “V” wing posture is known as dihedral and helps stabilize flight at low altitudes or in unpredictable wind conditions. It also helps them stay airborne with minimal flapping of their wings. Since they rely on the surprise of stealth, excessive motion of their wings could betray their location to potential prey. Their soft quiet wing feathers, like those of an owl, are another adaptation that aids them in avoiding detection.

I watched as this harrier searched for prey, gliding low amongst the dunes, back and forth over the same expanse before concluding prey opportunities were bleak. It then moved on to new territory, continuing its pursuit using this hunting pattern known as quartering.

Northern harriers have good eyesight that helps them locate and snatch prey with their razor-sharp talons. But they also rely heavily on hearing to zero in on a position as prey scurries under the cover of tall grasses. Upon close inspection, the face of a northern harrier looks somewhat like that of an owl with a modest facial disc. The disc consists of short stiff feathers around the eyes that collect and magnify sound to the ears. They also have a ring of similar feathers around the neck, called a ruff, which can be raised to improve hearing much like cupping your hand behind your ear.

While the harrier doesn’t have the blazing speed of a falcon, it does have the ability to hover and perform vertical takeoffs and landings. These are the same traits found in an aircraft used by the British Royal Air Force and the U.S. Marine Corps that they named the Harrier in honor of the bird.

During one of my winter trips to Pocosin Lakes National Wildlife Refuge, I was able to witness a harrier conduct such maneuvers over a wide drainage canal. After quartering a length of this ditch, the harrier briefly hovered and drifted straight down below the bank of the canal and out of view. A few seconds later, it rose straight up out of the canal with a bird in its talons and carried its prize to a bare patch of ground near the edge of the water. I’m not positive, but since harriers are known to cache food, I felt that this bird had been killed earlier and the harrier was now ready to satiate its appetite.

On this day, as the sun was setting, the flight of harriers showed more purpose as they ventured off into the distance. Perhaps looking for a safe spot to roost for the night where they are sometimes known to communally seek the company of short-eared owls and merlins.

As I hiked back to my truck, under a cold sky fading into the darkness, a male northern harrier, no more than 30 feet from me, glided low over a field of corn-stalk stubble. Its head slightly glanced to the left and we made eye contact. Unconcerned, it sailed on, disappearing like a ghost into the night.

The tiny hamlet of Salter Path, nestled in the central coastal barrier island of Bogue Banks, has a delicious secret. At least it was a secret kept from me, until I unexpectedly received an invitation to an outdoor lunch.

Neil Smith of Willis Seafood Market in Emerald Isle extended the invitation. I was acquainted with Smith as a customer of the seafood market but got to know him better while writing a story on the mullet men of Salter Path. Proud men, which come the gales of November, are preserving the traditional method of mullet fishing when these fish run thick along the ocean beaches. My wife was in the store picking up some scallops for supper, and as she was about to leave, Smith said “tell Sam to come have lunch with us in Salter Path on Wednesday at 11:30 a.m., drive into town, he’ll find us”.

Since 2005, this secret had evaded me. As it turns out, the Salter Path Men’s Club has been preparing a seafood feast every other week during the winter months, typically, November though Easter. On this cool February day, as the mullet nets lay dormant and the skiffs were hibernating under the shelter of ancient live oak trees, I was in on the secret.

Many of the descendants of the abandoned Shackleford Banks whaling and fishing village called Diamond City migrated to Salter Path more than a hundred years ago. The spirit-breaking hurricane of 1899 pretty much destroyed Diamond City leaving the villagers reluctant to carry on in such an exposed location vulnerable to storms. Some chose to settle on Bogue Banks in a thick tangle of maritime forest on the shores of Bogue Sound which is protected by high dunes along the oceanfront. Here, the village of Salter Path and its traditions were born.

Driving slowly through town, I soon saw a cluster of pickup trucks and three men standing close to an open wood fire in a larger grassy area next to the main highway. The men stood with their backs to the wind, which carried the lingering bite of the cold air blowing off the sound. White smoke billowed from the flames and drifted on the breeze, creating a familiar aroma of warmth. I parked my truck and looked to find Smith among the groups of men clustered throughout the lawn. Some were washing oysters, some were setting up tables and others were beginning to cook fish and shrimp. I found Smith, we shook hands but he was really too busy to talk. He then looked into the distance and announced to the men preparing the fryers, “They’ll be here soon.” As if on cue, his forecast became reality as cars and pickup trucks started rolling into a nearby parking area.

As if a moth to a flame, these men were drawn to the glowing red embers that were now roasting a large passel of oysters scattered on a metal grate placed over the fire. I could hear the fryers come to life as lightly battered fish and shrimp began to sizzle while they were lowered into the hot oil. Big serving bowls of homemade coleslaw and baked beans were already prepared and sitting on serving tables. But most intriguing of all was what I had mistaken as pancakes. They said it was cornbread, but I have never seen cornbread look like a flapjack.

A man in a red and black plaid fleece jacket took long, hurried strides across the lawn with his nose pointed skyward. He called out to no one in particular, “I could smell the food from Morehead City”. “You came from Morehead City”? I asked as he breezed past. Without pausing, the words, “Yes, because it’s worth it,” trailed over his shoulder as he continued with a single-minded purpose to get in the serving line before it became too long.

People continued to arrive under the spell of this gastronomical siren and the serving line soon curved like a snake. They came from all corners of Carteret and Onslow counties. Over the years, without any advertising, word of mouth has spread the secret and the number of men that show up for this indulgence has begun to grow. The first lunches drew a modest group of 12, then 25, then 40 to 60. People began to bring friends and coworkers and the crowd would swell to 75, 100, topping out at 130. On this day, I would guess about 80 people would leave replete and satisfied.

The event had the flavor of a reunion as friends renewed acquaintances. Phrases such as, “How long has it been” or “I haven’t seen you in a long time” filled the air along with laughter and good-natured ribbing. As I took pictures of the gathering, one of the fry cooks waved me over and asked, “You’re not from the IRS are you? I don’t want them to see my picture,” which caused an eruption of laughter from those standing within earshot. As I scanned the faces at the gathering, amazingly, I noticed a familiar face, someone I hadn’t seen in 15 years or more. Earlier, feeling like the outsider, it was now me, feeling at home, reconnecting with an old acquaintance.

After I got my plate, I stood back a bit away from the crowd and observed as the line trickled past the serving tables. Then, as the roasting rack was lifted off of the fire, men moved with the grace of lightning as hot steaming oysters tumbled with a thump onto a thick makeshift wooden table. Around the crowded table it was silent, except for the scraping of oyster knives as they pried open the salty bivalves. All the dining tables were full and it was apparent that good food will attract people from all walks of life.

At the head of and behind the serving table, Darryl Marshall was piling generous portions of shrimp on plates and handing it out to the next hungry person in line. Standing near him, and also serving food was Mr. Smith. According to others at the lunch, these two men are the driving force behind the lunches. But when asked, they both modestly deflected any credit and praised the efforts of other people and businesses in the community.

On one of the serving tables was a nondescript box into which everyone was putting their hands. At first I thought people were grabbing napkins out of the box before I realized that they were putting money into the box to pay for their lunch. No one was collecting money, nor was there a sign on the box, everyone just knew to pay. There was no set fee for the lunch, it was pay what you can or pay as much as you want. No one was turned away if they couldn’t pay. It was a gift of the Salter Path Men’s Club. The money that they did collect, you ask? Well, they don’t keep a dime of that. It is used to purchase bicycles that are given to the Carteret-Craven Electric Cooperative, where employees distribute the bikes through Project Christmas Cheer to underprivileged children. Here, a new tradition has been born, one that the town can be proud of thanks to a group of men that love their community. A community described by Salter Path native Lillian Smith Golden years ago.

“If there was even a heaven on earth, it was here. There was wild country on each side of us. We had a church. We had a school. If anybody got sick, they helped out. They had a feeling for each other a love for one another …”

—Lillian Smith Golden, Salter Path Native, 1901-1985

The next lunch is scheduled for 11:30 a.m. today near the Crab Shack Restaurant.

Learn More

• A Sign of Fall: Mullet Fishing on Bogue Banks

Photo of the Week: Feb. 1-7, 2016

Photograph by Sam Bland.

Learn More

• Audubon’s Guide to North American Birds

Photo of the Week: Jan. 25- 31, 2016

Photograph by Sam Bland.

The rough seas formed by the recent winter storm tossed a number of these sea shell treasures upon the beach, such as this moon snail shell also known as a shark eye.

Photo of the Week: Jan. 18-24, 2016

Photograph by Sam Bland.

An inviting beach trail is covered under a blanket of unblemished snow in this file photo from Sam Bland.

EMERALD ISLE — A week before Christmas, while out on an early morning jog, I came across a large eastern red cedar tree in a residential neighborhood that was beautifully decorated for the holiday. Seeing the tree reminded me of when I was starting out on my own as a young park ranger with Christmas a just a few weeks away. I had settled into the park housing and was quite happy to have my own place, just me and my dog, Max.

After about a week, my boss dropped by and commented that he noticed that I didn’t have any Christmas decorations or a tree for that matter, garnishing the house. I explained that with the meager ranger pay, I could hardly afford to buy a tree. After a bit of thought, he said “just go out into the dunes and cut down one of those scrawny cedar trees”, which he said, would make a great Christmas tree. So off I went, down a sandy trail behind the park house with a rusty hatchet in hand, and Max, steady at my side, in search of an eastern red cedar.

The eastern red cedar has a bit of an identity problem since it isn’t really a true cedar at all. It is actually a juniper, Juniperus virginiana, the only species of juniper to be referred to as a cedar. This evergreen is a pioneer species that quickly establishes in disturbed open areas allowing it to thrive in the constantly shifting sands of the barrier islands’ dunes. Its seeds are cast about after a trip through the digestive system of a number of bird species including the cedar waxwing. These birds, as their name suggests, prefer the blueberry-like seed cones. Research indicates the seeds have a much greater germination success rate after they have been ejected by these birds.

As I headed off into the dunes, Max protested with a few whimpers. He demonstrated an unusual obedience as he waited patiently for me on the well-worn path. This obedience was not taught by me, but by the sharp sting of the prickly pear cactus. His last trip into the dunes resulted in many of these plants impaling his paws much like the ones that were then clinging to the thick leather of my boots.

Not far from the path was a perfect, triangular-shaped red cedar. Long prized by the early “bankers” for their shape and aroma, these cedars were favored as Christmas trees and have, and still do, adorn many a coastal island home.

I stood and admired this jade-green, six-foot tree, imagining it bringing life into my spartan living room. Then, deep within its boughs, I noticed a tightly woven abandoned bird’s nest on a branch close to the trunk of the tree. Cedars are important bird habitat providing seed cones as food, dense shelter from the weather and a concealed nesting site. Since they are slow growing and long lived, they provide decades of habitat for generations of a variety of bird species.

Their slow growth has earned them the nickname, the graveyard tree. If you plant a red cedar when you are young, then by the time it is big and substantial enough to provide a shady spot, you, according to folklore, will be near death.

Even before the early Colonists arrived in North America this tree was special to the native Americans. Many native cultures held the red cedar in high regard. For the Cherokee, the wood of cedar trees holds the spirits of their ancestors and is, thus, a sacred tree. This tree was employed by many tribes for a number of uses. Berries, leaves and small branches were used to treat a variety of medical ailments such as bronchitis and arthritis. The wood was burned to cleanse and purify or as incense. It was also used to make bows for hunting and musical instruments such as flutes and drums. Native Americans also used cedar trees to make tall posts that were used to delineate tribal areas and hunting territories. The red, rot-resistant heartwood was used, allowing the post to stand tall as a boundary for many years. When French explorers began invading southern North America they discovered a number of these posts in a particular location in what is now Louisiana and named the area Baton Rouge, French for “red sticks.”

Over the years, the red cedar has been harvested for a number of products: Its processed oil is used in insect repellents and perfumes; the seed cones are used to flavor gin; the heartwood is rendered to make a red dye; the wood is used to make pencils and fence posts; and farmers plant rows of the tree to create an erosion-stopping wind break. Hope chests are built from the insect-repelling red cedar wood to protect valuable clothing or blankets from the damaging moths. This handsome tree with its rich red-colored wood has sustained and provided for beasts and humans alike. It is only held is disregard by those, myself included, that suffer from pollen it spews on the gentlest of breezes during late winter.

I backed away from the red cedar tree on that day long ago and never did chop it down. I guess the bird’s nest and the powdery, waxy blue berries gave me second thoughts. I cut across the dunes taking a short cut back to the path, giving me a head start as I raced Max back to the house. That year, I was content with boughs of yaupon and their brilliant red berries scattered about on window sills to provide me with all the Christmas cheer I needed.

The celebration of Thanksgiving is largely viewed as a tradition that was started in 1621 in Plymouth, Mass., by early Pilgrims indebted to be alive in a new world. The Pilgrims feasted with the native Wampanoags, an Algonquin tribe that taught them how to cultivate and farm the land and, thus, essentially saved their lives.

However, long before these colonists sailed to North America, cultures from around the world conducted similar ceremonies of thanksgiving for the blessings of the Earth.

Today, the holiday is a time for families and friends to gather, enjoy good food and reflect on the things that we appreciate in life.

I have had the pleasure to live on the coast of North Carolina for almost all of my adult life. To be surrounded by the ocean, the beaches and the estuaries is something that I often take for granted and sometimes don’t appreciate as much as I should. Over the past few weeks I’ve been reflecting on the traits, some subtle, some not, of this unique, beautiful environment. So, in honor of Thanksgiving, I want to present a few of the virtues of the coast for which I am thankful.

A Lasting Impression

If you are attentive, you can sense the presence, sometimes miles away, of the ocean without even seeing it. The smell of the ocean drifting on the sea breeze can leave a lasting impression. The unequaled aroma of the ocean is a smell that people never seem to forget. I remember riding to the beach as a child with my brothers and sisters and our heads hung out the window like dogs to see who could be the first to smell the ocean.

But what is that delightful smell that permeates the air? Well, to my dismay, I have discovered it isn’t mermaid perfume. The scent comes from a gas produced when bacteria eat phytoplankton, a very small plant that floats near the surface of ocean waters. Not too exciting, huh? What is exciting, as it rises into the air, this gas will oxidize and form clusters big enough to absorb water vapor that can eventually form clouds.

For those living at the beach, the sound of crashing waves, is the constant reminder of a vast ocean. However, as a part of everyday life, it can sound like white noise, a sound without any meaning until it is silent.

Where I live on Bogue Banks, a north wind will smooth out the incoming waves and blow out to sea any sound. This is about the only time you can’t hear the ocean. But the rise and fall of the swells can still be heard in the mournful groan of a whistle buoy near the inlet channel. Even on the calm days, the smallest waves can carry a resonance well into the interior of the barriers islands. If you listen closely, the voice of the ocean can reflect its personality, be it a whisper or a shout. For me, I find the sound of the ocean to be comforting no matter the disposition of its roar.

Near the beach, the lumpy sand dunes seem to move as the feathery filaments of sea oats dance in the wind. Caught in the golden glow of the setting sun, the seed heads almost look like the flame of a candle. Throughout the seasons, the dunes are decorated with flowering Indian blanket, little bluestem, goldenrod and yucca.

As a kid, I used to stomp along the dry loose sand at the base of the dunes, causing the sand to make a barking or squeaking sound. Walking out onto the beach, even today, I am still amused by the sand as it barks under my bare feet on a warm summer day. Barking sand is caused when the surface layer of fine dry quartz sand grinds against adjacent sand layers.

My Moody Friend

The ocean has an instinctual draw within all of us. It’s hard not to just stare out into the horizon and be mesmerized and hypnotized into a tranquil state of being. Swells, rising and falling in the distance, come rolling in. This pulse of the ocean is tangible, something that we can see and feel. Any swimmer, surfer or boater has felt this pulse surge over, under and through them.

The ocean is my moody friend, alive, with a dynamic, ever changing personality, influenced by the wind, currents and tides. Its waves, reaching the end of their journey, pitch and spill, race up the sloping beach before being sucked back into the sea, unable to escape, forever sequestered within the rim of the oceans.

I love the open horizons with their unobstructed views of the landscape. You hear about Big Sky country out West, but it has nothing on the coastal skies of North Carolina. Sunrise and sunsets are magical here, over the ocean, the marshes or through the dunes. The mixing of red, pink, orange and yellow colors splash across the skies like light streaming through a stained glass window. The colors reflect down on the dead slick, calm marsh water, creating a mood that nourishes the soul.

And the moon, how I love a fat, silvery full moon lifting out of the ocean and dripping its moonbeams onto the sand. Even a moonless night has a grace all its own with billions of stars twinkling across the heavens while the crashing surf zone sparkles with bioluminescence. While miles away, a lone thunderstorm can be seen drifting out to sea. Each flash of lightening explodes like a firecracker inside the cloud, illuminating the fluffy cotton ball formation for only an instant.

Then there is the wildlife. We have elegant dolphins and whales leaping out of the water, ancient sea turtles crawling across the sand and statuesque great blue herons silently guarding our marshes. A diversity of wildlife that has adapted and struggled to live among humans, bringing us joy and wonder.

Thanksgiving holidays and the coast have always been a part of my life. I remember many beach walks with my brothers and sisters along with laughing nieces and nephews with dogs running about. During my career as a park ranger I was required to work alone on many Thanksgiving holidays. I must admit, I often preferred it, with the coast as my companion, I was never alone.

To spend the days alone patrolling the marsh waters and barrier islands of our magnificent coast never felt like work, it was an honor and a privilege. For that I am forever thankful.

Summer has slipped away and I will miss its caressing warmth. I don’t even mind the muggy sticky humidity that hangs over the coast like a blanket during the steamy months of July and August. Ultimately, like the tide, the season will officially change when the sun crosses the celestial equator at about 4:20 Wednesday morning in what is known as the autumn equinox.

I will have no choice but to accept this climatic transformation.

What Is the Equinox?

The September equinox arrives on Sept. 23, at 4:21 a.m. when the sun crosses the celestial equator, an imaginary circle in the sky around the Earth directly above the terrestrial equator.

In the Northern Hemisphere, the sun crosses the equator from north to south, marking the beginning of autumn. The sun is rising later now, and nightfall comes sooner. This is our autumn equinox, when the days are getting shorter in the Northern Hemisphere.  On Wednesday, at the equinox, day and night are about equal in length.

South of the equator, Wednesday marks the beginning of spring.

Early September has already ushered in milder weather as the cool fronts begin to drift across the country. This time of year, these pushes of northern air are usually escorted by a variety of migrating birds and butterflies fleeing south to warmer latitudes. The movement of these animals is triggered, instinctually, by air temperature and shorter periods of day light. The day of balance is upon us, equal day and equal night, the symmetry of the autumn equinox. For those observant enough, a messenger has for week been spreading the word of its impending arrival.

Along the coastal plain of North Carolina, anyone out for a walk will notice one of the first signs of the approaching autumn skipping just past their noses. At first, a sighting here and there, then a trickle of brilliant yellow streaks floating through the air, followed by a steady stream of fluttering lemon yellow butterflies. The cloudless sulphur butterfly has arrived and it has relaxed my grip on summer.

The dazzling and showy color of the cloudless sulphur is reflected in the insect’s scientific name, Phoebis sennae. Phoebis is derived from Pheobe, the Titan goddess of Greek mythology, who was known for her radiance and brightness. Pheobe was also known for her prophecies. The arrival of the cloudless sulphur butterflies along the coast has long been an alarm clock, alerting the local fishermen to ready their gear as the waters will soon be thick with spot and mullet. Its common name, cloudless sulphur, represents its sulphur-colored wings that are clear and free of blemish.

Cloudless sulphur butterflies are wide ranging and are found from Argentina north into south Texas and across the Southeast. During summer, they stray into the Midwest and some will even reach Canada. In North Carolina, they have been documented in all 100 counties and are predominantly seen during the fall migration while limited numbers are seen in the spring.

Their flight can seem erratic, but like a sail boat tacking against the wind, their zigzagging eventually leads them to their destination. During migration, however, their flight is more matter of fact with the males outpacing the females to wintering sites while covering close to 12 miles a day. The females will actually reduce their flight tempo while flying with the wind. It is thought that this conserves precious energy that will be needed later to produce and lay eggs.

A curious thing though, while most of the cloudless sulphur butterflies are heading south, racing ahead of the frigid future, a number of them, undaunted, are actually heading north. While the cloudless sulphur is more tolerant of the cold than most butterflies, this is a fool’s errand. Eventually, they will be caressed by the embrace of a powerful artic air mass that will greet them with the cold, cruel, kiss of death. It is not fully understood why some take on this suicidal journey, but it may be a way for them to develop genetic changes that eventually allow them to survive in colder climates and extend their range.

As I watch from my porch in Emerald Isle, it is obvious that the sulphurs passing through are heading north. A few stop among the flowers to slurp up energizing nectar with their long proboscis. Out in a clearing, four cloudless sulphurs converge together and conduct a butterfly version of the chest bump in midair. They then swirl around chasing after each other while spiraling up into the air like a mini, yellow tornado. At tree-top level, they separate, flying down and away from each other in different directions showering the sky like Fourth of July fireworks — a butterfly scuffle triggered over the nectar rich flowers or males intent on finding a mate.

The numbers of cloudless sulphur butterflies will dwindle like the amount of daylight. Like the metamorphosis of a butterfly, the equinox dawns the transition into the migration of a new season.

With all the attention that sharks are getting this summer, snakes have been able to slither under the radar as the most sensationalized animal threatening human existence. Usually this time of year, we hear all about the “copper-mouthed, water-headed rattlers” aggressively chasing after people.

During my years as a park ranger, I once received a phone call from an excited neighbor screaming in a high-pitched voice about “a cobra, or might even be a black mamba” that was in their yard. I laughed and told them not to worry, that it was a harmless hognose snake that will mimic a cobra and scare the heebee-jeebies out of you. Not happy with that answer, I had to go to their house and relocate the snake.

Those with ophidiophobia, the fear of snakes, are wary during the warm-weather months when these cold-blooded reptiles are much more active and moving about. Venomous or not, most people just don’t like snakes. Snakes have never been able to overcome their depiction in the Bible as Satan in the form of a snake that convinces Eve to take a bite out of that apple and thus, introduces sin into the world. The Greek story about Medusa, the woman with snakes growing out of her head who could turn people into stone with merely her gaze, didn’t help either.

In North Carolina, there are 37 species of these legless reptiles, of which six are venomous and can be found somewhere along our coastal plain.. Five of the six are pit vipers: copperhead, water moccasin (also called cottonmouth) and canebrake, pigmy and eastern diamondback rattlesnakes. Just reading the names will cause anxiety in some people.

Pit vipers are so named because of  a small depression, or pit, between the eye and nostrils. This pit contains a sensory organ, or thermoreceptor, that can detect the body heat of warm-blooded prey mammals such as rats and mice.

The sixth venomous snake, the coral snake, is in the same family as cobras and mambas and is referred to by some as the American cobra.

Technically, all of these snakes are venomous, not poisonous. They inject, like a hypodermic needle, their venom through their fangs. Poisonous plants and animals, such as some types of frogs and the berries of the Virginia creeper vine, transmit their poison though touch or by being consumed.

I’m not exactly sure what makes people so afraid of snakes. I don’t think it is one specific characteristic, but rather the totality of many. Right off the bat, many folks think that snakes are slimy. Not true. The scaly outer layer on their body is dry, smooth and has a glossy sheen that may give the impression that it is wet and slimy.

Then there is that forked tongue flicking in and out of their mouths that gives some people the creeps. This is just a snake’s way of smelling tiny chemicals in the air or ground and delivering them into the mouth to be analyzed by what is called the vomeronasal system located near the nasal cavity. Here, messages are sent to the brain to help the snake follow prey, find a mate and avoid predators. The tongue is split with a left and a right side giving the snake a sense of direction based on the chemical concentration levels detected by each side.

The serpentine movement of snakes can also be unnerving to some as they wiggle about. Snakes use box-shaped ventral scales along their belly to grab the ground for traction much like a tire. They have a number of propulsion styles that allow them to adapt to changing ground conditions. Even without legs, they are good climbers.

Then there are the broad triangular heads of the pit vipers with their elliptical eyes that create a facial demeanor some associate with evil. These cat-like eyes are important for hunting at night and accurately tracking the movements and distances of prey.

Finally, there is the fear of those double-barrel, retractable fangs dripping with venom, sinking into your flesh and releasing its consequences. A Bible quote, “And the Lord sent fiery serpents among the people, and they bit the people …” has really left an impression. As a rule, snakes will only bite humans as a last resort to protect themselves. They usually slink away and try to avoid confrontations. When provoked, they will defend themselves in a manner that is perceived as aggression. Because of their excellent camouflage that seamlessly conceals them in their natural surroundings, many snake bites occur when people step on them or reach into areas where they cannot see. Most venomous snake bites, however, occur when people try to touch, handle or grab hold of danger waiting to happen. Darwin Award candidates displaying such bravado can be rewarded with a trip to the emergency room. Just ask this guy, who showed off by kissing a water moccasin.

The venom of pit vipers is similar to saliva and contains proteins and enzymes that are hemotoxic and do damage to tissue and blood. A bite can produce swelling, pain, weakness, nausea and inhibit the ability of blood to coagulate. Coral snake venom, on the other hand, is a neurotoxin and affects the nervous system, causing paralysis and breathing difficulty.

When hunting, the bite and venom of these snakes is used to immobilize and digest their prey. When they bite as a defensive measure, such as during interactions with humans, there is a good possibility that very little or no venom is released from the fangs. These “dry bites” are used on non-prey animals as a way to defend themselves while conserving their venom. This isn’t to suggest that a harassed and agitated snake won’t bite repeatedly and with a full complement of venom.

All of these distinctive traits of snakes that give people the willies are simply amazing adaptations that allow snakes to make their niche in this world.

In North Carolina, the copperhead and timber rattler can be found throughout the state in a variety of habitats. The water moccasin and pigmy rattler are mainly found in the eastern part of the state and the eastern diamondback rattler and coral snake are in the southeast coastal plain.

Copperheads are the species we are most likely to encounter and they account for the majority of reported snake bites. They are quite social and like to hang with other copperheads. Young copperheads are recognized by the yellow tip of their tails which they will jiggle as a lure to draw in prey such as frogs. Adults have a preference for rodents but will also climb shrubs and trees looking for cicadas.

The water moccasin, as its name implies, spends a lot of time at night in aquatic habitats such as marshes, streams and ditches, where it waits to ambush frogs and fish. The water lowers their body temperature, which is why they can be found basking in warm, sunny spots for extended periods during the day. It is also known as the cottonmouth snake because of its defensive posture of opening its mouth widely, exposing the white fleshy interior. They can grow to more than four feet long.

Of the rattlesnakes, the Carolina pigmy is the smallest. It is a slim snake found in sandy longleaf pine forests and is only a little more than two feet when fully grown. The rattle of the pigmy is tiny and hard to see. When agitated, the sound of the rattle doesn’t travel far and sounds more like the buzzing of an insect. Because of loss of this unique habitat, the pigmy is a species of special concern in North Carolina.

The timber or canebrake rattlesnake is a brute of a snake growing up to six feet in length and is also a state species of concern. This shy snake is reluctant to engage its rattle until danger is imminent. Its scientific name, Crotalus horridus, identifies it as a dreadful rattle.

Diamondbacks are without a doubt the big beast of the rattlesnake world. Some individuals have been documented at almost eight feet in length and weighing in at 30 pounds. Anyone seeing this bruiser unexpectedly along a forest trail will surely pass out on the spot or be unable to run because of uncontrollable body spasms. Those who remain conscious will be mesmerized by the gorgeous dark diamond pattern against its sand-colored scales. While their main prey is rabbits, they will also target rats, squirrels and birds. North Carolina is the extreme northern range of these snakes, which are listed as a state endangered species, rare and difficult to find in the wild.

All pit vipers have a rugged look, but the eastern coral snake is svelte and elegant looking with a round head and eye pupils. Its striking Halloween colors of black, yellow and red bands alternately circle the length of its body. The non-venomous scarlet kingsnake closely resembles but should not be confused with the coral snake. One of the clever rhymes to help identify which one is venomous goes like this, “Red touch yellow, kills a fellow; red touch black, venom lack.”

Somewhat of a recluse, this snake spends most of its time burrowed under decaying forest litter and loose soils. It ventures out at twilight and dawn to seek out prey such as other snakes and lizards. Because of their short, fixed fangs, they need to hang on and chew a little bit for the venom to take effect.

I cringe when I hear people say “the only good snake is a dead snake,” or when they try to rationalize the existence of some snakes, and thus, the condemnation of other snake species by saying, “at least it’s one of the good snakes.” All snakes, venomous or not, are good snakes. While a lot of cultural history casts snakes in a negative light, there is plenty of history touting their virtue. They have long been symbols of wisdom, fertility and a sign of immortality because of their “rebirth” after each shedding. As a sign of healing, they are prominently featured in the Rod of Asclepius, a logo used by many health organizations throughout the world. Look at the Star of Life, a symbol of emergency medical services, and there you will see a snake. Today, their venom has a number of medical uses including treating cancer, stroke and Alzheimer’s disease.

A great place to learn more about these magnificent creatures is at the N.C. Aquarium at Pine Knoll Shores in Carteret County. The herpetologist on staff,  Fred Boyce, is a wealth of knowledge when it comes to snakes. Boyce grew up surrounded by his older brother’s snake collection. His childhood playmate and friend was a big black rat snake named Atlas. If anyone can talk you off the ledge of snake fear its Boyce.

When asked how people develop their fear of snakes, Boyce replied, “I have no doubt in my own mind that the common fear of snakes is an acquired, learned behavior that has very little or nothing to do with the actual snakes themselves. Once you actually see a venomous snake, you’re out of danger and can observe it safely.”

The sight of snakes actually brings me comfort – comfort in the knowledge there is natural habitat to support their existence. If there is habitat for the snake, there is habitat for a diversity of other wildlife as well. Wildlife deserves our respect and right to existence no matter what form it takes.

CEDAR ISLAND — The early morning sky was in a moment of indecision, split in half, unsure of its intentions. To the north, a blue sky was growing the promise of a sunny day, however, to the south, dark clouds still held the outlook of soaking rain showers.

I was trailering a boat down to this isolated community on the far eastern tip of Carteret County. From there, I would  head out into Pamlico Sound in search of a tiny island best known as a location to fish for red drum. As I pulled into the empty boat ramp area, a woman was playing with two black Labrador retrievers on the nearby beach. One of the labs was much older, its muzzle the color of frost.

After launching the boat, I motored through the protected harbor with its high walls of riprap rocks. Gliding across the emerald waters and into the open sound, the light winds delivered a welcomed message of calm waters. Pointing the boat north, I headed off in search of Raccoon Island, the last hunk of land where the Neuse River spills into the vast sound. I knew that the island was about seven miles away from the boat ramp, but after four miles, an island was not coming into view. So, as any prudent mariner, I pulled out my cell phone and opened up the maps app. After a slight unintended detour into West Bay, I was soon following the pulsating blue dot towards Raccoon Island, but I was not heading there to fish.

Over the years, I have been asked many times, “Why don’t you ever see baby egrets, pelicans or gulls on the beach or in the salt marsh?” Well, it’s mainly two reasons. First, many different species of shorebirds prefer to nest in remote isolated locations such as small islands in marshes, sounds and rivers that are intentionally selected away from human activity. Secondly, new chicks are usually already the same size of an adult and have similar plumage when they fledge from the nest. Thus, after the chicks have left the nesting islands, the casual observer will not recognize them as cute “baby chicks” running about.

Coastal birds like to nest in large numbers, in groups called colonies, so they can all benefit from a collective effort. With more alert sentries to call out the danger alarm as well as plentiful fighters to drive out an intruder, the survival rate of eggs and chicks increases. Selection of a colony site is also influenced by the availability of food and thus the birds all end up at the same spot, similar to fishermen when they hear where the fish are biting. Birds in the colony also learn to follow other, more successful hunters to their favorite spot, again, just like fishermen. Colonies with terns, plovers and skimmers tend to sprout up on the sandy spits at the ends of barrier islands while pelicans, herons and egrets favor isolated island with grasses, shrubs and trees. In North Carolina, 25 different species of water birds nest colonially and rely on such sites.

As I approached the island, I was a bit concerned; it was low and flat without any significant shrub thickets or trees. No wonder I couldn’t find the island, it is not prominent enough to rise above the horizon. I was expecting an “island” but this was basically a big hunk of salt marsh made up of various tall grasses. My hopes of seeing any nesting ibis, herons or egrets sank just like this island appeared to be doing. Closer to the island, I began to see birds flying around the south shore. Laughing gulls, lots and lots of laughing gulls, were flying in and then dropping into the grasses. Their trademark riotous call could be heard from quite a distance. I soon began to see heads poking up through the grasses like periscopes. Looking deeper into the low grass, I saw clusters of glossy and white ibis, tricolored herons and snowy egrets. The plentiful laughing gulls had created a perimeter, nesting closer to the shore. My mood lifted as my doubts faded away like the distant curtain of rain draping from a cloud over the Pamlico.

With so many birds sitting on nests, I could now see why this island had been listed as an important nesting site for the glossy ibis, tricolored heron and laughing gull. It appeared that many of the birds were still sitting on eggs, but it was hard to tell since the nests were not visible through the grasses. Then, every now and then, I could get a glimpse of a fuzzy-headed chick. The snowy egret chicks appeared to be top heavy as their heads would wobble while the tricolored heron chicks stood erect and stable. One chick was shy as it poked out its stubby variegated bill, a glossy ibis chick.

Even with the crowded conditions, everything was pretty peaceful until a bird would land too close to another nest, creating an uproar of squawking and wing slapping. One laughing gull was popped so hard you could hear it out on the boat. White ibis and laughing gull chicks were nowhere to be seen. Either they hadn’t hatched out or they were tucked well into the vegetation.

The adults were resplendent in their magnificent breeding colors and plumage, coming and going, in search of and returning with food for the chicks. The fleshy face of the white ibis is fire engine red, glossy ibis feathers shine with a bronze glow, while elegant plumes drape off of the tricolor heron and snowy egret.

Throughout the last half of the 1800s, these elegant breeding feathers were at times more valuable than gold. To satisfy a new craze in fashion, millions of colonial nesting birds were slaughtered to “harvest” the chic breeding plumes used mainly to adorn women’s hats. Snowy egrets in particular were targeted and were brought to the verge of extinction. At the time, killing these birds simply for their feathers was unregulated and because of their tempting value, many hunters turned to plume hunting. All along the Atlantic coast, breeding sites were wiped out, the adults killed, eggs left to rot and chicks left to starve.

Disgust with the annihilation of these birds ignited the formation of the Audubon Society chapters in many states, which influenced the creation of bird-protection laws and the establishment of bird refuges. To enforce these laws, the Audubon Society hired the nation’s first game wardens. One such warden was a man named Guy Bradley.

In 1902, Bradley was hired as Audubon’s first game warden charged to protect a huge swath of the Florida’s west coast down to Key West. Even though it was now illegal in Florida, the carnage continued. A reformed plume hunter himself, Bradley went about his job with a vigilance that created many enemies and a foreboding prophesy of his death. Three years later, Guy Bradley was shot and killed as he attempted to arrest a familiar plume hunter and his sons on one of the rookeries.

Guy Bradley once described plume hunting as “a cruel and hard calling.” Watching the birds of Raccoon Island, I wondered if he was just doing the job he was paid to do or if he objected to the absurdity of killing birds to satisfy human vanities. A pioneer in wildlife protection, awards are now given in his name to distinguish those that have demonstrated a commitment to wildlife protection through enforcement or conservation. His story is depicted in a movie, “Wind Across the Everglades,” released in 1958.

In 1918, Congress passed the Migratory Bird Treaty Act to protect migratory birds such as the egrets and herons from eventual extinction.  Some states were not pleased and challenged the constitutionality of the act, resulting in the U.S. Supreme Court upholding the law in 1920. The act has now been protecting birds for almost 100 years and is being reviewed by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to bolster protection for birds from new hazards that were not around a century ago. Sadly, elsewhere in the world including Eurasia, market hunting continues to threaten birds to satisfy the culinary fad of eating fried songbirds. Yellow-breasted bunting populations have dropped 95 percent during the past three and a half decades due to illegal poaching and a strong black market appetite in China.

Hesitantly, I piloted the boat away from the island and was greeted by a pod of dolphins as I neared the boat ramp. Tucked in among the adults, a tiny newborn leaped completely out of the water, putting a smile on my face. Normally this would have taken my full attention, but today I was still captivated by the sights and sounds of the bird colony. I reflected on Guy Bradley and the courage he had, even in the face of danger, to protect these birds. Birds may not mean much to most people, but to me they are a strong fiber that weaves through the fabric of nature that is worth saving. They are the most obvious of nature’s ambassadors that have the best opportunity to keep us connected to the natural world.

Oh, by the way, I didn’t see any raccoons on Raccoon Island.

Naturalist and photographer Sam Bland camped at Cape Lookout National Seashore last weekend to document the rise of May’s full moon near the park’s iconic lighthouse. He tells the story of that day in the following slideshow of photos and captions.

ORIENTAL–With one foot in the kayak and the other on the dock, I pushed off like a kid propelling a skate board. I settled into the seat, slowly gliding away from the dock. Dipping the paddle into the water, I looked back to make sure the marina owner’s friendly pooch wasn’t swimming after me. The equally friendly owner graciously allowed me to launch my kayak from his dock in the lowlands of Pamlico County. I was off to find two active bird nests of a great horned owl and a bald eagle.

Moving through the clear water, I lifted the paddle too high a few times causing the water to run down the length of the bar soaking my hands. I was surprised at the coolness of the water on this sunny March morning. The short channel from the dock emptied into Broad Creek, which flows into the lower Neuse River just before reaching the big water of the Pamlico Sound.

Out on Broad Creek, a blue crab fisherman checking his crab pots meandered from float to float as if playing a game of connect the dots on the water. A group of brown pelicans glided above and behind the fisherman’s boat as if they were kites tethered to the stern. As the crabber retrieved each pot, the pelicans hovered in the air for a few seconds before gently descending toward the water, optimistic for a taste of crab bait. Their calmness turned into an all-out wing-slapping scrum as they all lunged after the remains, their large sword-like bills snapping at the water.

One lone pelican stayed away from the fray, watching the commotion from the perch of a solitary piling. I paddled past the bird, and then allowed the current to drift the kayak back towards the piling. The bird faced me and stood erect as if showing off its elegant, golden breeding plumage that adorned the crown of its head. As I drifted past and around the piling, it kept its eyes directly on me without moving its head. It kept shuffling its feet to rotate its entire body, creating a Mona Lisa effect with its eyes following me.

I left the pelicans and paddled off to find the owl and eagle nests. Based on the word I received, a grand nest near the edge of the water, with large adult birds tending to the feeding of demanding chicks, will not be hard to find. Paddling against a moderate chop, I headed for a small tributary known as Green Creek. This is where I began my search for the nests in earnest and scoured the shoreline for any dead pine tree loaded with a bulky stick nest.

According to my reports, the great horned owls I was looking for had taken up residence in a year-old vacant osprey nest. Since they nest earlier in the year than ospreys, great horned owls don’t waste their energy building a nest. They simply take advantage of the opportunity. If the osprey returns to claim ownership, the fish hawk will usually yield to the trespasser.

I paddled in and out of the jagged shoreline unable to discover the nest at water level. So, I beached the kayak in a small sandy area and used a derelict duck blind as a viewing tower. Pointing my binoculars across to the distant shore I dialed in the focus rings as an osprey nest came into view. Staring directly at me was a white, fuzzy great horned owl chick, its penetrating yellow eyes piercing right through me. I couldn’t believe my luck. I viewed for a while from the opposite shore, observing only the lone chick cautiously raising its head to peek out over the rim of the nest. Its citrine eyes betrayed any chance of deception.

Unlike the shoreline near the marina, this area was uninhabited without a house in sight–just pine forest. I crossed the creek and directed the kayak into a thick growth of grasses that lined the shore about 50 yards from the nest. From here, I began my surveillance, sure that an adult owl would soon join the chick.

Off in the distance I could hear the sharp call of an osprey, maybe a protest to the owls. Its call returned many times throughout the day like an echo bouncing back from the past. I reclined in the seat of the kayak and waited. The wind was dying down its only footprint a slight ripple on the water. My concealment and stagnant posture soon lured a lesser scaup to land in the water only 20 feet away. It eagerly swam away as I raised my body to get a look at the owl nest. Two white heads now bobbled above the nest as they stretched their wings and stood more erect. Any movement from me caused them to swivel their heads and gaze with a death stare of four stern eyes. Since owl eyes are fixed in their sockets, the owl must rotate the entire head to follow movement. Folklore still persists that an owl can spin its head entirely around when in fact they are only able to rotate 270 degrees. Impressive, but not quite a complete circle.

As not to stress the birds, I pulled the kayak ashore and started hiking away from the nest and across the peninsula of land that the nest was on. Somewhere along these shores, between Green and Smith Creek, there once stood an ancient live oak tree known as Teach’s Oak. This landmark alluded to the pirate Blackbeard’s voyages into the Pamlico Sound. Though the tree is long gone, the legend still inspires treasure hunters to search for a mythical reward. I wasn’t looking for gold doubloons, but I was trying to reach the shoreline that meets the Neuse River to locate the eagle nest. I was quickly discouraged by the thick undergrowth that ripped open exposed skin, crawling ticks, soft mucky soil and numerous mosquito controlled ditches. I graciously gave up on spotting the eagle nest without any regret.

Off in the distance, I could hear the irritating sound of shouting crows. I smiled knowing that they had located at least one of the adult great horned owls, making it an easy find for me. Up on the sturdy branch of a pine tree, a riot of crows was attempting to mug the oblivious owl. Great horned owls are tough, powerful predators that shutter at nothing. These ferocious raptors view just about anything as prey, earning them the nickname “tiger owl.”

Unconcerned with the annoying crows, the owl went back to napping and the crows soon left. Without the crow’s assistance, I probably would have never seen the owl. Its cryptic camouflage of mixed patterns of brown and gray plumage blended well into the surrounding woods. Even its trademark ear tufts or “horns,” which have nothing to do with their hearing, helped break up the silhouette of its head.

The owls perch was not far from the nest with an unobstructed flight path to silently swoop down and defend its young if necessary. As I climbed back into my kayak I now had six strict eyes urging me to move on, so I did. Owls have long been a symbol of death or thought of as a bad omen while also an indication of intelligence and wisdom. On this day, I thought of none of this. I just enjoyed being in their presence, happy that they exist so that we can continue to contemplate their symbolism in our lives.

With the sun setting, the kayak effortlessly skimmed atop the smooth water as I paused for a few last looks. The downy owlet heads recoiled into the depths of the nest. The parent released its strong grip from the tree and swooped down over the marsh grasses, gliding into the silence of the approaching night.

As I jogged along the beach one morning, gusty winds busted apart huge sudsy chunks of sea foam lining the shore, scattering it into softball-size dollops that slid up the sloping, sandy beach. As the foam raced along, the soapy globs looked like gremlins disappearing into the beach as the sand popped the air bubbles in the foam and they shrunk in size. Long lines of the foam stretched down the shore up to 20 feet wide and almost two feet thick in some places.

In one iceberg-looking chunk, I saw something moving within. I scooped and fanned the foam away until the head of a sea bird poked through like a periscope.

Hurricanes, tropical storms or any period of strong sustained winds will transform the surface of the ocean into a churning agitated chaos of crashing, tumbling and pounding waves. As the energy of these waves surges upon the shoreline it will transport and deposit oceanic flotsam onto the beaches. As the tide recedes, seashells from gastropods and bivalves along with seaweed and driftwood litter the shore.

The eager, beachcombing seashell collectors that are the first to reach the beach after a storm will also notice something else, a thick fluffy white layer of sea foam. Depending on the amount of turmoil that the waves have created, the height and thickness of sea foam on the beach may vary from inches to feet. But the volume of sea foam is also dependent on the ingredients that make it form in the first place. Air, water and decaying organic matter are all players that collaborate to create this frothy formula.

Over the years, I have been approached by people holding out heaping bubbling handfuls of the foam and asked, “What is this?” Well, the foam is created when windy weather aerates the top surface of the ocean. If just air and water are present, air that is trapped under the water in bubbles will normally rise to the surface and pop. Add what is known as a surfactant, such as decaying organic matter containing fats and proteins, the air bubbles tend to stick together. In most cases, the organic matter is decomposing algae, seaweeds and other ocean plants. The surfactant particles are drawn to and resist water at the same time.

When all of these particles are swirling around together, their magnetic-like properties trap air between thin layers of water creating bubbles. The dissolved organic matter also provides a bit of structure, giving the foam strength.

The stunning display occurred thanks to the raw swell agitating the water, strong southeasterly winds and over six inches of rain washing a large amount of organic material into the turbid waters of Louttit Bay in Australia.

Sea foam has the potential to materialize along any shoreline if the ingredients and weather condition collide at the right time. In some instances, the amount of foam seems unbelievable, covering roads, cars and houses. A 2007 occurrence in Australia earned one beach town the nickname “Cappuccino Coast.”

Typically sea foam occurs naturally and is harmless. However, at times stormwater runoff can reach the ocean containing pollutants that effervesce and could pose a health hazard. Even some naturally occurring algae may have toxins that are irritants to our lungs and skin.

This brings us back to the bird, a sooty shearwater, which I found encased within the sea foam on my morning jog. Not far from that bird, I found an Audubon’s shearwater, also coated in the sea foam. Both birds were docile, weak, soaked and unable to fly. Sea foam produced by some types of algae has been known to reduce the ability of bird feathers to repel water. When the birds come into contact with the foam they become soaked and the feathers are unable to keep them warm and dry, resulting in hypothermia.

I assume that this may have been the case with these two sea birds since they were completely soaked. I scooped up both of the shearwaters and took them to a local wildlife rehabilitation center.

Sea foam can even be quite beautiful in the soft golden light of the setting sun. According to one Greek myth, Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty and love, was created in the sea foam. The word “aphros” is even Greek for foam. She was born from the sea foam after an unfortunate sickle incident involving Uranus, the god of the sky, and his son, Cronus. You’ll have to research the details of this one on your own.

HAVELOCK — A thin, misty fog hung lightly on the air like a see-through chiffon curtain as I drove down an unpaved pothole-pocked road in the Croatan National Forest near this town in Craven County. On this chilly morning with the temperature just shy of freezing, I decided to do something I now wish I had done many years ago: hike the 21-mile-long Neusiok Trial.

As the gravel crunched under my running shoes, I made my way across the parking area at the Pine Cliff access area in search of the trailhead. Tucked in behind a few picnic shelters along the edge of the forest was a sign indicating the trail’s northern starting point. Just a few yards away, a woman walked her dog along the sandy, white beach shoreline of the Neuse River, an ancient two-million-year-old stretch of water that is the longest river in the state. Early English explorers in 1585 named the river after the native people, the Neusiok, who inhabited the lower section of the river. The word Neuse is one of the oldest English words still in use that was given to identify a place or area in the United States.

Due to the length of the trail and my desire to quickly complete the entire distance, I elected to jog rather than hike. I pulled on a small backpack stuffed with water, food and a camera and shuffled off past the trailhead sign and into the forest. A well-worn trail lay out before me, and I was soon meandering through a grove of towering pine trees. Even though I was in the forest, the trail was paralleling the river, offering great views of the river and its sandy beaches.

As the trail gained a little elevation I could look down on the river. The flow of the river, influenced by gravity, wind and storms, had scoured the bank creating 30-foot-high cliffs. Some trees teetered on the edge of the cliffs while others had already lost their balance in the fight with gravity. A jumbled boneyard of these trees was clustered in one area and a few had been sliced up with chainsaws to open up the trail. Fresh water seeping down from the small hills created wet areas with standing water that were dominated by cypress trees dripping with stringy gray Spanish moss.

The fog was now breaking up, creating a marbled mosaic of dull, white fog and powder-blue skies. Moisture in the fog had coated everything with a wet varnish, causing the knee-high grasses to bow heavily across the trail. As I ran past, they slapped my shins with a wet kiss and whipped into an upright posture as if released by a snare.

Away from the river, the trail eventually moved deeper into the rolling forest with ridges of hardwoods including beech and sweet gum. The trail was carpeted with the earth-tone colors of decaying leaves, and their organic aroma drifted into the air. But water was still close by as Cahooque and Hancock creeks could be seen through the trees from time to time. This area is reminiscent of Piedmont North Carolina with galax and mountain laurel scattered about.

This was once the haunt of moonshiners, who produced their potent, inebriating nectar in the isolation of the deep woods that today’s hikers find so alluring. Like the intoxicant brewed under these trees, the embrace of these woods and its earthy smells can revive even the dullest of spirits.

After about the first six miles, the trail leaves the higher hardwoods and becomes lower and wetter. For the next seven miles I was running through, depending on the topography and drainage patterns, longleaf pine savannas, stands of loblolly pine or wet pocosins with fetterbush and pond pines. The wet areas are made passable only by an incredible network of boardwalks. Some of the sections are as simple as a single plank laid directly on the ground while others are elevated on short pilings. The flooding and drainage in some areas are so strong that the boardwalks are firmly secured with strong cables to prevent them from being swept away. Sections of the boardwalk are identified with colorful names such as Toad Wallow and Cotton Mouth Spa, which I assume is a commentary from those who built the boardwalks.

Traveling along the wooden boardwalks, my footfalls were much quieter than when I was on the forest floor litter. Without the rustling of leaves or the snapping of twigs, the silent solitude of the woods was only interrupted by the call of birds. As one section of the boardwalk ended, I leaped back onto the trail, startling a dozen northern yellow-shafted flickers, causing them to launch from the grasses lining the trail and race to the safety of the trees. The boardwalks allowed me to quietly move along without being detected by the wildlife until I was right upon them.

Two other times I surprised animals when I left the boardwalk. First, a woodcock nearly smacked me in the face as it exploded into the sky when I almost stepped on it. Then a big mystery mammal went crashing through the shrubs causing me to run like a scalded dog for about a 100 yards before looking back. It was probably just a white-tailed deer, but the thought of an unexpected black bear kept me alert. Woodpeckers, however, dominated the day with downy, pileated and red-bellied woodpeckers plentiful. When I didn’t see them, I could usually hear one calling in the distance.

Around mile 13, the trail eventually opened up and deposited me on a packed-gravel forest service road. Initially this was a pleasant change from the forest trail, but within a quarter of a mile I was ready to return to the woods. After two miles on the sterile road, I was back in the bush soaking in the glory of the day. Ironically, however, I was soon wishing I was back on the smooth, dry and firm road. I was now getting a soaking of a different kind.

For the next three miles my run was reduced to a walk as I sloshed through large wet areas that flooded the trail. The main thing I remember from this soggy, boggy section was how cold my feet had become from the near freezing water. This section, however, would not be a big deal for a prepared hiker with waterproof boots. I passed a couple of backpackers heading in the opposite direction towards one of the three overnight shelters. They too appeared a bit wary of black bears with large bright red canisters of bear mace strapped to the front of their packs.

These hikers spent two days on the trail, which meanders for 21 miles along the Neuse River and through the Croatan National Forest.

Eventually this pocosin area gave way to a somewhat open pine forest. Here, the trail improved dramatically with sections of raised packed gravel. Now, I was back to running again with the feeling returning to my feet. I ran like a horse that smells the hay in the barn and picked up the pace for the final push to the trails end at Oyster Point on the Newport River. The sights and smells were now more familiar as I ran near the salt marshes of Mill Creek with live oaks overhead. Then, without warning, the trail came to an end at the Newport River.

This trail is now over 40 years old, being first laid out in 1971 by the ambitious Carteret County Wildlife Club. Members past and present have done a magnificent job clearing and marking the trail and building boardwalks. The rectangular, aluminum trail markers were numerous, making it difficult to get lost. This trail is so awesome that it has been incorporated into the prestigious 900-mile N.C. Mountain-to-Sea Trail.

With numerous road crossings, the Neusiok Trail is cut up in sections that can be hiked individually. The most popular being the northern six-mile Pine Cliff section. Jogging the trail was indeed a rigorous challenge, but I will return and hike each section independently to see what wonders I might have missed.

SWANSBORO – Stretched out in every direction was a blanket of snow — snow so deep that no one had seen anything like it. At least not here. Not on this day. Christmas Day on Bear Island at Hammocks Beach State Park.

Like a thief, the bitter cold had silently snuck into my thick gloves and robbed all the warmth out of my hands. My feet were numb and cumbersome as I awkwardly struggled through the knee high snow. Snow drifts would occasionally swallow me, much to the delight of my hiking companion, as I broke trail to the summit of our climb. Surrounding us was a landscape that was intimately familiar, yet on this day, it was pleasantly foreign. Reaching the pinnacle of our hike, we stood there in silence except for the whisper of a slight breeze.

On December 22, 1989, meteorological elements conspired to create the only coastal white Christmas on record for North Carolina. An epic snow storm known not only for its snow accumulation but also for its raging winds and resentful cold. When the storm developed, I was out of the state, hundreds of miles away as I enviously watched news reports about the potential for a mega storm.

I headed off on dry roads out of Pennsylvania on Christmas Eve morning. I don’t remember exactly where I started seeing snow, but when I reached North Carolina I began to doubt my decision and wondered if I was going to spend my Christmas shivering in a frosty stranded car. The falling snow gradually tapered off, but the closer to the coast, the deeper the snow became. I crept along the snow covered roads as the sky pulled down its shade of darkness. The front wheel drive of my little car pulled me all the way to my house in Swansboro. A deep drift prohibited me from completely pulling into the driveway, thus I left the car partially in the road. It was unlikely that anyone else would be out for an evening drive. Exhausted, I went to bed.I love a good snow, I think in part, because snow on the N.C. coast is minor and quickly vanishes. I dismissed the forecast since predictions of snow on the barrier islands are often just a tease as the warm ocean waters usually reduce wintry precipitation to rain. However, by the evening of the twenty-third, the storm had intensified. With anticipation taunting me, I decided to head home. I was not going to miss this.

Christmas morning was clear and cold, cold, cold. The minus four degree temperature froze everything solid, including the water line to my house. Reluctantly, I stepped out into the glacial air to shovel out enough of the driveway to nudge my car off the road before a motor grader swept it into the ditch. As I finished my shoveling, I could hear off in the distance, a vehicle struggling to get traction on the snowy, ice-crusted road. The sound of a revving engine slowly became louder as a truck came into sight. As the truck passed by, the operator was wrestling the steering wheel like the reins on a wild stallion. A broad smiling face turned my way and I could hear the man holler a muffled “Merry Christmas” through the enclosed cab. Amazed, I yelled back “Merry Christmas” as the truck slipped and skidded down the slick road. I knew this man, he was my coworker at Hammocks Beach State Park, ranger Jesse Hines, and he was headed to work. I was not surprised. You could not ask for a more dedicated, even-keeled, good-natured and humorous soul to work with than ranger Hines.

North Carolina State Parks had a long standing tradition of being open every day of the year, including Christmas Day. In the 1980s, it was decided that the parks would be closed Christmas Day to allow the staff to celebrate with their families. However, the closure required that one of the rangers be on duty at the park in case of an emergency. This year it was ranger Hines’ turn for this duty. Even though nature also decided to close the park and no one would expect him to be on duty due to the storm, ranger Hines was headed to the park mainland office.

About an hour later, back inside the house, the phone rang. It was ranger Hines. He had made it to the park. “Let’s go to Bear Island,” Hines said.

I put on as many layers as possible that still allowed a reasonable amount of mobility and hiked a few miles to the office. When I reached the park, I made my way over to the shoreline of the estuary waters that surround the park. Looking out over the sound, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing: The sound had frozen over and resembled an ice skating rink.

After three days of below freezing temperatures and overnight lows near zero, the saltwater was rendered Siberian. As I approached the office, Jesse bounded out of the nearby maintenance shop with two large grain shovels. He nodded towards the boat ramp which was covered by a three foot drift of snow. Without a word, we began shoveling. Each heaping shovelful landed with a dull plopping sound as we tossed it aside.

I finished up the last few feet as Jesse pulled the truck, trailer and boat over to the ramp. As the trailer tires rolled onto the ice, the weight of the boat cracked the ice into a thousand pieces, and the boat floated in a small pond surrounded by ice. Undaunted by the cold, the outboard motor fired to life. Our boat was a battered-up surplus vessel with a noticeable crack running down the bow. To make sure the ice didn’t open the crack below the water line, I keeled on the bow with a four-foot long, four-inch by four-inch piece of lumber breaking the ice ahead of the boat.

After about a hundred yards of ice breaking with the post, we had made it to the Intracoastal Waterway and open water. Jesse pushed the throttle down and the bow of the boat lifted up then leveled off as the boat raced down the waterway. The increased speed in the cold air caused our eyes to water and salty tears to stream across our faces. We turned into Cow Channel, which was free of ice due to the strong tidal flow from the nearby Bogue Inlet, and straight ahead was Bear Island. From a distance, the tall snow covered dunes looked like a floating iceberg.

Once on the island, we trekked to the garage and hopped into a four-wheel drive truck to ride down the four-mile-long beach. Drifting snow covered the open beach and stretched out towards the ocean. A distinct line indicated the reach of the last high tide and allowed enough room for us to drive onto the packed sand. As we made our way down the beach, we began to notice a few, then many, sea stars and crabs on the beach. A couple of days earlier during the height of the storm, gusty winds churned up the sea and most likely washed the crabs and sea stars into shallow water. Once in the shallower and much colder water, with their mobility impaired, the currents and waves deposited them on shore.

We got out of the truck for a closer look and discovered that most of the creatures were alive. The tube feet of the sea stars were slightly moving and once in the warmth of the cab of the truck, a stone crab defiantly lifted its claw. We picked up every sea star and crab that we found. The sea stars represented four different species including Forbes, beaded, gray and banded, while the crabs included stone, lady, purse and spider. We released the echinoderms and crustaceans in the calmer and deeper waters of the Bear Inlet channel. Whether they survived, I don’t know, but at least they were provided a better opportunity than freezing on the beach.

After riding the beach, we parked the truck and decided to hike through the dunes and over to the maritime forest. This proved to be a tiresome task, trudging through the deep, fluffy, powdered sugar snow and up and down the slippery dunes. At the south edge of the forest was a large mobile dune that sloped into the forest, engulfing the trees. From there, we entered the forest through a deer trail opening in the shrubs that we called the rabbit hole. Once you enter the rabbit hole it is a steep slope down the side of the dune before reaching the flat forest floor. I half slid, rolled and tumbled down into the forest with Jesse following right behind me.

Under the thick canopy of the forest, the snow wasn’t nearly as deep, allowing us to easily walk through. Spanish moss, draping down from the live oak trees, collected enough snow to look like white scarfs dangling from the branches. Any animal that passed through was easy to track as the imprint of their feet revealed their identity. We followed the track of a raccoon to the base of an ancient decaying oak tree. Peering inside, the animal snuggled down deeper, annoyed with our presence. Fox and deer tracks weaved a pattern on the forest bottom as they desperately searched for enough food to sustain them through the brutality of this unusual cold.

We made our way to the fringe of the marsh on the north side of the island. The cord grass and needle rush stood stiff poking out of the snow. There was no gentle swaying in the breeze that day. Following the shrub line along the marsh we headed back towards the boat dock. The red yaupon berries were even more obvious within a wrap of snow hugging the shrub as yellow rump warblers fluttered about.

Then, on a whim, we cut back into the dunes and began plowing towards the highest dune on the island. It was only a little over 60-feet high, but on this day, in these conditions, it was our Mount Everest.

If not for Jesse’s sense of adventure, I would have never ventured to Bear Island and received the gift of sharing a remarkable day with this legendary ranger. Standing on top of the dune, cold and delightfully weary, we inhaled the view into our memories knowing that we would probably never experience a Christmas like this again.

A dory awaits fall and the start of the mullet season.

From left, Henry Frost, Tom Guthrie and Phil Guthrie are maintaining a century-old tradition of netting jumping mullet from the beaches of Bogue Banks,

The red, Farmall tractors are a sure sign of fall along Bogue Banks.

SALTER PATH – Outsiders may not know it, but those two large, red tractors pointed in opposite directions in an abandoned parking lot in this tiny barrier island community in Carteret County are certain signs of fall..

So is the quiet. Labor Day has passed, and with most of the tourists departed, the traffic hum from the highway that slices through the town is now gone, allowing the cry of a royal tern to be noticed.

The amount of sunlight each day is waning, and it will soon be at a day of balance. This transition to longer nights and from warmth to cold signals the equinox of autumn. The Latin meaning of the word “equinox” is equal night.

Astronomically speaking, the September equinox occurs the moment the sun crosses the celestial equator – the imaginary line in the sky above the Earth’s equator – from north to south. This happens either on Sept. 22, 23 or 24 every year. Along the N.C. coast, it happened about 10:30 last night.

That’s when fall officially began. It is hard to escape the signs, as a peregrine falcon swoops after migrating shorebirds along the beach, the muscadine grapes hang heavy on vines and the yellow cloudless sulphur butterflies dance through the air. To the natives of Salter Path and Bogue Banks, those red tractors sprouting up along the beach are as much a natural sign of fall as the goldenrod that is blooming among the sandy dunes.

When I first noticed the tractors, three men were stringing, or tying on, a new net onto a rope that stretched from the axel of one tractor to the other tractor, about 30 yards away. I have lived enough of my life in coastal North Carolina to know that these men were preparing for the ritual harvest of striped mullet.

Henry Frost, Phil Guthrie and Tom Guthrie, collectively have 170 years of mullet fishing experience. They were preparing for another season.

“Why?” I asked.

“Fun” was the answer.

While tying on the net, they also threaded in brown floats every three feet on the top of the net and silvery lead weights about every foot on the bottom. As I talked to the men, dark storm clouds announced the arrival of a cool front pushing across the sound. The snapping lightning and rumble of thunder in the distance had me nervously glancing towards the sky, while the men, undaunted, kept a steady hand threading the twine through the net anchoring it onto the line.

The striped mullet, also known as the flathead mullet and jumping mullet, is not that interested in biting a baited hook and is content to suck up small algae, zooplankton and decaying organic matter from sandy and muddy bottoms. Every fall, thousands of this oily fish migrate out of the estuaries then swim close to the shore before heading offshore to spawn.

These fish practically founded the town of Salter Path. In the late 1800’s, the collapse of the whaling trade and pounding hurricanes encouraged some residents of the Shackleford Banks community of Diamond City to relocate westward to the island of Bogue Banks. These hardy souls took advantage of a fish that practically swam onto the shore. Once their nets were pulled onto the beach, the fish were cleaned and salted down in wooden barrels.

Using the tractors, fishermen haul the net full of mullet onto the beach.

As the heavy barrels were carried from the beach to the sound, a well-worn path was etched into the ground through the thick maritime shrub thickets. At the end of this path, the barrels were loaded onto boats, destined for various locations. This path went right past a house owned by one Riley Salter, and soon, the town once called Gillikin, became known as Salter Path.

These settlers also relied on the salted mullet to barter for other commodities with mainland farmers offering sweet potatoes and corn. Along with being salted, the mullet was also dried and smoked to provide a few options since this fish would also sustain them through the lean winter months.

Throughout the 1900’s the annual mullet harvest supported about eight crews along the length of Bogue Banks. Each crew with its own unique name, such as Clam Rock, Red Bird, Money Island, Tea House, Hopey Ann Hill and Bell Cove, that typically reflected a  landmark on the island.

It was a good business, according to Frost, until Hurricane Hazel raked across the banks in 1954. The storm, he said, reorganized the topography and profile of the near shore ocean bottom and the character of the mullet runs has never been the same.

A school of mullet in the surf.

The mullet are loaded into the back of pickup trucks for the trip to the market in Beaufort.

Since then, the number of crews slowly dwindled down leaving only two active crews today. These two crews now actually join together and operate as one to increase the chances of a successful season.

Last fall, during October and November, I kept a close watch on the weather forecast looking for the conditions that would trigger what is known as a “mullet blow.” A drop in water temperature and humidity are thought to be factors that prompt these fish to move out of the estuaries, through the inlets and along the barrier beaches.

Near the western point of Bogue Banks, two of the tractors and one dory boat were strategically stationed at the base of the primary dune line, ready for action. Upon close inspection, the cosmetic appearance of the rusty tractors indicates a well-worn 70-year life of splashing through the surf and pulling nets. These Farmall model M tractors were favored for their power and high clearance that allowed them to operate in the loose sand and incoming waves of the surf zone.

Connected to one of the tractors was a rugged homemade trailer that cradles an all-white, flat bottomed 20-foot dory. At first glance it appears that the boat has no motor, however, an inspection reveals a motor nestled into an open well close to the bow of the boat. The shaft of the motor actually protrudes through a hole in the bottom of the boat. This allows the 400 yards of net to be easily deployed over the stern of the boat without interference from the motor. Made by Frost, the boat maneuvers easily in shallow water and is durable enough to be launched directly into the surf.

In early November, a strong cold front escorting a stiff north wind sent the mullet running west close to the shore. Before sunrise, the fishing crew was already on the beach starting the tractors, inspecting the nets and fueling the boats. As the sun kissed the horizon, they began to patrol the beach and scan the water looking for what looks like the dark shadow of a cloud passing under the sun.

Around 9 a.m. a school was spotted near the Bogue Inlet pier in Emerald Isle and a parade of tractors, with a dory in tow and pickup trucks hustled down the beach. The tractor with the dory was able to get down the beach ahead of the fish with enough time to allow the fishermen to deploy the boat directly into the surf. A few of the men pushed the dory off the trailer and spun the bow into the small ocean waves. One man leaped into the dory, and the motor roared quickly to life.

Heading out perpendicular from the shore, the dory was spilling out a net from the stern with one end anchored to the tractor. The dory quickly made a big loop around the schooling fish, headed straight back to the shore and ran directly onto the beach as the other tractor driver anxiously awaited.

A few more men jerked and pulled the net out of the dory and attached it to the Farmall. Both tractors then pulled the net, bulging with mullet, onto the beach just above the lapping waves. A line of men secured the bottom of the net to make sure none of the flapping fish escaped. It was all over in about five minutes.

The tractor pulls the dory along the beach as the sun rises and other fishermen scan the surf for jumping mullet.

The coordination of the strike was flawless. As the men called out instructions to each other, their Down East brogue became more pronounced and verged on being a foreign language. The number of hoot and hollers from the crew relieved that the operation went off without a hitch.

Recently, Neil Smith and Joey Frost, each with 45 and 40 years of experience working on a mullet crew, told me stories about times when things didn’t go so well, including swamped boats and waves breaking over tractors. But they also spoke of the rush of adrenaline and joy that pours through the body after the teamwork of 18 men results in a net full of fish.

The anxiousness and nervousness of the strike was over and the men now playfully teased each other as they began the real work of the day, loading the fish into a cluster of pickup trucks. Together, all the men in waders and rain slickers dropped to their knees and began pulling the slippery mullets bare handed from the net and tossing them into baskets. Once full, the baskets were dumped into the bed of a full size pickup truck.

Before long, a residue of slime, scales and sand coated their clothing. This haul, at 12,000 pounds seemed generous; however, the older men who had seen better days knew it was a modest catch.

As I watched them stowing their nets, a song about lobster fishing in Maine, by Dan Fogelberg, “The Reach,” popped into my head:

It’s father and son,

It’s the way it’s been done since the old days.

These mullet headed to a local fish house in Beaufort where some were sold locally but the majority were shipped to Florida. Some were   salted, others dried or smoked.

However, the female mullet, plump with red roe is much more valuable. The roe is bound for the markets in Taiwan and other Asian countries where it is a delicacy.

Today, in the United States, the mullet is looked down upon as only suitable for fish or crab bait. Yet, there is a modest following that love their mullet grilled over charcoal, fried, broiled or stewed. The mullet is even celebrated with an annual festival during the October mullet season in Swansboro.

Those early Salter Path families started a tradition of mullet fishing on Bogue Banks that has been going on for over 100 years. Great-grandfathers, grandfathers, fathers and sons have stood together pulling the nets, feeling the chilling north wind of a mullet blow on the back of their necks. They don’t do it for the money, because it is humble at best. The goal is to break even, hope to make a little money and pray not to lose any. It is family, community, camaraderie, tradition and heritage that keep them mending the nets, repairing the tractors and boats and waiting. Waiting for another day when the north wind blows cold, the ocean lays flat and the mullet run thick to teach another generation the pride of their ancestors.

A blue button next to a white seashell and sargassum seaweed for scale. The blue button is a colony of organisms that usually live well out to sea on the surface of the ocean. Photo: Sam Bland

EMERALD ISLE — Awaking before dawn, on this early August morning, I could hear the pulse of the ocean even though my house was closed tight with the air conditioner humming to seal out the sultry dog days of summer.

For years, I thought that the term referred to lazy canines rendered sluggish by the oppressive summer sun. But the dog days are actually a reference to the constellation of Canis Major, or great dog, and specifically to Sirius, the alpha Dog Star and brightest star in the night sky. Canis Major was the big hunting dog belonging to Orion, the great hunter of Greek mythology. During part of the summer, Sirius rises with the sun. Because of this, ancients once thought that Sirius heated up the sun even more causing blistering hot days during July and August that became known as the dog days of summer.

As Bland combed the beach for unusual finds, surfers trotted into the ocean, eager to quench their thirst with head-high waves. Photo: Sam Bland

The roar of the sea, filtering through the closed windows, impaled me like a harpoon and pulled me to the shore as if I didn’t have any choice. On the ocean side of the dunes, a ghost crab peered from its burrow then melted back into the sand giving honor to its name. As I stepped out onto the open beach, I could feel the vibrations of the pounding waves coursing through the sand. The swells were undulating across the surface of the ocean like the ripples on a sail luffing in the wind. The sound was a constant mixture of individual crashing waves that meshed together like the white noise found on a sleep machine. Waves that traveled across a vast ocean, carried and now released the voice of a hurricane well out to sea.

Storms are a beachcomber’s ally, a philanthropist depositing gifts and curiosities along a beach strewn with seaweed and chunks of airy foam. I rambled along the beach looking for calcium carbonite trophies, of which there were a few. Some nice whelks and helmet shells would quickly be snatched up as soon as the sleepy tourist, sipping their coffee, began their morning at the edge of the sea. I resisted the urge to pick up shells, instead intent on finding the unusual. It didn’t take long as I double stepped to prevent myself from trampling on a bluish gray disk-shaped object complete with teal colored tassels. But this was not a seashell, or even an animal, it was a colony of animals.

This group of organisms, which is related to jellyfish, is known as a blue button. The object, which looks like it could be a colorful brooch pinned to the lapel of a jacket, is a group of hydroid polyps that usually live well out to sea on the surface of the ocean. Each animal in the colony has a specific function such as reproduction, feeding or protection. The sturdy one-and-a-half-inch round disk is filled with gas which creates buoyancy. Trailing underneath the disk are numerous tentacle-like strands of hydroids. At the ends of the tentacles are powerful stinging cells called nematocysts. Inside each cell is a coiled harpoon-like spear that is launched when water pressure enters the cell. These spears are used to deter predators and to capture prey such as crab larvae. Lacking any form of propulsion, these animals wander the ocean at the pleasure of the wind, the waves and the currents.

Unlike the blue button, sea pansies live on the ocean floor and are anchored into the sand or mud by the peduncle. Photo: Sam Bland

Not far from the blue button, I found another similar object partially buried in the sand. This purplish two-inch, fleshy looking item, called a sea pansy, resembled a mushroom or even the petal of a flower. It is a type of soft coral that is also a collection of individual organisms that work cooperatively at different tasks to benefit the group as a whole. The leaf-like body is connected to stalk called a peduncle. Unlike the blue button, sea pansies live on the ocean floor and are anchored into the sand or mud by the peduncle. Even if uprooted by rough seas the peduncle can establish a new mooring once it settles back onto the sand.

The fleshy body has a firm and rigid structure thanks to needle-like objects called spicules. On the upper side of the body are two kinds of polyps. One feeds by trapping plankton in gooey mucus. The other controls water that enters the body, allowing it to inflate or deflate as necessary. If exposed at low tide, the sea pansy will deflate the body allowing it to be covered by sand and hidden from predators.
When exposed during the night, the sea pansy can also thwart predators by distracting them with an amazing show of pulsating waves of green light. A green fluorescent protein along with an enzyme creates this bioluminescent activity when the body is touched or molested by an aggressive predator. Interestingly, the enzyme is known as a luciferase, from the word lucifer, which means “light bearer.” As I handled the sea pansy in the daylight I was unable to detect any display of the bioluminescence. Intently studying the creature, I was unaware that I was now surrounded by serious beachcombers scavenging the beach for vacation mementos. I walked off as a group of giddy surfers trotted into the surf, eager to quench their thirst with head-high waves that ended a long drought of rideable waves.

The “eyes” on the wings of Polyphemus moth are meant to trick birds and other predators.

An adult Polyphemus moth lives about a week after emerging from its cocoon. With no digestive track or mouth parts, it can’t eat. It’s only function is to mate.

EMERALD ISLE — A Cyclops stayed at my house. You remember the Cyclops from Greek mythology, those giants with one eye in the middle of their forehead? The poet Homer brought to life the nasty man-eating giant Cyclops, Polyphemus, in his book Odyssey. My Cyclops, though, was no problem at all; it built a snug little room outside, and kept to itself.

The Polyphemus that I came to know first showed up in the fall last year in the form of a plump, neon green, three-inch caterpillar crawling up the path to my house. This insect was in the final stage as a caterpillar before beginning the process of metamorphosis to become a moth.

After hatching from a tiny egg, the Polyphemus larvae will ravenously begin consuming the leaves of a host plant such as the willow trees in my yard.  As they grow, the caterpillar will molt, shedding their exterior covering five times. The sloughed off skin, which contains valuable nutrients, is also consumed.

Due to the size and color of this bug, I knew that it was either a Luna moth or a Polyphemus moth caterpillar. Both of these caterpillars look very much alike; however, I nailed this one down as a Polyphemus due to its vertical yellow striping. The Luna caterpillar, on the other hand, has a horizontal side stripe.

The visitor wandering around outside my house was looking for a spot to hunker down for a long winter. It might seem odd that the caterpillar would leave the safety of the trees to seek out a new unfamiliar location to build its cocoon. They are now vulnerable, and the presence of these caterpillars is betrayed by the presence of chewed up leaves and droppings, called frass, that will surely tip off a hungry bird looking for a meal. Its green coloration can provide some camouflage, but when threatened, it will snap its mouth parts and its final defense is to throw up a nasty tasting liquid that rejects even the hungriest bird.

It meandered off the path and made its way up to the leaves of a small oleander bush. Here, it began to crawl around back and forth around a clump of leaves. It appeared that its mouth parts were on the edge of the leaves and it was continuing to browse. However, I noticed that the leaves were not chewed on at all. Through my camera lens, on micro setting, I could see the head and mouth parts up close and got a case of the heebie-jeebies. This was a nasty looking face that could easily be the inspiration for a B-grade creature feature.

The plump moth caterpillar will ravenously feed on plants before weaving its cocoon.

It continued moving around a cluster of four leaves and I noticed some stringy web-like material being emitted near the mouth that coated the edges of the leaves. It then crawled and sandwiched itself horizontally between two of the leaves and then reached up and pulled down a third leaf, and then the fourth leaf, to wrap around as much exposed flesh as possible. The stringy coating is the silk produced by this family of moths, very much the same as what is found in commercially produced silk. Even today, some people collect hatched out cocoons to produce silk yarn. The silk is made of two proteins, sericin and fibroin. The fibroin provides the structure while the sericin provides the stickiness necessary for good adhesion. Silk sericin is used in the cosmetic industry for skin creams and hair conditioners to prevent moisture loss. It is thought to have been used for over 3,500 years to address the vanities of the human body.

As the light was ebbing from the sky, the caterpillar was soon wrapped up like a leafy egg roll. The next morning I checked on the caterpillar and a complete greenish cocoon encased the creature which was now transforming into the pupa stage. In a few days, the greenish color of the cocoon faded into a chalky white. Since this insect was going to have to wait out the next seven months until spring, the pupa was now in a state called diapause, like a form of hibernation.

I checked the cocoon over the months to make sure that it had not been discovered by any predators such as a squirrel or raccoon. It endured many rainy, windy and freezing days during an arctic cold winter by coastal North Carolina standards. On a few occasions, the freezing rain created an icy “cocoonsicle.” But the cocoon and pupa shell kept the critter tight and dry and the cold temperatures were not even an annoyance. The pupa is loaded with an antifreeze-like substance called glycerol, basically alcohol and sugar, which protects it from freezing down to minus forty degrees.

A new cocoon, top. One that is several months old, left, and an empty cocoon after the moth has emerged.

The days came and went and the cocoon showed the battering of the harsh coastal elements. The cold winter had even killed the small oleander and I had to bind the supporting branch with duct tape to keep the cocoon off the ground.

I pretty much had given up hope on the visitor in the yard. Then, late one warm spring afternoon as I was walking up to the house, I noticed a fresh beautiful five inch Polyphemus moth along the edge of the pathway only a foot or two away from the dead oleander bush. I quickly checked the cocoon and it still looked firm and intact. But upon a second inspection of the cocoon I discovered a very small hole at the top of the casing. To escape its winter home, the new moth produces an enzyme substance called cocoonase that will tenderize the tough silk. Then, using two small thorn-like barbs, it will wallow out an escape opening to squeeze through and out into the same world, but with a different body.

Polyphemus had now arrived and the relationship to its name was staring right at me. Two large exotic looking “eyes” were on the hind wings while two smaller silver “eyes” were on the forewings. These eyes are their predator defense mechanism that is part of a camouflage system designed to startle and distract predators.

Its small slender antennae and ample egg-filled abdomen indicated that this was a female. A male has a smaller abdomen and large feather-like antennae. The male Polyphemus will emerge a few days before to be available when the ladies arrive.

After about an hour, the female crawled over to the stalk of a jasmine vine and climbed up into the leaves about five feet up. As soon as the sky darkened, she began releasing a potent pheromone that the males can detect over a mile away. This moth perfume is so effective that the female will just sit back and wait knowing that an eager male will be attracted within hours. Sure enough, the following morning I was up before the sun and used a flashlight to discover that a male was with the female.

And that is pretty much what adult Polyphemus moths do. They lack mouth parts as well as a digestive tract and thus, they do not eat. After mating, the male will go in search of other females and the female will go about scattering her fertilized tan-ish colored eggs. But their procreation duties are over all too soon as they only live as an adult for about a week. Unless they overwinter as a pupa, their entire life span is only around three months.

Later that morning, the moths were gone and I suppose that the female was depositing some eggs here and there on the willow and oak trees. I will soon be checking the trees for the caterpillars and in a few weeks I hope to find a few of the cocoons that hold the magic and beauty of transformation.

The full moon rises above Bogue Inlet Pier in Emerald Isle earlier this month. It appears larger than normal because it is closer to the Earth, hence the name “supermoon.” Full moons in July were nicknamed “Thunder Moon” and “Buck Moon” by the Native Americans. Photo: Sam Bland

EMERALD ISLE — Each month I eagerly anticipate the arrival of the new full moon. I don’t know what it is, but mysterious urgings cause me to wander outside to find an open landscape and patiently wait for the luminous orb to silently glide into the night sky making its grand entrance.

The recent full moon of July was hyped up by the media as a “supermoon” because it was a bit brighter and appeared somewhat larger than normal. I didn’t like the use of the word because I thought it was conjured up by the media to sensationalize their coverage of this flashy full moon.

The supermoon above Bogue Inlet Pier. Photo: Sam Bland

So, I was surprised to learn that the term “supermoon” is rooted in astrology and was first used in 1979 to describe a full moon (or a new moon) that occurs when the moon is closest to the earth, which is called perigee. Now, any qualified astronomer would not be caught dead using the term supermoon. Instead, they would properly refer to this phenomenon as a perigee-syzygy. But this is a bit too stuffy for me, so supermoon will do just fine.

Super or not, viewing the full moon from the beach as it reflects the light of the sun onto the splashing waves of the ocean has an effect on just about everybody. When you mix the beach, the ocean and a supermoon, I think anybody could become a moonstruck, loony lunatic. So I decided to head out to the beach to figure out why the full moon has such a pull on people just as it does the tides.

I arrived at the beach just in time to see the “Thunder Moon” peek above the horizon. Native Americans referred to the July full moon as the Thunder Moon due to the frequency of thunderstorms during July. They also named it the “Buck Moon” because the male deer are now displaying the growth of new velvety antlers.

The moon seemed to move quickly into the sky, revealing a soft orange ball. Some of the beach strollers suddenly stopped in their tracks and excitedly pointed at the moon in utter amazement, obviously unaware that the evening would feature a full moon. It was a breathtaking sight that is best described by a quote from comedian George Carlin: “There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.”

The romance of the moon was taking its toll as most of the couples on the beach were walking hand-in-hand, some shared kisses and long blissful hugs. The moon has long been a symbol of fertility as horseshoe crabs and corals rely on the full moon to trigger their reproductive activities.

I hiked over to a section of sand dunes sprouting a fresh growth of sea oats and noticed a few things that were reacting to the fullness of the moon. A marsh rabbit was busy nibbling on some vegetation under the concealment of a wax myrtle shrub, wary to venture out into the open. The full moon could just as easily be a spotlight alerting a great horned owl to its presence. Some species of reef fish also stay out of sight during the brightest period of the full moon to hide from predators. Out in the open dune valley I could see that the ant lion sand traps were noticeably bigger than usual to snare insects that are more active during a full moon.

Ant lions are insects that build cone-shaped pits into which their prey, especially ants, fall. Photo: Sam Bland

Sam noticed that the ant lion sand traps were noticeably bigger than usual to snare insects that are more active during a full moon. Photo: Sam Bland

Even though it was a steamy July summer night, I was surprised by the number of people on the beach. I wasn’t the only one magnetized by the beach and moon. I paused at the base of the dune and watched as narrow flashlight beams swept across the beach as children searched for ghost and mole crabs at the edge of the surf. With the sun well under the horizon, people were still swimming and body surfing under the glow of the moon. Looking down the beach, the harsh light of an old school Coleman lantern silhouetted the whipping motion of a surf rod as a fisherman cast his hope for a fish into the frothy waves. Even the hiss of the lantern could be heard as it floated down on a breeze.

As I walked on the open beach, sand castles built under the warmth of the day’s sun were being erased by the incoming tide. Just one wave flattened the turrets and walls created by plastic molds and washed away all evidence of the fortress except for the laughter and memories of those that built it. Each high tide prepares a new slate to document the activities of a new day etched in the sand.
After watching the people revel on the beach and ocean under the full moon, I understood the beautiful tranquility — the sand, the breeze, the waves, the salt air – has to relax and calm of the soul.  This is why so many people celebrate weddings, reunions, vacations and birthdays at the shore. The dynamic nature of the ocean is reflected in its many moods that capture our attention; but there seems to me that there must be more.

What is it that makes people stare out into the ocean and contemplate for hours? No stranger to the sea, Jacques Cousteau once said, “The Sea, once it casts its spell holds one in its net of wonder forever.”  Many times in my life I have sought the refuge of a special place on a barrier island when I needed to reflect or hit the reset button. No matter what the cause of my concerns, things seemed to always fall into perspective. For me, heading to the beach during a full moon is almost an instinctual migration of the soul and spirit.

With the moon now high in the sky, I slowly began to meander off the beach while stealing last glances of the moon that was now a more silver color than orange. The dry, loose sand was squeaking under my bare feet as I walked to one of the wooden boardwalks.

The full moon acts as a spotlight on the prey of the great horned owl. Photo: Sam Bland

From a distance, I could see the figure of a woman sitting on the last step of the boardwalk stairs. Her legs were drawn up to her chest and her head and arms were resting on her knees. I could see that her shoulders were shaking as she was crying. In the sand at her feet was a tall glass candle vase along with a picture frame. As I got closer, I could catch glimpses of a woman’s smiling face as the dancing candle flame softly illuminated the frame. When I reached the steps I paused momentarily, to offer what, I don’t know. So deep into her sorrow, she was oblivious to my presence and I tip-toed up the stairs and headed down the boardwalk through the dunes. I couldn’t help but to think that she was finding comfort in the beach and the moon- splashed ocean as she grieved for a friend.

Once behind the primary dune line, the sound of the spilling waves ceased as if someone had closed a door. Yet, there was no silence, as my ears were now filled with the familiar high-pitched sound of a summer beach night, the chorus of cicadas and katydids. At the end of the boardwalk, two blurry blue objects were streaking towards me as I heard children giggling and the slapping of bare feet on the wooded planks. In a flash, two young kids, maybe three to four years old, ran past me, one on each side, gripping blue glow sticks in each hand. With their laughter drifting into the night, they raced before their parents towards the shimmery ocean and into the sticky embrace of the salt spray suspended in the warm summer air.

Then it hit me. We shouldn’t ponder too much about the things we love; we need to just enjoy them.

Birds like wood storks nest in large colonies to protect their chicks from predators. There is strength in numbers, and if a predator does get through the defenses the loss of one chick doesn’t threaten the health of the colony.

There are a number of natural wonders that I look forward to each year, such as the huge female loggerhead sea turtles crawling ashore to nest on the barrier island beaches. Then, 60 days later, watching the tiny hatchlings boil out of the sunbaked sand and race instinctually across the beach and into their salty ocean home.

On these humid summer nights, I am also delighted when the surf is active with the magic of natural fireworks. With a coating of sticky salt spray clinging to my skin, I wade into the swash zone and splash the water with my feet to activate the bioluminescence of plankton.

I feel these wonders are gifts to savor since their occurrence is fickle. But this is also a time of year when I can indulge in another spectacular spectacle of nature: colonial nesting bird sites.

	The wood stork can’t be called a handsome bird. The beauty of its white, luxurious plumage is in sharp contrast to the dark, bare skin on its head and neck. Fuzzy, wobbly white chicks with ample, yellowish beaks were secure under the towering presence of a parent.

A number of waterbirds such as pelicans, terns, herons and egrets nest in large groups called colonies at many sites throughout the N.C. coast. Observing hundreds to thousands of birds clustered together is a stimulating experience that can overwhelm the senses with sights, sounds and smells. A colony of birds can consist of just one species or it may be a mixture of species.

It is thought that these birds have evolved nesting together as a way to defend themselves. With the nests scattered out over a wide area, there are a multitude of birds that act as sentinels to detect threats from all sides and signal the alarm to the entire group. Many of the colonial species are well known to attack intruders, and a large group has greater firepower to intimidate even the toughest aggressor. If a predator does penetrate these defenses, the volume of available prey results in some birds being sacrificed for the safety of the colony. This is like the old story about the slowest runner in a group being chased by a bear. One doesn’t make it, but the rest of the group survives.

Over the years, I have been fortunate to observe and study nesting shorebirds on the open sandy spits of barrier islands, mostly least and common terns. I have also visited heronries on small isolated islands in the estuaries to see egrets and herons feeding their chicks. However, recently I was given the opportunity to visit a secret site that is one of only two in North Carolina where an endangered species is raising its young.

The site was discovered in 2005 when a wildlife biologist, David Allen with the N.C. Wildlife Resources Commission, conducted an aerial search for the rookery after receiving a tip about the site. Allen located what turned out to be the first known colony of nesting wood storks in North Carolina. The 95-acre site is a privately owned wetland in the southeastern part of the state. That year, 32 active wood stork nests were documented at the site. Since then, the number of nests has dramatically increased with a high of 220 in 2010.

I sort of discovered the site myself through a tip. My tip, however, was from a Facebook post. With an endangered species nesting so close by, I went about investigating how I could access the site. With the gracious approval of the landowner and the wildlife biologist monitoring the site, I headed out one recent morning to see some wood storks.

After a few hours’ drive, I knew that I was getting close as a gargantuan white bird with black wing tips flew overhead just above the tree line. It looked like an ibis on steroids. Then, after a wrong turn, I arrived at the wetland owner’s property. He escorted me out to the site and explained the lay of the land. As he talked, it was hard for me to focus as I was distracted by the wood storks gliding above, in and out of the wetland. As the owner left, he cautioned about alligators and said, “Hope you brought some bug spray.” And I was left to explore on my own.

The wetland was once an open lake with cypress trees popular for fishing. Over the years, submerged aquatic vegetation, duckweed and elodea, have smothered the lake, leaving only patches of open water.

I slid my kayak into the thick weeds lining the shore, confident that there was water under the boat. Shoving through a skin of vegetation laying on top of the water, I made my way out into an open area where a few turtles eyed my progress. The cover of a grey sky threatening rain was now cracking open with slivers of a clear blue sky. Frogs of numerous species radiated an uncoordinated clutter of sounds that reminded me of an orchestra warming up. Only the low groan of a bullfrog kept a rhythm in an attempt to harmonize.

Thirty-two pairs of wood storks were discovered to be nesting in this wetland along the southeast N.C. coast. There are now more than 200 pairs nesting there. Wetlands like these are important for the survival of numerous coastal species.

Out before me were clusters of cypress trees dripping with long, ropy strands of Spanish moss. These trees were adorned with big stick platforms that were constructed by the male and female wood storks.

Now, I must admit, heading out to see wood storks isn’t what you do if you are expecting to see a bird of great beauty. The beauty of their white, luxurious plumage is in sharp contrast to the dark, bare skin on their head and neck that refuses this to be called a handsome bird. Fuzzy, wobbly white chicks with ample, yellowish beaks were secure under the towering presence of a parent as they peaked out from above the twigs of the nest.

All over the wetland, wood storks built nests on the cypress and other trees, many of which held multiple nests. This type of wetland and the swamps that surround it are ideal for the wood stork, which was listed as an endangered species in 1984. During nesting, the storks need a massive amount of food, such as fish and frogs, to supply their appetite and that of their chicks that feed 15 times a day. It is estimated that they need over 400 pounds to get them through the breeding season.

These are three large anhinga chicks with ruby eyes, a dagger-like bill and their breast stained the color of a copper peach. Not far away, one of its parents stood watch from its perch.. Anhinga is a Brazilian word that means devil bird. This bird is adapted to swim after fish, which it spears with its sharp bill. Most waterbirds preen their feathers with a waterproofing oil to keep them dry and buoyant.

Research indicates that dry conditions concentrate their prey into smaller bodies of water, making it easier for them to catch the large quantities necessary for the chicks. Their breeding cycle may even be prompted or delayed by the wet or dry conditions of the swamps.

The space above the wetland was an air traffic controller’s nightmare with storks coming and going at various altitudes. Departing birds were off in search of food in the creeks and swamps where they will submerge their sturdy, partially open bill into waters six to 10 inches deep. When prey comes in contact with the bill it will snap shut lightning fast. So fast, at 25 milliseconds, that it is probably the fastest reflex of any vertebrate. This method of feeding is known by biologist as tacto-location or grope feeding.

If necessary, they will fly 50 to 80 miles in search of food, at times soaring as high as 6,000 feet to take advantage of air currents to conserve energy. A superb aerialist, the storks fly and descend with their head and legs fully extended. They will, at times, make erratic sharp turns and steep dives as they approach landing.

As I paddled around the wetlands, I could hear faint, croak-like sounds from the adults and chattering coming from the chicks. Most of the adults stood motionless, hovering above the chicks with their heads pointed downward as if they were holding a prayer meeting. This statuesque profile is why these birds are also known as “preacher birds.” One adult bird even held its wings down and open as if to shield the chick from the sun.

Making my way through the maze of the open water created by the thick aquatic vegetation, I discovered a nest of three large chicks with ruby eyes, a dagger-like bill and their breast stained the color of a copper peach. Not far away, one of its parents, a large black bird with silver streaks tracing its back, observed me from its perch. It was an anhinga, another waterbird taking advantage of this nesting area.

The name is a Brazilian word that means devil bird. This bird is adapted to swim after fish, which it spears with its sharp bill. Most waterbirds preen their feathers with a waterproofing oil to keep them dry and buoyant. An anhinga, however, lacks this ability in order to swim underwater chasing after fish. As it swims at the surface of the water, only the serpentine neck and head are above the water resulting in its other name: snakebird.

During my wetland excursion, I tried to make my way into some of the areas with thick aquatic vegetation, but my progress was quickly stalled. As I sat there, I heard splashing behind me and turned around in time to see a female wood duck swimming with a train of tiny chicks behind her. When we made eye contact, she kicked it into overdrive causing a rooster tail of water to fly high into the air and rain down on her chicks as she charged for cover. She found an opening in the vegetation and they all disappeared.

By now, the sky was completely blue and the sun was warm and toasty. I paddled towards dry land and mentally checked off other birds I had seen: ibis, green herons, great egrets, cattle egrets, great blue herons, moorhen and an osprey. For the wood stork to survive, as well as other wildlife that depends on it, wetlands must be protected, restored and enhanced.

I paddled my kayak to shore and pulled it onto the bank. As I stood there looking over this enchanted wetland, a large alligator surfaced about 30 feet away, briefly eyed me over and melted back into the water.

The great blue heron is one of the most widespread and recognizable birds. Like the cardinal and mockingbird, even the most casual observer of wildlife can identify the great blue heron. Photo: Sam Bland

EMERALD ISLE — As I recently finished an early morning jog, the pale light of a new day was beginning to reach out from underneath the horizon and brush away the darkness. In the distant sky, I could barely make out the long, lanky shape of a large bird struggling for traction against a stiff wind. The bird was headed for the leeward protection of a stand of trees with a vacant roosting spot on the bare branches of an ancient decaying live oak.

As it made its landing approach, spindly legs dangled from its body, its long neck, head and bill were stretched out like a spear and its broad wings were a confusion of movement. Its wings then billowed out behind and above the body like a gray parachute causing the big bird momentarily to hover over the branch while its wispy legs and feet delicately reached for purchase. As its feet secured the landing, its enduring neck and head coiled into the shape of an “S” while its generous wings fold away and seem to disappear into its body. The initial awkwardness of this landing was completed with the amazing gracefulness of a dancer.

Throughout the United States, the great blue heron is one of the most widespread and recognizable birds. Like the cardinal and mockingbird, even the most casual observer of wildlife can identify the great blue heron. Their size alone, standing at over four feet tall, makes them quite conspicuous to even the most oblivious.

In flight, their large bodies look heavy and seem to defy gravity. Yet, they weigh only five or six pounds thanks to their lightweight hollow bones. Even though they are thought of as a coastal bird, they can be found near most fresh and salty bodies of water. At dusk in these habitats, its loud throaty scratching squawk can often be heard as it launches into the air. It is a primal sound that betrays its delicate charm.

The great blue heron has a secret protective armor known as powder down that will soak up any slime, oil or blood and thus, prevent this muck from fouling their feathers. Photos:Sam Bland

They are masters at hunting, where they may quietly wait to ambush any fish that ventures within range or they may slowly stalk after prey at a glacial pace. They are legendary for their patience. A calm patience that burns with silent intensity in their yellow eyes like a hot golden ember buried deep in the coals of a campfire.

Their prolific fishing abilities led to speculation that they employed a secret weapon to lure fish within striking distance. Fishermen, envious of the great blues fishing prowess, were convinced that their feet emanated a fish attracting oil. So persuaded were the fishermen, to the point that they would coat their fishing lines and bait with the body fat of blue herons to increase their chances of landing a fish. It was also believed that the herons could make their toes squirm as a worm-mimicking decoy. A large part of their diet is fish, but they also feast on shrimp, crabs, frogs, snakes, insects and even small rodents.

The solitary great blue seems to hold sway over most fishing grounds as other birds rarely challenge their territory. This perception is best told in an ancient Native American legend. In much earlier times, both the great blue heron and hummingbird ate fish. Worried that there might not be enough fish available for the both of them, the hummingbird challenged the great blue to a race with the winner gaining all rights to the fish. They would race up a river to a spot where a tree had fallen along the river bank. The first to reach the tree would feast on fish forever. As the race started, the hummingbird darted out of sight up the river as the great blue slowly and deliberately chased after. Each night, the humming bird slept since the great blue was nowhere in sight while the great blue plodded along without rest. The great blue eventually overtook the hummingbird while it smugly slept without a tad of concern and reached the fallen tree in first after four days of flying. It now eats all the fish it wants while the hummingbird must be satisfied with the nectar of flowers.

The toe nail of a great blue heron is serrated like to teeth of a comb to ease cleaning of feathers. Photo: Sam Bland

Much of the food they devour is coated with a protective layer of sticky slime that splatters on their feathers when their mighty bill clamps down on a meal. The slime has the potential to matt their feathers together and to diminish their effectiveness as insulation and inhibit their flight. But the great blue has a secret protective armor known as powder down that will soak up any slime, oil or blood and thus, prevent this muck from fouling their feathers. Powder down feathers, which also help keep the bird warm, always grow. As their ends become tattered and frazzled, a powder-like keratin substance is created that the heron applies to its feathers with their long sturdy bill. After the powder comes in contact with any contaminants, they can be easily removed as the bird preens its feathers using specially adapted toes on its feet that act like a comb. The toe nail is actually serrated like the teeth on a comb.

There are ancient tales of the magical abilities of powder down. It was once thought that a great blue could, to see fish at night, light up the waters by casting about the powder down upon the surface of the water. As the down came in contact with the water it would sparkle and twinkle like the stars, making it much easier to see the fish swimming about.

All their preening keeps them clean, prim and proper, creating the dapper regal image of the great blue heron. While most cultural and folklore legends cast the great blue in a favorable light, their beauty has also been viewed as a sign of vanity. The great blue heron has been seen as a messenger and as an omen of good luck. But its wisdom, intelligence and judgment has earned it the honor of representing one of the clans of the Iroquois Nation.

The great blue heron that had settled down on the branch immediately began to preen its feathers and lay on a new layer of powder down. I could even see a few of the white flakes drift into the air. I went a short distance to my home and returned with a camera. It postured and posed like a model at the end of a cat walk; it was my avian muse. As it finally rested, burying its bill and most of its head into a pile of fluffy breast feathers, our coastal ambassador of elegance and grace was bathed in the warm light of a new day.

A male green anole flashes his brightly colored dewlap to attract a mate. These lizards are so territorial that they have been known to attack their reflections in windows.

A baby Canada goose was escorted through the wetland by its parents.

Folklore has it that if the business end of a snapping turtle grabs hold of you, it will take a thunderstorm for it to let go.

EMERALD ISLE — Finally! Finally, it appears that the warm air of spring is beginning to drift over the dunes, through the shrub thickets and into the pine forests. After a period of stillness, the plants and animals are beginning to awaken from the silence of winter. The temperature alone will trigger ancient urgings for new life and new growth.

Spring is slowly beginning to reveal as green anoles have crawled out from leaf litter and are basking in the warmth of the sun. Buds are popping out on bare branches, but spring is a bit reluctant as the squirrel tree frogs have yet to rejoice in song.

Spring, which officially starts Friday, is a time when I like to wander around the isolated freshwater wetlands of the barrier islands and coastal plain. These wetlands are often overshadowed by the allure of the meandering coastal tidal creeks that wind through the emerald marsh grasses of our saltwater estuaries. In terms of aesthetic beauty and wildlife viewing, freshwater wetlands can be just as gorgeous and full of life.

Our wetlands rely on weather patterns that bring soft rains, violent thunderstorms and howling hurricanes, which are necessary to recharge the water levels. However, at times, significant rainfall can be sporadic, turning many isolated wetlands into vacant lots devoid of activity. Where there was once standing water, adaptive grasses and weeds have crept in. The wetlands then become an empty stage in a dusty old shuttered theater. All the performers have moved on to other venues except for a few custodial raccoon caretakers here and there. Spring and its nourishing rains will lure back a cast that will put on a show of drama, aerial acrobatics, dancing and singing. Last week, as if on cue, my favorite local wetland was flooded with copious amounts of rain along with the promise of these gifts to come.

The prevernal season can be quite a tease, as Henry David Thoreau once noted.  “The first pleasant days of spring come out like a squirrel and go in again,” he wrote. For now, I wait for spring to arrive with fullness in every day. Spring is at the door, but for today, I must rely on a memory of walking into a wetland and being fulfilled with the wonderful wetland activities that are soon to come.

As I arrived at the wetland, the sun was on the downhill side of the day as I made my way to find a seat. An audience had already gathered with pied-billed grebes, hooded mergansers and a kingfisher settling in for the show. A green anole, displaying its dewlap, was trying to attract a date while a male wood duck, looking very dapper, flew in fashionably late just before the rise of the curtain. Overhead in a tree, a raccoon had a balcony seat.

A coolness filled the silent air as the opening act flew high overhead. A male osprey was starting to construct a nest on the top of a rickety old dead pine tree in the middle of the wetland. All of the bark had long since sloughed away, revealing a tall, gray, smooth trunk that swayed in the wind. The male would disappear only to return with new material for the nest. Sitting on the branch of a tree overlooking the wetland, the female mate was chirping her approval. I watched as the male took off from the nest and headed straight towards a dead branch on a nearby pine tree. As it approached the branch, the bird never slowed down. In a graceful acrobatic maneuver, the osprey twisted its body hard towards the right causing its open wings to be perpendicular to the ground while its outstretched legs made contact with the branch. Its powerful talons closed around the branch ripping it from the tree with an audible snap.

A little blue heron gracefully stalks the marsh looking for a meal.

Above, an osprey builds a nest in a dead pine tree.

Ospreys have four toes, which allows them the option of grabbing objects with two talons in front and two in back, providing a strong grip. The bird proudly flew back to the nest with the branch in both talons then hovered a few feet above the nest before dropping it. A direct hit. Just then, as if in applause, a squirrel tree frog began to call. The osprey was obviously displeased that the branch still had pine cones attached as it pinched them off with its sharp beak and dropped them over the side of the nest watching them splash into the water below.

As the osprey took a rest beside its mate, a ruckus was stirring below in the wetland. A pair of Canada geese, shepherding their goslings, were fussing as if a pack of wolves had descended upon them. There was a lot of honking and hissing that created quite a stir. All of that drama was unnecessary as the only thing that could have possibly been perceived as a threat was a pair of peaceful mallards that swam too close to the chicks. The geese herded the babies into the vegetation along the shore and guarded them like club bouncers with large muscular wings, which were folded across their chest.

I started hiking to other areas of the wetland to get a better view of the activities and came across a reptile with beautiful eyes that looked like a relic of the past. A huge female snapping turtle was either looking for a nesting site or returning from laying her eggs, a favorite of the raccoons. She stomped along with her legs fully extended causing her shell to jack up so high off the ground that she looked like a walking coffee table. I watched from a respectful distance as these reptiles have sneaky long necks that can reach around and pull out a pound of flesh. Even part of their scientific name, serpentine, documents their snake-like head and neck. Their bite is lightning fast and folklore has it that once they bite down they will not let go until it thunders.

Many years ago, this reputation for fearsomeness resulted in scars on my right hand, not because one bit me, but because I was afraid that one would. One hot July afternoon as a young teenager, my brothers and some friends decided to relax after a long day working in the farm fields. We took a couple of watermelons down to a small creek and threw them into the cool water to chill down while we went for a swim. Next, we started jumping off a bridge that spanned the creek into the refreshing tea-colored water. On a hot day like this, a snapper would want to cool off as well.

After a few leaps from the bridge we were all dog paddling under the shadow of the bridge when the cries of “snapper!” filled the air. I casually swam towards our homemade ladder attached to one of the bridge pilings to remove myself from danger. However, the ladder was already quickly full with clinging adolescent boys with all their body parts out of the water leaving me alone in the snapper infested creek. In a panic, the thought of a snapper attached to my bare foot without a thundercloud in sight sent me shimming up one of the black tar and creosote coated bridge pilings. As my right hand grabbed the top of the piling, which was wrapped with the exposed edges of sharp tin, two of my fingers were easily sliced open. As the watermelons floated away, we headed off to get my hand sewed up and I never went swimming in that creek again.

The chorus of tree frogs is a sure sign of spring in the marsh.

The snapper disappeared into a patch of bright green ferns and a familiar bird sound called out from the live oaks lining the marsh. After spending a long migratory journey from Florida, a beautiful male painted bunting was singing a sweet song from a high perch in hopes of attracting a female. These maritime shrub thickets along the N.C. coast are important nesting sites and represent the northern limit of its breeding range. This small bunting is so stunning that is referred to as “non-pareil”, or without equal. A large group of these birds together is referred to as a mural. However, its colorful palette of plumage caused these birds to be captured and sold by the thousands as pets for hundreds of years. Although illegal in the United States, they are still captured and sold in other countries adding to the decline in wild populations.

The low sun was now casting a shimmering orange spotlight on the surface of the water, creating a mood for the final act. At the edge of the wetland, a lone little blue heron slowly glided along in long steps, dragging its feet through the shallow water. With a bowed head, its long neck elegantly shaped like an “S,” it silently searched for prey. Resembling a ballerina, it would often run and twirl in different directions all over the confines of the wetland chasing frogs, fish and insects. This bird is unique among herons. While the plumage of an adult is a dusty blue, almost purple color, the immature little blue heron is all white. The all-white color of the juvenile provides acceptance among snowy egrets as they feed together. Studies have indicated that their feeding success is far greater when feeding among the snowy egrets.

It was getting dark and a pair of blue-winged teal, tardy for their migration, swam across the wetland heading for an exit in the security of some tall aquatic vegetation.

As I made my way out of the wetland shrubs, I was just as satisfied as if I had taken in a Broadway show. Wetlands are not only valuable recreationally, their importance as wildlife habitat for food, protection, water, breeding can’t be overstated. Unfortunately, our wetlands are declining along with their ability to trap water which helps control flooding and recharge the ground water. Wetlands are also referred to as the kidneys of the earth for their ability to trap pollutants, bacteria, sediments and nutrients; all of which improve water quality.

The marshes of the N.C. coast are important nesting areas for painted buntings. These birds are so colorful that a group of them is called a mural.

Woodcocks are usually masters of camouflage, except when the ground is covered in white. Photo: Sam Bland

EMERALD ISLE — The past two months have delivered winter weather to coastal North Carolina full of cold temperatures, freezing rain, sleet and even some snow. Snow is rare enough along the coast that locals become giddy at the sight of an overlay of the white powdery stuff decorating the dunes and marshes. I must admit that I like a Carolina snow and I always head out for long hikes to enjoy the unusual scenery before it quickly melts away in a day or two.

Snow events are a good time to go out and look for birds as they are a bit more conspicuous against the white background and they are a little more tolerant of humans as they scramble to find food. A covering of snow and ice can make it difficult for the birds to locate enough food to keep their metabolic rate high enough to stay warm while maintaining their fat reserves. Birds are well protected from the cold by the insulation capabilities of their feathers, especially when the feathers are puffed out to prevent heat from escaping. When it’s really cold, they will sit down to prevent heat loss and their muscles will also shiver to create heat. Some birds will even huddle together at night to stay warm.

As I headed out on my hike, I was quickly startled by two woodcocks that bolted from the ground and into the gray morning sky. I continued on and soon flushed two more woodcocks, then a few more and within a quarter of a mile I saw about a dozen of these masters of camouflage. The cryptic pattern of their brown, black, rust and gray colored feathers was useless against the white ground cover and I was spotting them everywhere. They were probing their long bills into any available patch of bare ground looking for a meal.

Cedar waxwings are handsome birds. The birds raise their slick backed crest when annoyed.

These spots are waxy, flattened extensions of the feather shaft and are the reason the bird is referred to as a wax wing. Photos: Sam Bland

One of the birds walked into a shrub thicket to elude me but I headed in after it to try to get some photographs. The bird effortlessly darted around the trunks of the small trees like a slalom snow skier while I was being scratched and poked as I pushed through the branches. It finally stopped and hunkered down by a small wetland that wasn’t completely frozen. I found a spot and did the same, sitting on the mixture of sleet and freezing that was as hard as concrete. Amazingly, the woodcock started walking right towards me and stopped about ten feet away behind the base of a small live oak tree. It stepped out from behind the tree a couple of times to look at me and I was able to get a few quick opportunities for a picture. The uncomfortable sitting situation encouraged me to leave the thicket and unburden the woodcock of my presence.

Over the next few days, I would see close to a hundred woodcocks. I have never seen so many over such a short period of time, and assumed, since woodcocks migrate early, that this flock of birds was already heading north.

I popped out of the dense brush and hiked over to the edge of another wetland where an opening in the vegetation offered a commanding view. Across the way, a great blue heron was protected from the wind on the leeward side of a large live oak tree. It sat motionless, with its head and bill buried into its breast feathers to ward off the cold. Out of the reach of predators, this beauty rested without a worry.

A small flock of American robins flew in and settled on the bare gray branches of a dormant tree giving it the appearance of instant leaves. A few of these birds were quickly drawn to a small opening where the water had not been completely glazed over with a crust of ice and immediately dipped their beaks into the cold liquid. As I watched the robins quench their thirst, I heard numerous high pitched whistling sounds fill the air. I turned around to discover a different group of birds adorning another naked tree.

One of my favorite birds, the cedar waxwing, had descended upon the neighborhood. Cedar waxwings are non-territorial social birds that travel in small groups of 50-100 and are found throughout North America. They will rest together in trees while emitting their shrill high-pitched call, which to some, borders on annoying. This has resulted in a group of waxwings being referred to as an “earful.”

These frugivorous wandering birds of winter will usually always show up, unpredictably, to strip the trees of their fruit. The flock will work cooperatively to find an area with a number of fruit bearing trees, such as eastern red cedar or American holly, and the feast is on. As their name implies, they have a preference for the cedar berries. Not only do they work in sync to find food, but they help each other while feeding. If a cluster of berries is difficult for the entire group of birds to reach, they will line up on a branch and pass the berries, beak to beak, down the line feeding each bird in the group. When the amount of fruit in an area is limited, small groups within the flock will feed in a rotation allowing all the birds an opportunity to feed.

Cedar waxwings indulge in berries, which can sometimes make them drunk. Photo: Sam Bland

They indulge in the berries in more ways than one. Sometimes, after they have eaten berries as their only source of food, they will also get a buzz on. When weather conditions are favorable, the sugars in the fruit will ferment and turn into alcohol. After consuming these potent berries, the bird may be rendered inebriated, and at times, fall into a stupor until they sober up. High alcohol content has even been reported to kill a few birds. Once the fruit on the trees has been gobbled up, which may take a few days to a couple of weeks, they will then move on to another area and might not be seen again until next winter. During spring and early summer when fruit is not as readily available, they will survive on insects.

During their abbreviated stay, it is irresistible not to enjoy their beauty and compassionate behavior. These stunningly attractive birds appear proper and dignified, yet, also with a bit of mystery. Their plumage has a soft, silky, velvety texture that blends a variety of colors creating an elegant looking creature. The light brown head is adorned with a slicked back crest that is only raised when the bird is annoyed. Its eyes are cloaked with a black mask outlined with a narrow white boarder. The breast is gray and tapers down to a whitish, weak yellow belly. The back is light brown that gives way to a gray tail and wings. They are accented with a luminous yellow tail band which is sometimes orange if the bird has been consuming fruit of an invasive honey suckle. Some of the birds also sport a few droplets of a dazzling red color on the end of their secondary feathers. These spots are waxy, flattened extensions of the feather shaft and are the reason the bird is referred to as a wax wing. The color is due to a carotenoid pigment called astaxanthin. Both sexes will have the red drops, however, they will appear as the birds mature and increase with age, thus, young birds will not have the red color. Research suggests that the number of red drops relates to the age of the bird and will help them find a mate of similar age during the breeding season.

The waxwings perched in the bare tree politely waited their turn and when the robins abandoned the watering hole, a few swooped in for a drink. As the last light of the day began to fade, I walked away from the wetland flushing a few more woodcocks, which delighted me as I made my way home.

Springer’s Point Nature Preserve is marked by winding trails through lush maritime forests of gnarled live oaks and red cedar. 

The winter beach was deserted except for a few frozen fishermen.

How cold was it? So cold that ice formed at the base of the marsh grass.

Last of two parts

OCRACOKE — Ocracoke Island is one of those places along the N.C. coast that I love to visit, but it’s always during the hot muggy days of summer or the crisp delightful days of fall. However, recently, on a whim, I decided to take the trip across Pamlico Sound on one of the coldest days of the year. It was so cold that even the hardiest of watermen left their boats secured to the dock and sought a cozy refuge of warmth from a biting wind. During the ferry ride from Cedar Island to Ocracoke, not a single boat was seen plying the waters.

Photos by Sam Bland

On its approach to Silver Lake, the ferry route offered a good view of the inlet, island and village we all know today as Ocracoke. Early maps indicated that this area was known as Wokokon, which is the derivative of a Native American word that refers to the name of a tribe near the Neuse River or suggests that the area could have been some type of native settlement. It is also proposed that Wokokon was a native word meaning a barrier island near an inlet. Over the years, this phonetic sound was spelled “Ocracoke” and is pronounced by saying the unpopular vegetable and the popular soft drink as one word.

The origin of the name Ocracoke has even been attributed to Blackbeard. In the early morning hours on the day that the notorious pirate lost his life in an epic fight with the British Royal Navy, Blackbeard was restless for the impending battle. It is said that he beseeched the rooster onboard his ship to announce the birth of a new day, pleading “O Crow Cock” numerous times. Say it fast and it sounds like Ocracoke.

Some maps indicated that Wokokon was at one time part of Portsmouth Island while others have it connected to Hatteras Island and called it Croatoan. Ocracoke was even once designated as part of Carteret County rather than Hyde County.

My truck was the last of only three vehicles on the ferry, and I headed about a mile down the road and parked on the highway shoulder at the entrance of beach access ramp 72. Even though the skies were sunny, the cold temperatures required many layers of clothing to ensure that I wouldn’t go running back to the truck, crank up the heater and head back home.

A snowy owl poked its head through the grasses at the top of a dune.

Bundled up as if I was about to summit Mount Everest, I began hiking down the long sandy road towards the ocean. Moisture in the sand had frozen hard and crunched like gravel under the weight of my boots. On both sides of the trail, the wetland grasses were stiff and rigid and unable to sway in the wind as they would on a warm, balmy day. Nearby, the surface of the narrow shallow tidal creeks was crusted with a thick layer of ice. Here and there, I could see where nutria, the large rat-like mammals, had broken the ice to gain access into or out of the creek.

As I neared the ocean, I began to hear a low thunder-like rumble that caused me to scan the skies for an improbable thunderstorm. As I crested the dunes, it was obvious that the false thunder was produced by large waves, their size betrayed by an offshore wind that pushed away the sound as they crashed onto the shore.

Out on the beach, I was surprised to see a couple of vehicles off in the distance along with the silhouettes of a few people surf fishing. I wandered down the beach, with the sun reflecting brightly off of a sparkling ocean, looking for any signs of wildlife when a white patch atop a grassy dune caught my eye. With its head poking above the grasses like a periscope, a snowy owl kept me under surveillance. I had heard that one, maybe even two, of the wandering snowy owls had been sighted on Ocracoke Island, but I didn’t expect to stumble upon it so easily. I hunkered down in the dunes out of the wind and was able to get a few photographs. The bird eventually flew a short distance to another perch as a lone vehicle rumbled down the beach.

With the wildlife scarce, I left the beach and began the long hike back down the ramp road. Out in the marsh, I spied a lone brownish colored bird secretively and delicately tiptoeing through the grasses then suddenly slipping into the protective cover and out of sight. This bird, a clapper rail, is not often seen. However, during the summer, its presence is obvious as this salt marsh provocateur produces a number of loud and obnoxious calls. Some avid birders attribute the saying “thin as a rail” to this skinny bird over the more reasonable origin related to the rail of a fence.

Over the years the wild horses of Ocracoke were used by islanders for work and recreation.

Back at the truck, I turned the heater on high and drove north on N.C. 12. Not far down the road a series of short tidal creeks cut into the back side of the island and provided a safe anchorage for a few small fishing skiffs. These creeks were most likely formed many years ago by the pounding hurricanes that cut inlets through the island. As sand closed the inlet on the ocean side, a tidal creek fed by the Pamlico Sound remained.

Farther north, the island narrows and the beach dunes are right beside the road. I parked the truck and hiked a few yards to the top of a dune and the beauty of the island smacked me in the face. A long ribbon of white sand bordered by turquoise water and blue skies reached out to the northern horizon. I soaked in the exquisite view for a few minutes before the sting of the cold chased me back to the truck.

I headed back towards the village and along the way made a stop at the180-acre pony pen where around 30 of the famous Outer Banks ponies are cared for by the National Park Service. Most of Ocracoke Island is part of the Cape Hatteras National Seashore, and thus, the horses are considered a natural and cultural resource that is under its management. These ponies are thought to be descendants of Spanish mustangs from Spanish and European settlements or shipwrecks as early as 1526. Over the centuries the settlers on Ocracoke used the ponies for work and recreation. They were used by the Life Saving Service, the Coast Guard and the Ocracoke Boy Scouts. Even the park service rangers now use them from time to time to patrol the beach.

Back in the village, I submitted to a mandatory compulsion that requires me to stop at the iconic lighthouse and snap a few pictures whenever I visit the island. A friendly cat escorted me down the boardwalk to the base of the white 75-foot brick structure, which was built in 1823. Its stationary beacon reaches 14 miles in all directions to guide mariners. Even with all of the maritime technology available to assist boaters, the lighthouse is more than a historic symbol of Ocracoke. As the second-oldest operational lighthouse in the country, its signal is still a comforting sight for those sailing the waters of the Graveyard of the Atlantic.

From the lighthouse, I made a short hike to what I consider to be the jewel of Ocracoke Island, Springer’s Point Nature Preserve. This is a 120-acre site of significant natural beauty that also figures prominently in the history of Ocracoke. It was preserved by and is now managed by the N.C. Coastal Land Trust. Heading down the sandy path bordered by the maritime shrub thickets of wax myrtle, red bay and yaupon, I quickly leave behind the homes and businesses of the village and feel like I am in a wilderness area. Eventually the trail is completely encased by a maritime forest canopy of live oaks and red cedar. The branches of the live oaks are gnarled and twisted creating outrageous shapes while the trunks of the cedars are some of the biggest I have ever seen. During the spring and summer, a portion of the preserve is a rookery where egrets, herons and ibis will build nests and raise their chicks.

A fenced plot at Springer’s Point marks the graves of Sam Jones and his horse IkeyD.

This plot of land was once called Teach’s Plantation and is where Blackbeard, whose real name was Edward Teach, come ashore with his crew while waiting to pounce on merchant ships sailing just past the inlet. The waters just off this southern point of the island were deep enough for Blackbeard to anchor his ship and became known as Teach’s Hole. Here, Blackbeard would secure his boat, come ashore and hold parties of feasting, music and dancing for days on end. At times, other famous pirates such as Calico Jack were invited to join the festivities.

It is one of these parties that distracted Blackbeard from noticing the arrival of Lieutenant Robert Maynard of the British Royal Navy just outside the inlet. The following morning, Maynard and the ships under his command battled Blackbeard and his crew. Blackbeard was killed and his head lopped off.  Ever since, goes the story, people have seen a mysterious light, known as Teach’s Light, hovering above the waters or through the trees as Blackbeard looks for his head around Springer’s Point.

With Blackbeard no longer a threat, the area became known as Pilot Town since it was inhabited by boat pilots who served as local guides for ships that needed safe passage through the tricky inlet to access mainland port towns such as New Bern and Elizabeth City.

The hiking trail continues to the open shores of the sound that overlooks Teach’s Hole then loops back into the forest. Here in the forest, you can find a tiny cemetery enclosed by an old wooden fence covered in ivy. Inside are one head stone and a small statue of a horse. This is the grave of Sam Jones, a man who once owned Springer’s Point and was a prominent Ocracoke figure for many years. Jones was a conspicuous and fascinating man who was known to bring his beloved horse, IkeyD, into his house to join the family as they sang songs around the piano. What about the stone horse statue in the cemetery? Well, it marks the grave of IkeyD, where, as requested, Jones was buried beside his companion.

Even though Springer’s Point is known for its haunts and apparitions, it did not seem spooky at all. The only thing haunting about Springer’s Point is the captivating beauty of the forest that will lure you back for another visit.

All of my visits to Ocracoke have been centered around its stunning natural resources. Yet, its cultural history is equally stunning as well. There are many other stories of this fascinating place, such as the time bananas washed ashore for weeks or how Molasses Creek got its name. For those wanting to know more about the history of Ocracoke Island beyond my brief attempt, I suggest the book by island native Alton Ballance titled Ocracokers.

As I rode the ferry back to Cedar Island, a spectacular sunset graced the western sky, one of the most amazing that I have ever witnessed. It was the exclamation to a glorious day. I thought of what an exceptional place Ocracoke was, and is today. The “Ocracokers” have a legacy, a culture and a natural playground that, as a visitor, I am envious of.

A stunning sunset over Pamlico Sound marked the end of a glorious day.

EMERALD ISLE — The morning after Christmas day, I decided to go for a jog to burn off some of the decadent food and goodies that I had enjoyed while lounging at home the day before. Stepping out the door, a gloomy gray sky held promise of an intending rain along with a brisk north wind that stung with wind chill near freezing.

I headed out along the deserted holiday roads for a few miles and eventually made my way out onto the hard packed open beach strand that was shrinking due to an incoming tide. The beach was empty on this raw day except for a few people who were obligated to provide their dogs some relief. Waves from the ocean raced up the beach and chased me higher up the beach like a sanderling scampering in the surf. About every five minutes, a set of larger waves would roll in with brown pelicans and gannets gliding above the crest. Just as I was about to jog off the beach towards my house, a large splash about a hundred yards offshore caught my attention.

I stopped and stared out into the emerald waters as a set of waves started crashing off shore. Then as if launched by a submarine, three Atlantic bottlenose dolphins rocketed simultaneously from one of the waves and continued to leap three or four more times. The trio was joined by other dolphins as they continued to jump and ride the waves for about a minute or two. It was like a marine mammal troupe version of the Cirque du Soleil. I have seen dolphins leap from the ocean before, but this was different, this was special.

I raced home, put on some dry warm clothes, grabbed my camera gear and rushed back to the beach. Maybe twenty minutes had passed and I was back at the same spot where I saw the dolphins. Without a fin in sight, I watched the pelicans gliding gracefully above the surf as the gusty north wind pushed at my back.

If I have learned one thing in attempting to photograph wildlife, is that patience is a virtue of necessity. Sometimes you get lucky and an opportunity will come to you without a lot of effort. But more than likely there is a lot of waiting followed by more waiting.

So I settled in and waited. Staring out at the ocean is not a bad way to pass the time as I watched the tops of the cresting waves being blown out by the stiff breeze into millions of droplets that showered down like rain.

After about an hour, I scanned the sea with my binoculars and saw a large dark object on the surface of the water about a mile away. What I fantasized to be a humpback whale turned out to be a large cloud of cormorants flying low over the ocean. Just as I was about to lower my binoculars, I saw a dolphin rocket straight into the air, curl into the shape of a “C” and stick a nose first vertical landing with only a tiny splash.

I race-walked down the beach towards the dolphins as they continued to frolic. I finally reached the group just as they settled down, but I could follow their location as their dorsal fins sliced through the water. With my camera ready, I waited and watched for a set of bigger waves to arrive.

Out in the distance I could see the swells approaching and the dolphins sensed them as well as they positioned their streamlined bodies to catch the waves. It was on, as five to seven dolphins leaped out of and rode the wave. As the set of waves continued, so did the dolphins. I tried to keep up and get some photographs, but they were all over the place and to be honest, I just wanted to watch.

There is a scene in the new movie, “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty,” where a photographer passes up on a once in a lifetime opportunity to photograph a rare animal. The photographer decides instead to live in the moment and see the animal without the distraction of the camera. This is a feeling that I completely identify with and have yielded to on many occasions, and thus, I stepped back from the tripod and just watched. The set fizzled out and the dolphins moved down the beach. I hoped that the show wasn’t over, but I didn’t care since I was filled with a memory that will last for a long, long time. I savored my moment and was now ready to capture some photographs of these magnificent creatures performing their acrobatic antics.

With my long camera lens pointing out to the ocean, a man walking his dog walked up and asked what I was taking pictures of. As if on cue, the dolphin show was now into act three.

“Oh” he said, while almost buckling at the knees, “I’ve got to get the family.”

So, I had some company.

The dolphins were amazing in ways that I cannot adequately describe. They were elegant and graceful while also powerful and athletic. There was what appeared to be playfulness along with a little rough housing. Their display had the handful of people on the beach cheering, laughing and clapping. All the while, I was firing away hoping to get a few pictures to capture this beautiful moment.

By now, a few hours had passed as a steady rain began to fall. The larger waves were no longer cresting on the outside sand bar due to the flood of the high tide. The dolphins had vanished as I stood on the rise of a sand dune scanning the water for them.

Alone, standing in the rain, I felt a sense of joy and happiness. Yet, I was a little emotional as well because I would have loved to have shared that extraordinary beautiful moment of dolphin behavior with people who I know and love. But at least I have a few photos to relive the moment.

The snowy owl, a bird of the high Arctic tundra, loves the wide open spaces, like the beaches of Cape Hatteras.

BUXTON — It started snowing on Cape Hatteras National Seashore on Nov. 26 and as far as I know, it hasn’t stopped.

That was the day that park rangers first discovered that a snowy owl was taking up temporary residence near Cape Point. It is a big deal for this species of bird to show up in North Carolina, and it has even the most-seasoned, spotting scope-carrying, binocular-laden bird watchers scrambling to get ferry reservations to the Cape to add this nomad to their life list.

This is a bird of the high Arctic tundra that’s also called the Arctic owl, the Great White Owl and, my favorite, the White Terror of the North. It loves wide open spaces, and the windswept beaches and the dunes along the N.C. coast are a good substitute.

I first learned about the sighting on Nov. 27 through a friend of a friend on a Facebook post. Nice, I thought, but I wasn’t considering heading out to Cape Hatteras to look for this bird. In my past, I have set off in hot pursuit after unusual animal sightings that resulted in nothing more than wild goose chases. Unreliable information, such as the badger that turned out to be a fox squirrel, has also discouraged me from bolting out the door to see the unexpected. However, after my friend posted some striking photos of this stunning bird following his excursion to the beach, I packed a bag and headed to the Outer Banks.

I left early in the morning to catch the 7 a.m. Cedar Island ferry to Ocracoke, and my excitement was quickly dampened by a thick curtain of cotton candy fog. I made it to the dock in plenty of time, but I knew that even in an era when boats are equipped with radar, GPS and blasting fog horns that the ferry would not depart until the fog lifted. After a delay of about an hour, to my surprise, the boat slowly cruised into a misty veil of uncertainty. I stood at the stern of the ferry looking back at the dock as it quickly melted into a cloak of clouds and I felt a little gloomy about my chances of seeing the snowy. Just then, I saw an Atlantic bottlenose dolphin surface directly behind the boat. A good sign, I thought, and my mood was immediately brightened.

The fog had greatly dissipated two hours later at Ocracoke, with only a few wispy patches here and there. I zipped north up the island, caught the Hatteras Island ferry and soon found myself at a parking area near the beach at the Cape Hatteras National Seashore. I prepared my camera gear, slipped on a day pack and headed out to the beach. Even though I was focused on finding the snowy, I was soon distracted by views of the Cape Hatteras lighthouse through the dunes on what had transformed into a beautiful day with unseasonably warm temperatures.

The hike took me past what is known as the Salt Pond and I was distracted even more by taking time to check out the tundra swans and an assortment of waterfowl swimming on the surface. Nearby, a northern harrier flew low over the vegetation that ringed the pond as it scouted for prey.

Eventually, I made my way to a section of the beach where sightings of the bird had been reported. I began hiking parallel to the shoreline just behind the small lumpy dunes that would provide the cover needed to prevent spooking the bird if I found it.
How hard could it be to find this bird? It is large, standing about two feet tall, and is almost all white and should be in sharp contrast with the light brown colored sand.

A harmless black racer darts through the grass and rattles its tail as an empty warning.

About every hundred yards, I poked my head above the dunes and scanned the beach with my binoculars. I hiked about two miles down the beach without seeing another soul or a snowy owl for that matter. As I retraced my steps back to my truck with my head hung low in defeat, I noticed the remains of a coot, a marsh rabbit and a shorebird scattered at different locations. This was a good sign that the snowy was still around and at work or it could have been the results of a peregrine falcon.

With a couple of hours of sunlight left, I drove to another beach access and began hiking a trail back to the beach. The trail split and I purposefully took the more intriguing option due to get a better look at what looked like a long, black stick stretched across the sandy path. As I got closer, the stick began to move slowly towards the dune. I raced after the object just in time to see a long black racer glide safely into the grasses. It paused to flick its tongue and rattle its tail among the dry grass blades in an effort to imitate a threatening rattlesnake before vanishing over the dune.

Heading back to the main trail, I heard the familiar stomp and snort of an irritated white-tailed deer. Up on a dune, I saw a small buck, unhappy with my presence, being protective of a nearby doe.

Back out on the beach, I hunkered down with a good view of the open beach and waited on the snowy owl. As the fading sun cast the sand in a golden glow, I once again patrolled the dune line in search of the elusive snowy. Down on the open beach, about a half mile away, I saw a group of four people doing the same. I walked over to inquire about the snowy and was surprised to see a former co-worker. The group was out celebrating a birthday with hopes of seeing the snowy, but without luck.

With the sun dousing itself into the ocean, the sky turned red. The group headed in one direction towards their vehicle and I went the opposite way to my truck. I had just reached it when a vehicle pulled beside me. Inside were the other birders. They had seen the snowy as they were leaving the beach. What a fine birthday gift, I thought. Even though I didn’t see the bird, I was excited by the prospects of seeing the owl the next day.

The sun sinks into the Atlantic in a dazzling displays that promises better prospects for the next day.

The next morning, I rose early to get in a little exercise before heading to the beach. It was still dark out as I jogged north on N.C. 12. As I ran past the last street light in north Buxton, I was soon in complete darkness with the stars as my companions along with a few phosphorescent insects glowing in the grass beside the road.

I was back out on the beach before the rising sun and even before the steady stream of fishermen in their trucks heading to the Point. Moving quickly, I wanted to be the first one on the beach to avoid activity that might flush the snowy. The rising sun created dramatic backlighting on the clouds that towered above the horizon, giving the illusion of a mountainous landscape. I followed my same sad lonely meandering footprints of the day before and tried to remain hopeful.
After skirting behind the dunes for about 100 yards, I peeked out onto the open beach and there it was standing on a small mound of sand about 70 yards away. I watched the owl through binoculars. It seemed oblivious to my presence. It scanned to the left and to the right and into the sky above. It then swiveled its head and stared directly at me, its brilliant clear yellow eyes penetrating into my soul. This bird now had an admirer.

It’s easy to see why this magnificent snowy owl has attracted a crowd of excited seekers.

And it’s not just me; snowy owls have been the subject of folklore and mythology for centuries and have even been depicted in prehistoric cave paintings in Europe.

I retreated behind a dune and prepared my camera to attempt a few photographs. The sun had now cleared the clouds and a warm glow covered the bird. After taking a few photos, I watched the snowy for about 30y minutes.

Due to the black barring on the white plumage, it appeared that this snowy was a female.

It then leaped into the air using powerful strokes of its wings and flew low over the beach for half mile before alighting atop a 10-foot dead tree branch that had most likely been stuck in the sand by a bird watcher.

Unlike other owls, the snowy will hunt during the day. Since their eyes are fixed in the socket, they can rotate their head 270 degrees scanning for prey using their extraordinary eyesight.

Startled by a National Park Service truck coming slowly down the beach, the bird flew and out of sight. The truck drove about a mile down the beach and stopped.

I hiked down the open beach to talk with the rangers. When I arrived at their truck, the rangers had a spotting scope focused in on the snowy at its new perch, a “Sea Turtle Nest Site” sign. We chatted about how unusual it is for this Arctic bird to be so far south.
This fall, numerous snowy owls have been showing up in unusual southern locations. Such migrations, which happen every few years, are known as an irruption. These movements are usually triggered by severe cold and snow, an abundance of snowy owls or a decline in their main Arctic prey, lemmings. In 2011, a large irruption resulted in snowy owls being reported in 35 states.

One of the hot spots this year is Logan Airport in Boston, Mass. where over 15 of the owls are attracted to the tundra-like landscape surrounding the airport. With winter just arriving it’s likely that reports of snowy owls will only increase. This is the first appearance of a snowy in North Carolina in 13 years. They’ve already been seen in nine counties, including Dare, Hyde, Wake, Beaufort, New Hanover, Randolph, Rockingham and Transylvania. In Carteret County, one was sighted out on Shackelford Banks on Dec. 15. It is thought that these sightings represent 10 or 11 different birds.

The rangers left to continue their duties and I was left alone on the open beach near the owl. I took a few more photos. When I began hiking back to the cover of the dunes, the bird spooked and flew farther down the beach.

The buck, protecting a nearby doe, gave Sam a wary look and a menacing snort.

I hiked in the direction of the bird and saw a small group of birders who were setting up scopes near one of the beach access roads. I briefly spoke with them and discovered that one birder had driven nine hours with two small children to see the bird.

Again, I hiked behind the dunes to get one last look of the bird before departing. Here the dunes were smaller and I had to lay prone on the sand and combat crawl to keep my profile low. Still lying prone, I used my day pack as a tripod and set up my long lens to view the bird as it sat among a few tufts of beach grass that offered a bit of camouflage. I took a few pictures but mainly viewed the bird as it preened its feathers that also cover the legs and claws. Their thick white feathers contain no pigment which allows for more insulating air space to trap warmth and prevent heat loss. Due to their voluminous feathers, at close to six pounds, it is the heaviest owl in North America.

I crawled back behind the dunes and hiked back to my truck. I had spent a good part of the morning with this elegant bird and felt fortunate to do so. The truck must have been on auto-pilot as I don’t really remember driving to the Hatteras ferry dock as I relived the encounter. The ferry attendant made sure I got on the ferry as it was obvious that I was driving under the influence of owls, hypnotized, mesmerized and intoxicated by this snowy beauty.

Seeing this snowy owl was truly a precious gift from nature, a gift of a white Christmas.

Nick Harvey’s home of Davis in eastern Carteret County proudly displays Harvey’s creations each year.

SMYRNA — People have been catching blue crabs for thousands of years using a variety of methods. Catching them became a lot easier in 1920 when Benjamin Lewis invented the crab pot, a wire trap that was so eagerly accepted by crabbers that Lewis patented his device in 1928.

At the time, he had no way of knowing that his contraption designed to capture the savory crustacean, with a Latin name that means “beautiful swimmer,” would inspire what has become a beautiful coastal Christmas tradition.

The so-called “Maryland crab pot” is shaped like a cube and is roughly two feet tall on all sides. It has seen very few modifications since the original plan. The chicken wire mesh is now a little stouter and covered with a protective plastic coating. This plastic covering extends the life of the pots by slowing the corrosive effects the saltwater has on the metal mesh. Over the years, different colors of coating have been available, and some crabbers are loyal to a particular color because they are convinced that it attracts more crabs.

It was green that one day sparked the imagination of Neal “Nick” Harvey, a commercial fisherman from Davis in eastern Carteret County, a part of the county known in these parts as Down East.

Harvey, an independent waterman, made a living harvesting the riches of the sea and providing the necessary gear to help others do the same. He enjoys the “seasons of the water” that provide a variety of fishing opportunities throughout the year. Harvey knows the drift of the ocean currents up and down the East coast and has piloted a trawler for days without rest. He has pulled shrimp and flounder from the sea and ventured into the rivers and sounds to collect clams and scallops. However, Harvey was confident enough to step away from the boat to make nets and crab pots that he sold by the thousands.

Neal “Nick” Harvey patented his creation.

One day, with Christmas approaching, Harvey decided to brighten up the confines of his crab pot making shop with some Christmas decorations. He found some discarded pieces of the crab pot wire mesh and began shaping the pieces until they had the distinctive uniform tapered shape of a Christmas tree. He displayed his creation in a large window of the shop that faced the highway.

Soon, family, friends and neighbors stopped by to see the tree and wanted one as well. Harvey started selling the tree at the annual Core Sound Waterfowl Weekend at the Core Sound Waterfowl Museum and Heritage Center on Harkers Island. After the first day of sales, he had to hurry back to the shop and work through the night to make more trees for the following day at the festival.

From 2000 to 2009, Harvey and his crew did nothing but make crab pot Christmas trees. The success of the tree and its potential created such a demand on body, mind and spirit that in 2009 Harvey sold the business. Before doing so though, Harvey patented his creation and he still retains the patent rights.

Today, the trees are manufactured by Fisherman Creations Inc., owned by Don Acree, in the Down East community of Smyrna. Acree has marketed the tree nationally and has regional distributors and dealers. The tree has been set up in homes in all states across the country including Hawaii and Alaska. It has been shipped to numerous foreign countries and has been proudly displayed by military troops in Afghanistan.

The crab pot trees make an impressive display when massed together.

The trees are locally appealing for their cultural connection to the traditional self-sufficient lifestyle of the Down East fishing community. They are also a symbol of the clever ingenuity of working waterman. Yet, they are also attractive to anyone who loves to display a unique creative Christmas decoration. The trees come in a variety of heights from 1.5 feet to 8 feet and can be adorned with an array of lighting choices.

On a beautiful day, I decided to take a drive to Smyrna to see how a crab pot Christmas tree was made. I pulled into the lot of the shop and was immediately greeted by the security officer, a dog that let everyone within ear shot know that an intruder had breached the perimeter. The pooch barked and snarled as it circled around me while I approached the shop entrance. As the shop door opened, a man stepped out and sternly said, “Hatch, behave.”

Hatch settled down, let me pet him a few times and quickly became my friend. His owner, George Brearey, is the manager of Fisherman Creations and he generously agreed to show me around the shop. Brearey actually had little time to indulge me as he was bombarded with continuous phone calls about orders, shipments and dealers. I wandered around the shop filled with rolls of crab pot wire, shipping boxes, tree lights and stacks of trees of assorted heights in various stages of construction. Hatch escorted me, keeping me under constant surveillance. But I did get to see one of the tricks of the trade.

Mike Wells cuts wire at the shop in Smyrna,

Shipments of wire await being fashioned into Christmas trees, while Hatch keeps watch.

The constant chatter of a power tool got my attention and I found a man wielding a large electric shearing hand tool. Mike Wells was cutting through a thick stack of pre-cut crab pot wire lengths. Without, what appeared to me, any calculations, Wells maneuvered the power tool through the stack of wire causing me to wonder what he was making. As he cut, the surplus wire fell away revealing the parallel half shape of a tree. I asked Wells how he did that without a template and he said “I’ve done it so many times I don’t need one.”

Turns out Wells has been helping make the trees since the idea was born in Harvey’s shop. Wells explained that there is a mathematical equation that creates the perfect taper from the top to the bottom of the tree panel. Each tree height has a different equation. He told me the equation so quickly that it would be unlikely that I could remember it. I also heard a low growl from Hatch.

I wandered into another room of the shop that was brightly lit and filled with erect trees on pedestals. Here a team of workers were busy putting strands of lights on each tree. One of the appeals of this tree is that they are pre-strung with lights and the tree panels can fold together allowing for flat space saving storage with the lights still attached. Each employee was focused on stringing a separate tree while chatting and teasing each other. They even coaxed an employee to tell me an old story about a long lost love. Their cheerful mood reminded me of a room full of Santa’s workshop elves.

As I was leaving the shop, I could overhear Brearey talking to what I assumed to be someone interested in becoming a potential dealer. He said, “All you have to do is open up the tree, set it on the display floor, plug in the lights and they will sell themselves.”

That appeared to be good advice judging from the large stack of packaged orders sitting near a large bay door waiting to be shipped. Most of the stack was going cross country to the state of Washington.

Later that day, as I talked to Harvey in the original shop where he invented the Core Sound Christmas Tree, I asked him how it felt to see his creation decorating his town and on utility poles throughout the community and did it make him feel good that the trees have been shipped all over the United States and to many other countries as well?

Literally, as I am asking this, I can see a neighbor across the street walk into their front yard and begin setting up two crab pot trees. I had proposed a question that afforded an opportunity for Harvey to puff up his chest and brag a little. Yet, very humbly, Harvey simply said, “I never expected for so much to come out of a few pieces of scrap crab pot wire.”

Glasswort is a type of plant known as a halophyte which can tolerate and thrive in areas with high salinity. Like these in Bogue Sound, they are one of first to show up in a protected tidal mud flat and create habitat for other species as well.

Almost every day, my travels take me up and over the high rise bridge that spans Bogue Sound and reaches over from the mainland to the western end of the barrier island known as Bogue Banks. The apex of the bridge yields one of the most beautiful sights along the North Carolina coast. A patch work of green Spartina marsh grass islands and small upland islands look like giant jig saw puzzle pieces that are floating among the tidal creeks and channels creating a maze-like landscape. From here, I always look to the west in an unconscious reflex to catch a glimpse of Bear Island, a remote beach lover’s paradise that quenches my thirst for the raw beauty of an unspoiled barrier island.

In late summer, as I summited the bridge, my gaze towards Bear Island was interrupted and stolen by a large blanket of red vegetation that was spread out in an open mud flat adjacent to a spoil island just west of the bridge. I was pretty sure I was familiar with the plant, but wanted to investigate since I have only seen a few of these plants in small clusters, never creating this appearance of a meadow.

The new leaves of glasswort are green, and the red coloration is thought to be brought on by the buildup of salt in its plump stems as the plant matures. As an annual, it goes out in a blaze of glory.

A few days later, I headed out in a twenty-two foot skiff that smoothly skimmed across the serene and placid waters on a windless day. As I set a westerly course along the channel of the Intracoastal Waterway, the smooth surface of the water was sliced open by the blade-like dorsal fin of a bottlenose dolphin. I slowed the boat and drifted along as a large pod methodically worked the water looking for fish. As each dolphin surfaced, the early morning silence was broken by the misty purging of air from its blowhole. A number of small young dolphins born this year could be seen sticking close to the side of an adult as if they were glued together. The seriousness of the group was broken from time to time as a few of the adults would leap completely out of the water and land with a showering splash. Reluctantly, I left the dolphins to go scout out the red plants, but I felt confident that they would still be around on the return trip.

As I passed under the shadow of the bridge, I began trimming the motor in anticipation of the shallow waters along the shore of the spoil island. With the boat securely anchored, I stepped into the knee deep warm water and waded up onto the bank of the island that was a small bluff of ancient oyster shells. The bluff was only about ten feet wide and the elevation dropped back down to a mud flat that looked like a cranberry bog. From ground level, the color of the red plants popped out against a backdrop of green marsh grass and maritime shrub thickets.

My suspicions about the plant were confirmed, glasswort plants had colonized this mucky mud flat that released an organic smell of rotted eggs after my foot falls disturbed the soil. The site was perfect for glasswort to thrive; it had the full beam of the sun all day long, was protected from the wave action of the waterway by the shell berm and was flooded with each high tide due to the low elevation on the backside of the island.

Glasswort is a type of plant known as a halophyte which can tolerate and thrive in areas with high salinity. There are close to 60 species that grow globally with a few of them, American, common and dwarf, found along the N.C. coast. They are collectively referred to as pickleweed, sea asparagus and in Europe as marsh samphire. These plants are a wetland

indicator species and are considered an obligate wetland species, which means that they will almost always occur in natural wetlands. These plants are one of first to show up in a protected tidal mud flat and create habitat for other species as well. This was evident by the presence of a white ibis stealthily prowling about in search of fiddler crabs. The presence of glasswort will eventually cause sediment to build up resulting in an elevation that will in turn be favorable for the pioneering of other plant species.

Out in the middle of this mud flat, almost all of the common glasswort plants were adorned with multiple periwinkle snails clinging to the base of their woody support stem. Each high tide will deposit a layer of algae and microbes on the glasswort stem that the periwinkle will consume by scraping away this biofilm with its rasp-like radula. The snails stop short of the fleshy scale-like leaves that have turned to a dark red color. The new leaves of this plant are green and the red coloration is thought to be brought on by the buildup of salt in its plump stems as the plant matures. As an annual, it goes out in a blaze of glory. The perennial American glasswort remains green throughout most of the year with the exception of red leaf tips that drop off from time to time.

Even though they have adapted to their salty environment, glasswort species do have a few defenses against the saline. Their roots are surrounded by a layer of oxygen that limits the amount of salt invasion and the tip of their segmented leaves will fall off to remove the highest concentration of salt. Their scientific Latin name, Salicornia, meaning “salty horn,” is a reference to their alkaline leaves. They also have thick waxy tubular leaves that curb the loss of fresh moisture in the plant from evaporation.

Bottlenose dolphin splash in the Intracoastal Waterway.

A white ibis hunts for fiddler crabs among the glasswort.

Some people think that the name glasswort is attributed to their segmented leaves that break off “like glass” due to the salt content or when clumsily handled. Actually, the plant was used in the earliest methods of making glass. Large quantities of the plant were burnt to create an ash that was used in the making of glass. The ashes yield sodium carbonate from all the salt in the plant. When making glass, the sodium carbonate allowed the silica to melt at a lower temperature. Soap makers also used the glasswort ash to improve the cleaning power of their products. Glasswort is loaded with over thirty percent of unsaturated oil (twice that of soybeans) which has stimulated research into its use as a biofuel crop. Early studies have yielded almost 100 gallons of oil per acre of glasswort. It is also being studied as an animal feed, which isn’t surprising since I have seen white-tailed deer grazing on the plant in the marsh.

But this plant that resembles the texture of the foot of a goose, and is in the goosefoot family of plants, is probably best thought of as a food. The new tender shoots have been harvested for centuries to be eaten raw in salads or boiled or steamed as a side dish similar to asparagus. It’s good for you too, full of vitamins A, B and C as well as minerals calcium, iron and iodine. The plant has been used historically to treat pain and swelling related to arthritis and rheumatism and its antioxidant properties are being studied.

As I headed back to the boat dock, I wondered if other motorists had noticed the crimson colored patch of vegetation from the bridge and were curious as to what it was. It is these curiosities that keep me fascinated and intrigued with the mysteries of our coast.

A younger Sam Bland shows off his gigging prowess. Photo: Sam Bland

Autumn along the coast is a time of transition and movement. The cycle of nature is turning with endings and new beginnings. Birds and butterflies are migrating in the air while the fish are moving in the sea.

During their migration peak in late October and early November, summer flounder are swimming out of the barrier island inlets, heading for the continental shelf where they will spawn. As they make their way through the estuaries, they are pursued by recreational fishermen lining the inlet beaches with their rods cradled in a holder firmly anchored in the sand. Other fishermen sling their bait from a boat and drift along the channels during an incoming tide. People even go out at night wading through the water to catch flounder using a method known as gigging.

Even though flounder gigging is a somewhat unconventional way of fishing today, it has been a method to harvest fish at night for thousands of years. Native Americans would use the naturally flammable pine fatwood, also called lighter wood, to make torches that would push away the darkness and bring light to the crystal clear waters. They would wade in the shallow waters with a sapling spear armed at the end with the telson, or tail spike, of a horseshoe crab, to impale the flatfish.

Later, people started using bamboo poles packed with coal, then kerosene lanterns as the light source and spear points started being made out of metal.

Today flounder gigging boats are set up with glowing lights powered with generators or deep cycle batteries that give the appearance of a UFO slowly hovering around the marsh. The illumination is so bright that aircraft might mistake it for runway lights at an airport.

As a young college student in the late 1970’s, I was invited to go flounder gigging one evening by my boss. I was working part-time and I thought this would be a good opportunity for me to bond with my supervisor since I would be soon be applying for a full time job. I had heard of frog gigging before, but never flounder gigging, so I was intrigued to find out how you go into the water at night and catch flounder without a fishing pole.

Before we went gigging that first night, we had to prepare our gear. We took an old galvanized wash tub and inserted it into the center of an inflated tire inner tube. Then a full size truck battery was put in the tub and a rope was attached to the tub handle. This would be our source of floating electrical power. Next we ran some electrical wire through a four foot piece of threaded lead pipe and attached an exterior porch light fixture (the type with the thick glass globe) to one end of the pipe. On the other end, the wire extended about ten feet out of the pipe and alligator clips were attached to the wire. Now we had our light source.

We then found a couple of old brooms and cut the handle off and attached steel gig heads to one end. Armed with our spears, we strapped on waders and stepped into the cool waters of the sound in search of flounder.

Masters of camouflage, flounder aren’t easy to spot buried just beneath the surface of the sand. These, however, weren’t so lucky. Photo: Sam Bland

The alligator clips created sparks when they came in contact with the battery terminals and the harsh glow of the light surrounded us and reached into the water. It soon became apparent that I was asked to tag along to drag the wash tub with the battery. Even though it floated, you still had to pull it along. I also carried the light, which produced a jarring shock through the pipe every time a little water splashed onto the battery terminals. This provided much amusement to my boss. I didn’t care though since I was fascinated with all the creatures moving about; there were hermit crabs, jellyfish, skates, whelks, stingrays, needle nose gars, stargazers, mullet, puppy drum and small sharks.

My boss had been flounder gigging since he was a child and passed on to me the secrets of finding these fish which are masters of camouflage. A flounder will bury itself just beneath the surface of the sand with only its eyes exposed. Both eyes are exposed since a summer flounder has both eyes on the left side of its body. As larvae, their eyes start out on both sides of their head and gradually move to the left side of their head. These fish can also change the color and the spot pattern of their skin on the exposed side of their body. Once these fish are embedded into the sand and change their color to match the surrounding environment they are extremely hard to see. This is a perfect combination for the flatfish to explode from their concealment to ambush prey such as shrimp or minnows.

Once I learned what to look for in locating a flounder, I thought this would be easy. But I must admit that I gigged plenty of flounder shaped piles of sand before I could spot the eyes and outline of their mouth that resulted in stocking my freezer with fish.

One still fall night, I was out looking for some flounder to gig along the calm waters of Beaufort Inlet. I anointed myself with the outdoorsman cologne of choice, Deep Woods Off, to keep the no-see-ums or flying teeth at bay and readied my gear to catch some flounder. I had since upgraded to a self-contained backpack rig that allowed me to carry a small lawn mower battery on my back freeing my hands to hold a light in one hand and a gig in the other. I began near the ocean side and worked my way back toward the sound. Along the way, I picked up a number of nice fat flatfish, one was over two feet long and I was already planning the menu to bake that monster.

With my head down, I continued to slowly shuffle along the shallows intently peering into the clear water to find the tell-tale shape of a flounder with two eyes peeking out of the sand. Then, all of a sudden, my concentration and nerves were destroyed when a man’s booming voice called out from the heavens, “my land son, what are you doing”? His exasperated voice was thick with the distinctive Old English inflection passed down from the early English settlers that made a tough living fishing the waters surrounding isolated islands such as Ocracoke and Harkers. This unique dialect is referred to by some as a high tider or “hoi toider” accent.

This familiar Down East brogue inflection of the voice made me think that if God was from Harkers Island, that must be what his voice would sound like. I was born in Carteret County and lived in the county most of my life; so, I am familiar with the Down East dialect. I know what a dingbatter and dit dot is and I have been mommicked many times in my life.

Startled by the voice, I then looked straight ahead to see that I was about to walk headlong into the bow of a large shrimp boat that was beached perpendicular to the shore. I looked up and saw the shadowy figure of a man hovering above me on the bow of the boat.

“Flounder gigging,” I slowly replied, almost like I was asking a question.

He said, “Son, you’re just out here getting in somebody’s way that’s trying to make a living.”

I replied without a word by smugly hoisting up my huge flounder with my chest stuck out like a rooster.

With a shrug, he dismissed my catch by saying “frying size.” You could hear the air leave my chest as it deflated.

The three stages of “cam”, or calm, from the top: cam; “sic,” or slick, cam; and “dea.” or dead, sicam. Photos: Sam Bland

I asked if he had run out of gas and he seemed insulted that I would suggest that a man of the sea would make such a foolish mistake. He said that the boat had “lost its wheel” and made no attempt to provide an interpretation to address my obvious confusion.

As I made my way around the bow of the boat I attempted some small talk and said, “It sure is calm tonight.”

To which the shrimper man replied, “Son, you don’t know cam.”

Using the bow of his boat as a pulpit, the shrimper then began to preach the three virtues of “cam”, or calm, as it lies on the water.

“Cam”, he explained, is when there are no whitecaps or waves, but the water surface will still show a few ripples from a light wind. A “sic cam”, or slick calm, he proclaimed, is developed when the ripples are gone and the surface is becoming slick, but the slickness is not completely uniform. He then finished off the trinity with the holy grail of calm, the “dea sic cam”, or dead slick calm. This is when the surface is so slick that it looks like polished glass, that everything that meets the water has a mirror image and that the surface is so still that you can’t even determine the direction of the current.

I stood there in a trance, visualizing the degrees of calm, then I looked up to the bow of the boat and the shadowy figure had retreated into the recesses of the boat.

The next morning I returned to where the boat was beached to see if the shrimper needed any help. Knowing that those who work on the water are self-reliant, I wasn’t surprised to see that the boat was gone.

Since that night, every time I head out to go flounder gigging I continue to grade the stillness of the water as calm, slick calm or dead slick calm.

• Watch as a young flounder’s eye moves across its head
• Learn about “drime,” “whopperjawed” and Down East words

Last of two parts

HAMMOCKS BEACH–One day during the late 1980s, I was maneuvering a rusty four-wheel drive pickup truck along the wide flat hard packed sandy beach strand of Bear Island at Hammocks Beach State Park. As park superintendent, I had arranged for a local ornithologist to help me scour the island for any unusual or rare bird species that I could add to the park’s natural history records as well as to provide me with some bragging rights among my wildlife-loving ranger friends.

I don’t remember finding any birds that would make a “life-listing bird watcher” fog up their binoculars on that day, but I do remember a casual comment made by my expert avian observing companion. As we traveled the entire length of the island, we encountered hundreds of a particular species in a number of tightly packed groups feeding at the edge of the shore as small waves gently rolled upon the beach.

A flock of red knots feeds along the shoreline of Bear Island. Photo: Sam Bland

This caused my colleague to announce, “I’d forgotten what a knotty beach Bear Island is.”

He wasn’t referring to the actual physical surface of the beach as bumpy; rather, it was an observation about how crowded the beach was with red knots.

Red knots are a chunky shorebird with a limited neck and stout dark bill that we frequently see racing up and down the slope of the beach as they try to forage without being tumbled feet over feathers by the incoming waves. Their name even refers to a Scandinavian king that ordered the tide to halt to spare his feet from getting wet. The birds represent the king as they run away from the waves to keep their feet dry.

Their breeding plumage is an unmistakable muted red color that covers the breast and washes up their neck and to the eyes. As one of our biggest sandpipers, this bird is found along our beaches in the spring as they journey north for breeding season and then again in the fall as they return to their wintering grounds. To casually mention that these birds migrate without further disclosure would just be irresponsible. These animals have one of the most arduous annual treks of any animal.

Red knot chicks start their life when they crack out of the warmth of an incubated shell and step out into the shockingly chilly air of the high Arctic Canadian tundra. By the next day, the downy chicks have ventured away from the nest and are jabbing their bill into the ground searching for insects in the wetland sedges. Within a few weeks, the chicks will be able to fly and they will instinctually rely on an internal navigation system that will take them on a 9,000-mile journey to Tierra del Fuego, the southernmost point of South America.

Here, the red knots, now with light gray plumage, will spend the winter gorging on tiny clams to pack on a full layer of thick belly fat that will provide them with enough energy to start their spring migration.

But it will take more than just fat reserves for these birds to reach the breeding grounds healthy enough to raise new chicks. Before they depart, their bodies will take on a number of physical changes. Since they will be flying for thousands of miles non-stop, their heart and flight muscles will bulk up to handle to demand. Their leg muscles will atrophy a bit since they are unnecessary while flying. Even their digestive organs, especially the gizzard, will decrease in size.

Red knot populations have six subspecies, with the rufa breed occurring along the eastern coast of North America during the spring migration. It is thought that the group, roselaari, which migrates to the west coast, can also be found on our beaches during the winter.

Each spring, unknown urges will launch a lone red knot off of a mud flat in South America. As it rises into the sky and starts heading north, thousands will join in and the migration is on. The rufa birds will head out in March destined for their major rest stop along the Delaware Bay. But first, they must fly non-stop from northern Brazil across the Atlantic Ocean to reach to the bay. When they arrive in May, they are weary, hungry and looking to replenish the fuel that they have exhausted. Nature has a way of providing. Along the intertidal zone, the horseshoe crab, an ancient-relic-looking arthropod, crawls out of the coastal waters and lays millions of tiny plump energy-packed green eggs. The red knots have timed their arrival to synchronize with the spawning activity of these life sustaining creatures. Almost all of the rufa red knots will stop in at Delaware Bay to load up on the eggs. This last pit stop is vital before the birds make the final push to the Arctic. By June, they are ready to forge ahead and complete this epic journey. If they are lucky, they will have packed on enough bulk to double their body weight, ensuring that they arrive at the mating site with enough fat to sustain them in case food sources are not yet available due to the still-frozen conditions. They must arrive strong and healthy enough to reproduce.

Simply stated, without the horseshoe crab eggs, the red knot cannot survive.

Horseshoe crab eggs form a vital part of migrating red knots’ diets. Photo: Sam Bland

Once at the breeding grounds, the male will select a nesting site near wetlands which will provide a convenient source of food for the adults and chicks. After creating a nest of dead leaves and lichens in open areas void of snow, the female will deposit four eggs that are stained olive with brown markings. Both the male and female will incubate the nest and three weeks later the chicks will escape their oval enclosure. After the chicks are active, the female will take off, leaving rearing duties to the male.

During the return trip south, the horseshoe crab eggs are no longer available and the knots must adjust to another food source. Along the beach swash zone, coquina clams are pre-packaged almond-sized containers of food. Probing with their bill, which is studded with nerve endings called Herbst corpuscles, they can detect the location of the colorful clams, which are then swallowed whole. Their gizzard, which has now reverted back to its normal size, is powerful enough to crush the shell and expose the nourishing meat.

Scientists have long marveled at the mystery of the red knot migration, igniting intrigue into the discovery of their secrets. For the past three decades, researchers have been capturing and banding red knots to learn more about their biology. Technology has provided new ways to track the birds using light-sensitive geolocators, which reveal astounding statistics about their migration. One bird flew, non-stop for 5,000 miles over a six-day period– talk about frequent flyer miles!

Researchers also discovered that the migrating birds will divert around looming dark storms to avoid getting buffeted by strong winds as they return south. Most importantly, the locators identified the crucial habitat areas where the birds rest and refuel. Protecting, preserving and limiting human disturbance in these areas is critical to their survival. Even though the red knot winters and summers in some of the most remote places on earth, human activity threatens their existence. The once abundant horseshoe crab eggs are drying up due to overharvesting of the crabs, which are used as bait in eel traps.

During my years as a ranger on Bear Island, I would document red knot activity and provide it to the U.S. Department of Interior’s Bird Banding Laboratory. To provide detailed information, the birds have been banded with a variety of jewelry on their legs. They usually have a silver metal band with an identifying number, a color-coded band and a colored “flag” band with identifying letters and or numbers that can be easily seen with binoculars. Finding red knots banded with the flag was like a wildlife version of hide-and-seek. When I first started observing these birds I didn’t know to be on the lookout for a celebrity known as B95. Mention B95 and most ornithologists respond with admiration and awe.

B95 statue in Mispillion Harbor, Delaware. Photo: Mike Dunn

During a howling hailstorm in 1995, an Argentinian researcher clamped a band onto the leg of a red knot, and the released bird went on to become a legend. At that time, the bird was thought to be two, maybe three years old. Now close to twenty years old, the bird identified with the orange flag band “B95” showed up on the shores of Delaware Bay in May 2013. These birds live six to seven years tops, yet B95 continues to defy the odds. How many times did it avoid getting snatched out of the air like a bolt of lightning by the talons of a merlin? How many times did it burn up precious energy diverting around threatening storms? How many times did it burst into the air just out of the reach of the sharp teeth of an arctic fox?

Over the years, researchers, biologists and average bird watchers have put on a vigil for the arrival of a red knot with an orange B95 band, and then celebrate like they have seen Big Foot when its number comes into clear focus through the lens of a spotting scope. Only B95 is for real, and is the subject of a great book, Moonbird: A Year on the Wind with the Great Survivor B95, by Phillip Hoose. Since the sterile scientific name B95 just doesn’t play well in the press, B95 also goes by the romantic name Moonbird. Due to its longevity, B95 has flown so many miles that it could have flown to the moon and almost all the way back. This 4-6-ounce puff of feathers is an endurance athlete, and is, as they say, one tough bird.

This small bird has caused quite a stir, to which it is quite oblivious. Its international fame has been used as a teaching tool to countless school children. B95 has even been given the designation as a “Natural Ambassador” by the Tierra del Fuego Province to foster preservation, care and respect for the environment.

Sadly, during its life, Moonbird has seen the migrating flock shrink by eighty percent.

Amazingly, B95 was spotted on August 2, 2013 at the mouth of the St. Lawrence River in Canada heading its way south after another breeding season.

One day the bird watchers will not spot B95 along the Delaware Bay. “Maybe we just missed him this year”, they will say, hopeful that the bird is still alive. They will sweep their binoculars and spotting scopes through the hundreds of red knots feeding on the horseshoe crab eggs, scouring to find B95. Their pulse will race with anticipation as they spot an orange band flag that starts with the letter B, but then lower their binoculars in resignation. For a while, the online birding forums will list rumors of a possible sighting, like Elvis: Maybe B95 lives. I wish Moonbird could live forever as a symbol of the wonders of nature, but most of all as a symbol of hope that horseshoe crabs will thrive and that red knot habitat will be preserved so that a new Moonbird can carry on the legacy of B95.

Yellow cloudless sulphur butterflies are beginning their fall migration.

All around us are signs that summer is waning and fall is just a cool front away.  Here is my list of clues that our natural world is in a stage of transition and crisp cooler weather is on the way to replace the sticky muggy days of summer.

A Cloud of Butterflies: Yellow cloudless sulphur butterflies are parading through on their annual migration. Soon the sulfurs will be joined by the Gulf fritillary and monarch butterflies seeking out nectar from flowering plants. The cloudless sulphur butterfly has a super long proboscis, or tongue, that allows them to reach the nectar left behind by other butterflies on deep tubular flowers. It is thought that the word butterfly was inspired by this buttery colored insect. The old English word “buturflieg” is a combination of two words that mean butter and fly. Local folklore indicates that when the numbers of cloudless sulphur butterflies are at their peak, it is a sign for the few remaining mullet fishermen to get their boats and nets ready to harvest the mullet, which brings us to sign number two.

• Field notes on the migration of yellow sulphurs

The Mullet Are Jumping: Big striped mullet, also called jumping mullet, are already leaping through the air and slapping the water. Their jumping behavior is thought to be an evasive maneuver to escape predators and to aid in breathing while in waters with low oxygen. When a large group of mullet jump out of the water with speed and purpose, they are racing away from danger. When you see a lone mullet jump lazily out of the water landing on its side it is taking in some oxygen. Research also suggests this style of jumping may be a way to dislodge parasites from their gills.

This silver green fish isn’t well thought of as the center piece of a fine meal due to its oily flesh and because it is a favorite of fishermen to use as bait for red drum. However, I have enjoyed a fresh mullet cooked over the grill by someone with enough culinary skills to make this fish tasty. For generations, this lowly fish has been harvested by hardy fishermen with hands rough and calloused from pulling in heavy nets laden with mullet, fat with the prized orangish-red eggs of the females. This roe is a delicacy in Japan and other Far East countries. This dying breed of fisherman will bide their time until the strong autumn cold fronts blast winds from the northeast, known as a “mullet blow,” chilling the water and igniting a mullet run.

• Watch a video of hundreds of mullets jumping out of the water

Muscadine grapes are hanging heavy from the vine.

Fattening Grapes on the Vine: The fat muscadine grapes are hanging heavy with tasty pulp which is causing them to lose their battle with gravity and fall off the vine. This naturally occurring vine has been cultivated for centuries, producing many different varieties such as the popular Scuppernong. What is thought to be one of the oldest grape vines in the world is a Scuppernong muscadine vine known as the “Mother Vine” on Roanoke Island. Over the centuries it has survived the howling salt-filled winds of many hurricanes; however a few years ago, the Mother Vine was nursed back to health after being mistakenly sprayed with an herbicide.

These grapes contain ellagic acid and resveratrol which show great promise in their ability to prevent cancer tumor growth. Muscadine grapes have long been used to make wine, juice and jelly. A coworker of mine once decided that he would attempt to make a batch of jelly. Without caution, he went headlong into a shrub thicket covered with the vine and emerged with a bucket brimming with the thick skinned dark purple grape. He created the finest jelly ever to grace a peanut butter. Yet, he never cooked up another batch as he also filled his underwear full of chiggers as he harvested the berries. He is still itching today.

• Growing muscadines at home

The Silence of the Buntings: The sweet song of our colorful summer visitors has fallen silent as the male painted buntings have found it unnecessary to sing for a mate. They have returned to their secretive ways within the dense maritime shrub thickets, no longer pining from an exposed perch for the attention of a female. With the breeding season over, the males, pale green females and fledglings are preparing for the demanding and hazardous return trip to lower Florida and Cuba. Keep those feeders full of white millet until October to help these beauties put on a layer of fat necessary to fuel them on their travels.

• Attracting painted buntings to your yard

The Waning Light: Although it has been barely perceptible on a daily basis, we will have lost over two hours and twenty minutes of sunlight between the summer solstice on June 21 and the fall equinox on Sept. 22. In about a week, the length of darkness will exceed the sunlight hours until next spring.

The length of daylight and nighttime hours causes physical changes in plants and animals and is called photoperiodism. The shorter days will trigger migration and mating behavior in some animals as well as changes in the color and thickness of fur. Birds will molt new feathers, some plants will lose their leaves and some will flower.

• Everything you need to know about the fall equinox

We have lost almost 2.5 hours of daylight since the solstice on June 21. Soon there will be more night than day.

Deer Rubbings: The male white-tailed deer are rubbing their antlers on the base of cedar trees trying to remove the once dark brown velvety covering that has now dried up and turned pale. The antler velvet is a hairy skin that supplies blood necessary for the antlers to grow. During growth, while in velvet, the antler is soft and vulnerable to injury. If the antler is damaged during this stage it can result in unusual deformities of the antler. As fall approaches, blood flow to the antler stops, causing the velvet to split and slough off in bloody dangling ropes. The antlers will soon shine like a sun bleached bone and the males will be sparring for dominance to breed with the females.

A Riot of Goldenrod: Seaside goldenrod plants are just beginning to show a hint of yellow and will be adding some color to the dunes along the barrier islands. During their fall migration, monarch butterflies will seek out the goldenrod as a nectar source to fuel them on their way to Mexico. This tough plant can tolerate the harshness of the beach environment and is thus used for dune and wildlife habitat restoration projects.

A Bear in the Night Sky: The night sky is in transition with the big dipper making its way to the low northern horizon. This pattern of stars is known as an asterism and is within the constellation Ursa Major, the Big Bear. The big dipper forms the tail and rump of the bear image. There are many Native American legends of the night sky concerning the big dipper. One of these stories relates that the low position of the big dipper on the horizon is an indication that the bear is coming back to earth to hibernate with the other animals.

• The Myths of the Great Bear

American beautyberry

An American Beauty: Among the maritime shrubs, American beautyberry has exploded with their purple berries screaming for attention. This plant lives up to its name and is a popular landscaping plant. Its leaves and berries are an important food source for birds, deer, raccoons and foxes. The Native Americans used all parts of this plant to make teas and other treatments for a variety of medicinal uses such as dizziness and stomach aches. Some of the chemicals in this plant are being studied for their ability to repel mosquitoes, ticks and fire ants.

• Beautyberry Jelly Recipes

If you’re counting, that’s nine natural signs of fall. Go to this story’s posting on the federation’s Facebook page and add a tenth.

Beautiful, multi-colored coquina clams live in dense colonies at the water’s edge. There, they need to be swift diggers to survive.

EMERALD ISLE — The recent uncharacteristically mild August temperatures encouraged me to take advantage of the dog-less days of summer and spend the afternoon on the beach.

As I crested the dunes, the scent of sunscreen lingered in the salty breeze, remnants from tourists down the beach who had lathered up to avoid scalding sunburn. I found a spot away from the crowd and settled into my beach chair about halfway between the aqua-colored water and the elegant primary dunes that sported a wall of slender-stalked sea oats busting with seed heads. I stared out into the ocean horizon broken only by a few, small, fluffy clouds and soon fell victim to the ocean’s lullaby.

Sometime later, I sluggishly awoke and glanced about to get my bearings. I immediately saw a pair of black eyes popping up like periscopes from the rim of a hole at the base of a sand dune. These stalked eyes belong to one of the ghost crabs that reside along the open beach and in the sand dunes. The crabs  are capable of seeing 360 degrees to detect potential predators and prey. Their only blind spot is directly overhead.

This crab slowly moved out of its burrow to reveal a sandy colored box-shaped shell, four pairs of hairy walking legs and a pair of formidable-looking claws. Underneath the legs was a ball of sand, which the crab deposited next to the burrow entrance of its tunnel, which I knew extended four feet under the sand. Only an adult male ghost crab will drop the excavated material next to the burrow. Female and young crabs will sling and scatter the sand away from the opening. This behavior allows female ghost crabs to easily find a mate.

In the tunneIs ghost crabs find shelter from the hot sun. They usually come out in the cooler temperatures of the night. Under a darkened sky, these crabs will venture to the water’s edge, allowing the incoming waves to wash over them so that their gills can absorb the oxygen rich water. Even though most of its life is terrestrial, ghost crabs must return to the water periodically to wet their gills. If they are unable to return to the water they can wick moisture from damp sand using the fine hairs on their legs. During winter hibernation they can survive by storing oxygen in special sacs near their gills.

Ghost crabs have to spend some time in the water to wet their gills. Otherwise, you can generally find them in the dunes near their borrows.

Ghost crabs are fast and can move along at 10 miles an hour. Their speed and coloration can make them disappear like a ghost, thus the name. Even part of its scientific name means “swift-footed.” One of its early Latin names meant “fleet-footed one of white.” This speed allows them to easily capture sea turtle hatchlings, which they pull into their burrow and feed upon during the summer and fall months. For sea turtle lovers this sounds harsh, but a female sea turtle will deposit close to 120 eggs in her nest to absorb the high mortality due to natural predation. Ghost crabs will also scavenge along the shore and feed on critters found in the surf.

A quick dip in the ocean refreshed my senses and as I walked out of the surf I stopped in the high energy area of the beach known as the swash zone. This is where the water from the incoming waves spills up onto the gentle upward slope of the shore. Here the sand is liquefied and as a child I loved to stand here while the weight of my body would cause my legs to sink deeper into the sand with each incoming wave until it appeared that my knees were my feet. This is where my sisters would collect the wet sand to make sand castles. Without the plastic sand castle molds of today, they would grab handfuls of wet sand and dribble ropy glops of the fluid sand through their fingers creating all kinds of weird- shaped “castles.”

I pulled a foot from the sand and a beige colored mole crab plopped onto the sand and it quickly reburied itself. These one-inch, oval-shaped crabs are also called sand fleas or sand crabs. Anyone, regardless of age, who has visited the beach during the summer has been captivated by the digging ability of this tiny crab. They move horizontally with the movement of the tide to stay in the swash zone where the sand is soft. If the sand is dry or hard they are unable to dig deep enough to be protected from shorebirds such as willets. Their tough heavily armored exoskeleton protects them in the rough and tumble world of the surf zone. Using five pairs of legs, they will dig backwards into the sand and extend feathery antennae that filter out plankton and decaying organic matter from the incoming or retreating waves.

Mole crabs live in the swash, where the sand is soft enough to allow them to dig quickly to avoid hungry birds. Notice their stalked eye and feathery antennae that direct oxygen to their gills..

On moonless summer evenings I have walked the beach specifically looking for mole crabs. How can I see them at night you might wonder? Well, when conditions are just right, bioluminescent material will adhere to their shell or antennae causing them to glow in the dark. As a wave recedes, greenish glowing oval shapes quickly disappear into the sand.

As I dug around in the sand to find a few mole crabs, I also found some small half-inch, multi colored clams called coquina clams. Beautiful color bands or rays wrap across the shell. This bivalve mollusk is also a fast digger, using its wedge shape and powerful muscular foot it can quickly vanish into the sand. Sometimes not quick enough for the migrating red knots that rely on them for fuel. When the hinged halves of a dead coquina are found open on the beach they are also referred to as the “butterfly shell.”

Like the mole crab, coquina clams are filter feeders, however instead of antennae, they use siphon tubes to extract algae and detritus from the sea water. These clams are sensitive to the low frequency vibrations created when waves spill onto the beach. This allows them to gauge the location of the breaking waves with the movement of the tide, allowing them to stay in the swash zone. When they need to move higher or lower on the beach they will pop out of the sand and use the wave to push or pull them to the desired location. This is the coquina version of body surfing.

Coquina clams have existed in large numbers for many years. Over time, so many have lived and died that huge deposits of the shells have created limestone rock deposits known as “coquina,” which is a Spanish word for rocks made from shells. An example of this can be found at Fort Fisher near Carolina Beach, where an outcrop of coquina rock is exposed along the beach. Native Americans used coquina as a source of food by boiling large quantities of the tiny clam to create a clam broth. Even today, some folks testify to the culinary attributes of the green colored broth.

All three of these animals, the ghost crab, mole crab and coquina clam, are indicator species that signal the health and diversity of the beach ecosystem. Their presence is important in a food chain that supports many other species. The mole crabs and coquina clams in particular are like chocolate chip cookies to pompano, red drum, blue crabs, moon snails and sanderlings. Without a healthy natural beach, these species would not survive to support a host of other species that rely on them to exist. These creatures are also champions of the beach environment, creating moments of wonder to anyone that has ever walked barefoot through the surf on a warm summer day.

Like mole crabs, coquina clams are filter feeders, however instead of antennae, they use siphon tubes to extract algae and detritus from the sea water. 

The view from the top of the Cape Lookout Lighthouse can take your breath away. Here, we’re looking south across the Bight toward The Spit, which is favored in the fall by fly fishermen hoping to hook into albacore.

HARKERS ISLAND — After millions of years of erosion, winds, tides, currents, storms and hurricanes, the N.C. coast is now decorated with barrier islands and three prominent capes. Each of these capes, Hatteras, Lookout and Fear, has their own distinctive natural and cultural history.

As a native of Carteret County, I am very familiar with and have visited Cape Lookout many, many times. Yet as a result, I have also taken Cape Lookout for granted. The words “Cape Lookout” immediately bring to mind memories of fishing, swimming, surfing, boating, history, sea turtles, shore birds, isolation, serenity and, of course, the lighthouse. Thus, I decided to refresh myself in the wonder of this amazing place.

I recently hopped on one of the local ferry service skiffs out of Harkers Island for a kidney pounding ride across Back Sound and Barden’s Inlet on a brilliant but windy summer afternoon. Off in the distance, the lighthouse beacon was winking every 15 seconds as the ferry captain expertly skimmed the craft over the crystal clear, shallow, turquoise waters. As we rounded the tip of Shackelford Banks and before entering the famous Lookout Bight, a welcoming committee of Banker horses lounged lazily in the hot, baking sun.

The Lightkeeper’s House is now a museum and visitors center. The lighthouse itself is open daily. Climb to the top to see the lense.

An early morning squall had left most boats anchored at the docks, leaving the Bight harbor practically empty. The Lookout Bight has long been a refuge for mariners seeking shelter in a storm. The Native Americans, known as the Coree, were most likely the first to ply these waters in their dugout canoes. Over the years, Florentine explorers, Spanish and French privateers, British warship, whalers, lifesavers and the U.S. Coast Guard all have dropped anchor here. It has even been suggested that Blackbeard the pirate sailed out of the Bight to prey on merchant ships. This site was so valuable to a group of French privateers that they built a fort, called Fort Hancock, to keep the British ships at bay during the Revolutionary War.

Without a pirate in sight, the ferry captain dropped me off at a dock just a short distance from the Cape Lookout Lighthouse. Today, as a national seashore, Cape Lookout congers up images that in no way reflects the impressions it had on ancient sailors. Some of the earliest maps of the area name this sandy hook-shaped spit as Promontorium Tremendum, which translates into Horrible Headland. Reaching out, up to 16 miles off the cape, shallow sandbars snared unwary ships like a moth in the web of a spider.

Owners and captains of merchant ships soon demanded that a lighthouse be built to guide the ships. A 94-foot tall brick and wood, red and white tower was built in 1812 to provide a beacon of salvation. Yet, the height of the structure proved to be limited in providing an effective reach of the beacon out to sea. This limitation was rectified in 1859 when a new 163-foot lighthouse was built, providing a light visible up to 18 miles.

One hundred and fifty four years later, the lighthouse still stands tall and after some safety renovations, the National Park Service is allowing visitors to climb the tower. The early light sources were lamps fueled with whale oil or kerosene and were magnified by the powerful prisms of a first order Fresnel lens.  As I began my climb up the stairs, I tried to imagine carrying a 45-pound, 5-gallon can of fuel all the way to the top. Climbing 216 steps, the lighthouse keepers must have developed enlarged quad muscles that would make a professional cyclist jealous. The red brick interior stair case was wider than I expected and the short steps made for an easy climb. Near the top, the short final staircase is quite narrow before reaching the landing that accesses the exterior catwalk. I needed to crouch and awkwardly step through the short steel fortified hatch doorway that has sealed out many of a hurricane. Outside on the gallery, I righted myself as the view and wind took my breath away. Involuntary reflexes allowed me to continue breathing as the beauty of Cape Lookout stretched out below me, overwhelming my senses. Every direction was pure delight, eye candy as some would call it.

A limited number of visitors are allowed on the gallery at a time, resulting in time limits. Fortunately for me, it took a while for another group to reach the top, thus, I was allowed an extended stay causing my mind to imagine the past and what might have been.

From the gallery I could see a long rock jetty on the west side of the cape. This jetty was built in 1914 to elongate and reinforce the sand spit in anticipation of a railway from Beaufort to the Cape in hopes of developing a significant coal port. A railway would have surely resulted in development of this pristine shoreline. Indeed, the Cape Lookout Development Co. was established to begin construction of a residential community. However, the uncertainties of World War I caused the project to stall.

The old Coast Guard Station was built in 1916 and consists of several wooden buildings. The chief structure is the Main Station, far right, a neo-colonial building with a central cupola or watchtower. The Coast Guard closed the station in 1982. The buildings are now owned by the National Parks Service.

Even the lighthouse itself almost came tumbling down during the Civil War. When Union armies controlled the Cape, Confederates tried to blow up the lighthouse to prevent its beacon from benefitting Union. The explosion caused only minor damage.

In 1880, the Cape Lookout Lifesaving Station kept a presence on the Cape and eventually closed over 100 years later as a U.S. Coast Guard station in 1982. Numerous hurricane dispatches were reported from Cape Lookout by the U.S. Weather Bureau Station for almost 30 years until it closed down in 1904. During World War II, Battery Cape Lookout was constructed and armed with large naval guns to protect the coast from the German submarines that prowled just offshore.

The Barden House near the Bight was the original lightkeeper’s house.

The original Livesaving Station.

Reluctantly, I stepped back through the hatch and into the watchroom. On this upper landing you can see into the lantern room and watch the two rotating beacons that replaced the Fresnel lens in 1975. After I headed back down a ways, I looked up at the twisting spiral staircase. With the steps and central support post it looked like a giant auger spinning in a shaft.

Once out of the lighthouse, I followed a long boardwalk that protected the fragile dune fields and emptied visitors out on the beach. Even though the wind had subsided quite a bit, the gorgeous golden beach was practically empty except for a few tourists — called “dit dots” by the locals — lying prone on beach towels getting a sizzling sunburn on their alabaster bodies. At the end of the boardwalk I sat on a bench for a brief rest and watched the tumbling surf crash on the beach.

Throughout the dunes, the sand stabilizing plant, sea oats, were busting open with fresh seed heads that danced in the breeze. The roar of the surf and the swishing of the sea oats were lulling me to sleep.

Off in a low dune valley, a blanket of firewheel flowers created a colorful meadow that looked like an inviting place to take a nap. But once out of the cool ocean breeze, I knew that the searing sun would shrivel me up like the pink morning glories that lined the trail.

As I walked back towards the lighthouse, the black and white diamond pattern looked different. When I first approached the lighthouse from the east the diamonds were white, now, approaching from the south they were black. This diamond, or checker pattern, was painted in 1873 to uniquely identify the lighthouse location as Cape Lookout and the black and white diamonds indicated direction.

I finished my visit to Cape Lookout by walking along the shoreline of the Bight and saw bits of the past in chips of broken china plates and hand blown glass bottles. Out of nowhere, a group of black skimmers glided gracefully above the surface of water and reminded me of the wildlife surprises that the Cape has to offer. This is a place where you might see a huge female leatherback sea turtle crawl ashore to lay her eggs on a warm summer night or you might catch a glimpse of a harbor seal resting and sunning itself on the beach on a cool late winter day.

I often take long bicycle rides along our coastal barrier islands and whenever I’m on Bogue Banks, I follow an urge to ride to Fort Macon and look east out over Beaufort Inlet and find the lighthouse silhouette on the horizon. I’ll stare intently until I see the flash of the beacon. In my early 20s, I worked as a park ranger at Fort Macon State Park and loved it when the strong cool fronts pushed through in the early fall erasing the sticky summer haze that often obscured viewing the lighthouse. From the top of the fort, the lighthouse would pop out from the horizon against a crisp brilliant blue sky background resembling an oil painting.

Cape Lookout is beloved by many and in eastern North Carolina it is easy to find miniature Lookout lighthouse replicas adorning yards as lawn art. I have heard that some of the lifelong locals that live under the sweep of the beacon refer to the comforting flash of the lighthouse as the beating of their heart. Just as the deep foundation that anchors the lighthouse firmly in the sandy soil, this lighthouse is an anchor to my roots in Carteret County.

On occasion, I will receive reports of unusual animals making a rare appearance along our coastal barrier islands.

I usually don’t get too excited because the animal is often not what someone thinks it is or by the time I get to where it is located the creature has vanished. However, on a recent balmy evening I received an email from a reliable source reporting that a bird rare to North Carolina was within a mile of my house. Just across Bogue Inlet, from the point of Bogue Banks, several park ranger friends of mine had sighted a roseate spoonbill stalking the marshes of Bear Island.

Even with the cloudy skies, it was a busy day at the park for a Monday, with sunbathers, swimmers and beachcombers scattered along the strand. Heading east, I busied myself looking for sea shells along the wrack line even though the speed of the ATV made the shells appear as one long blurry line. The next day, I was gliding on the state park ferry over waters darkened by overcast skies in hopes of locating this wayward visitor. Ranger Sarah Kendrick joined me on the ferry and we were met at the dock by ranger Renee Evans. The rangers presented me with the kind offer to ride along with them in an all-terrain vehicle (ATV) to the area of the day before’s sighting. The ATV easily pulled through the loose powdery sand of the dune line as we made our way onto the wide, flat, low tide beach.

Ranger Evans maneuvered the ATV around the eastern point of Bear Island steering clear of the closed posted sections of the sand spit that are reserved for the colonial shore birds that had scratched out well-camouflaged nests. Least terns were busy overhead returning to the colony with fish for the newly hatched hungry chicks. When the vehicle stopped, we were staring directly at a low tidal flat at the edge of the Spartina marsh.

“This is where I saw it,” Evans said. The tidal flat was fed by a shallow tidal creek that cut through the marsh and became very narrow as it fell away in the opposite direction. The tide was still dropping, revealing numerous bowl-like depressions that trapped plenty of fish, shrimp and small blue crabs within. They were natural fish bowls.

A few great and snowy egrets were out looking for a meal, but it appeared that the spoonbill was not going to present an easy sighting. After waiting for a bit, we decided to hike out and around the marsh area to get above the tidal creek. As we hiked along, there was a noisy protest from a number of adult oyster catchers, willets and Wilson’s plovers. Since the area was tidal, it was unlikely that a nest was nearby. Most likely the parents had ushered their chicks into the shelter of the cooler marsh grass to avoid the heat of the day.

We decided to split up to increase our chance of finding the spoonbill. The rangers would hop back into the ATV to check another marsh area and I would continue walking a big loop around the entire marsh at the eastern point. Trudging along, the greenhead biting flies would at times torment me and the occasional oyster catcher would do a fly-by to indicate its displeasure with my presence with a fussy distress call. I would frequently stop to scan the marsh during this game of hide-and seek-to no avail.From this location we were able to walk a number of tidal creek mud flats that spilled out into Bogue Inlet. This is perfect habitat for the spoonbill looking for an easy “fish in a barrel” meal. As we meandered through the marsh, an eerie army of hundreds of thousands of fiddler crabs parted before us. A sharp clicking sound filled the air when their legs and shells collided as they climbed over each other racing ahead of our foot falls. In one of the tidal pools, a greedy blue crab was feeding on a small appetizer fiddler crab with one claw while holding a bigger main course fiddler in the other claw.

I was almost back to our original starting point at the tidal creek when I saw a willet dancing around and jabbing its long beak into a tidal pool. In an ironic twist of fate, a blue crab was now a link in the food chain as it was being subdued and eventually gulped down by the willet.

Rangers Kendrick and Evans arrived and I tossed my backpack into the bed of the ATV with a sense of defeat. We chatted for a few minutes, and then one of them exclaimed, “There it is!”

Looking down the tidal creek I saw a medium-sized white wading bird about a hundred yards away and dismissed it as a snowy egret. Evans said, “Not with all that pink.” Having an eyesight color deficiency, it is difficult for me to pick up red colors against a green marsh grass background.

Ranger Kendrick thrust a pair of binoculars in front of me and said, “It IS the spoonbill.”

And there it was, a roseate spoonbill on Bear Island.

These birds are not supposed to be here. They are in Florida, a few Gulf Coast states and Central and South America. I slowly and casually opened my backpack and prepared my camera with a long lens and monopod while managing to hold myself back from racing through the marsh screaming, “Look at the spoonbill!”

A check with the binoculars revealed a three-foot-tall, almost cartoonlike caricature of a bird with a long flat bill that looks like, well, a large wooden spoon. Its pale green head is as bald as Bozo the Clown with obvious ear openings protected with tufts of downy feathers and piercing blood-red eyes. The body looks like a fluffy ball of pink cotton candy standing on long, rose-colored legs. Their roseate coloration is the result of an organic pigment that is found in algae that their prey consumes. The juvenile birds are born with a head of white feathers that will eventually recede into the baldpate.

The spoonbill casually strolled down the empty tidal creek and out onto a mud flat covered with about half a foot of water. It began sweeping its long bill back and forth through the water. This sweeping method of feeding is used when the water is cloudy or at night when the bird cannot see the prey. The bill would remain partially open in an effort to feel prey with sensitive nerve endings located on the bill. When prey such as crabs, fish or shrimp come in contact with the bill, it will automatically snap shut capturing the food. With a sharp jerk of the head the prey is thrown into the back of the throat. The nostrils are located high up on the bill allowing the bird to easily breathe while probing deep into the water.

As it fed, a low grunting sound could be heard from time to time. We followed the bird as it flew short distances to other productive feeding areas. Here, in the shallow “fish bowls” the spoonbill could easily see the crabs and would just grab or peck with its large bill devouring the meal.

North Carolina is as far north as this species of spoonbill will venture. They have been spotted at Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge on the northern Outer Banks, at Twin Lakes in Sunset Beach and out on Ocean Isle Beach, and they have even been sighted at Riverbend Park in Catawaba County near Statesville, N.C. They can be found in fresh as well as salt water marshes and are the only spoonbill species (out of six) found in the Northern Hemisphere. Although this spoonbill was a loner, they are quite social and often found in groups, and they will mix in with other wading birds. A large group of spoonbills is referred to as a bowl.

During the 1800s, the roseate spoonbill was almost wiped out along with many other long-legged wading birds that were slaughtered for their plumage to adorn hats. The spoonbill feathers were specifically used in the making of hand fans and privacy screens. Conservation laws soon protected the birds and they have made a remarkable comeback. Today, even though their numbers are somewhat stable, they are threatened by the loss of feeding and breeding habitat.

Returning to Bear Island two days later, I searched for a few hours and was unsuccessful in locating the spoonbill. I walked out of the marsh, through the dune fields and out onto the low tide beach. As I hiked back to the dock I saw linear etchings in the sand. I ran my hand along the sand and came into contact with a hard object gliding partially submerged through the sand. Impatient for the return of the incoming tide, lettered olive gastropod mollusks were busting out of the hard-packed low tide sand and heading back towards the ocean and the soft, loose sand moistened by the incoming waves.

The enjoyment of a rare spoonbill sighting on Bear Island will last with me for a long time, but seeing these lettered olives fight their way back to the ocean was also an experience that I will not soon forget. If we just take the time to get out and explore nature, we will discover and experience that the normal existence of wildlife can be quite extraordinary.

The wild horses of Shackleford Banks are thought to be descendants of Spanish mustangs that survived shipwrecks off the N.C. coast in the 1560s.

BEAUFORT — The coast of North Carolina is blessed with a number of undeveloped barrier islands where you can still step back in time and have a true rustic wilderness experience, even if only for a few hours. Accessible only by boat, these islands are destinations that require a bit of planning to enjoy their remoteness. One lies just south of Beaufort, in Carteret County, sandwiched between a couple of iconic coastal landmarks, Fort Macon and the Cape Lookout Lighthouse.

As I headed out from the Beaufort waterfront in a private water taxi — $15 roundtrip and reservations are recommended in the summer — we entered the calm waves of Beaufort Inlet on a spectacular warm day filled with endless blue skies and light wind. Even though Shackleford Banks is discretely nestled between these two natural and cultural resource heavyweights, it can more than hold its own in terms of allure. While the fort has been around since 1834 and the lighthouse since 1859, the signature feature of “Shack” has been around for over four hundred years.

Nighthawks find the insect buffet of Shackleford to their liking.

A sandwich tern is on the lookout for a meal.

The ferry captain smoothly slid the bow of the boat onto the soundside western shore of the island and I hopped off without even getting my feet wet. I was immediately greeted by a few of the famous horses that give me a casual glance and continued munching on the dune grasses. This lazy group of horses

appeared quite docile, so I moved on in hopes of finding a rowdy bunch of bachelor males challenging a stallion over a harem.

I hiked over to the beach side along the western tip of the island where it is quite evident that storm waves have grinded away a bit of the point, flattened a few small dunes and overwashed into the shrub thickets.

Suddenly, a small mammal darted about trying to seek cover among the dying wax myrtle shrubs. Then, as if playing a game of freeze, a cottontail rabbit abruptly stopped in its tracks and was as still as a stone statue. This type of rabbit can run up to 18 miles an hour, and this one predictably escaped into the brush in a blurring burst of speed.

When serious development began sprouting from the sand of the barrier islands in the 1960’s, some visionary thinkers within North Carolina state government began buying up some island property, including Shackleford Banks. Cape Lookout National Seashore was created in 1966. It included Shackleford Banks and three more islands to the north, “In order to preserve for public use and enjoyment an area in the State of North Carolina possessing outstanding natural and recreational values.”

I continued walking east down the beach for about a mile and then decided to walk through the low interior dunes. As I meandered through the dunes and pockets of shrubs, I could hear a one second long electric buzzing sound about every thirty or forty seconds. I started searching the shrubs to see if an insect was the orator when the buzzing sound ignited my memory and I knew exactly the source of sound. Nighthawks!

I looked up into the blue sky and two nighthawks were diving and swooping from great heights down through the dunes to feast on the abundant flying insects. The name nighthawk is a bit of a mystery since this bird is seen during daylight hours and is not a member of the hawk family. In flight, nighthawks are easy to identify with conspicuous white bars on long pointed wings. On the ground or in a tree, the cryptic color pattern of their feathers allows them to dissolve into their surroundings to avoid detection. The nighthawks put on quite an aerial show and one even alighted on a dead tree, then on the ground, allowing me to get a good look at this intriguing bird.

As the nighthawks moved on down the island in search of more food, I walked back over the dunes and onto the beach. The powdery white sand stretched east for another few lonely miles. Without much remaining physical evidence, it’s hard to believe that the entire island was once home to a number of substantial communities. The island is named after John Shackleford who acquired the island in the early 1700s. Over the next hundred years or so, parcels of the island were willed to children, some parcels were sold and the population on the banks began to grow through the 1800s.

Shore-based whaling was a way of life on Shackleford for a long time. The British explorer John Lawson wrote in 1709, that the land now known as Shackleford Banks “has been, since the memory of man runneth not the contrary, a whaling ground.” Also in April 9, 1857, the Beaufort Journal noted that a whale close to70 feet long produced around 50 barrels of oil was caught by Shackleford Banks whalers. The oil alone was worth $1,000. The Shackleford whalers were also known to name their catches. In 1874, a right whale put up a tremendous fight, pulling the whalers in their ship well out to sea. Named the Mayflower, the skeleton now hangs in the N.C. Museum of Natural Sciences.

The lonely beaches of Shackleford Banks stretch for about nine miles west of the shoals at Cape Lookout.

Diamond City, located on the eastern end of the island, was the hub of these whaling and fishing communities. Originally called Lookout Woods, the residents, called Ca’e Bankers, named the community Diamond City in 1885 after the diamond shape pattern that was painted on the nearby lighthouse in 1873.

A large high dune protected the “city” from strong southerly winds and stormy seas. The dune also served as a lookout post to sight migrating whales. Behind it, residents built houses, stores, and a school house. They raised goats, cows and sheep and grew gardens in the rich peat soil. At its peak, close to five hundred residents worked to make a living from the riches that they could coax from the sea.

By today’s standards, life on the barrier island was indeed harsh when pounded with frequent violent storms. In 1886, the village residents watched helplessly as the ship “Chrissie Wright” grounded just offshore on a stormy and bitterly cold night. By the next day all the crew, save the cook, were dead, mainly from the cold. A reference to the story of the ‘Chrissie Wright’ is still alive today through the descendants of Diamond City residents. When temperatures dip into the teens, they might say, “It’s as cold as the night of the Chrissie Wright.”

The dunes in the interior of Shackleford Banks provide some shelter for grasses and wax myrtle to thrive.

Wild horses frolic on the beach.

This tragedy encouraged the U. S. Life Saving Service to establish a station at Cape Lookout and was later represented in a mural painting decorating the wall of the post office in the town of Beaufort.

But even these hardy souls could take only so much when a series of hurricanes pounded the N.C. coast in the late 1890s. A hurricane in August of 1899, known as the Great Hurricane, delivered the knockout punch when the salty surge waters washed over the island reducing most of the structures to splinters, poisoning the wells and rendering the garden soil barren. The residents salvaged what they could and relocated to the communities of Harkers Island, Marshallberg, Salter Path and what is known as the Promise Land in Morehead City.

By 1902, Diamond City was no more and Shackleford Banks was left to the wild horses. Decedents of Spanish mustangs, these horses are thought to have first arrived in 1565 as they scrambled off of ships caught in the grip of the Graveyard of the Atlantic. North Carolina considers these horses native because of their cultural significance associated with the history of the Outer Banks. In 1998, federal legislation created the Shackleford Banks Wild Horse Protection Act to ensure that these horses will forever remain an enduring reminder of our coastal heritage.

About halfway down the island, I found a young bachelor taunting a stallion with his harem by walking way too close to the group. After being run off a few times by the stallion, the rival returned and held his ground about 40 yards away from the females. The stallion cautiously approached and they stood toe to toe and the tension was palpable. They banged their chests against each other, and the stallion attempted to bite the neck and mane of the intruder and then pop him with a right hoof to the side. The stallion repositioned with his rear to the rival then threw a double blow with his back legs into the belly of the horse creating a loud thud. Initially, the intruder stood there unfazed, but then slowly walked backward keeping a wary eye on the stallion. It then turned with head down in defeat and meandered out of sight into the interior of the island.

I cut across the island through dunes, meadows filled with wildflowers, yaupon thickets and maritime forest to reach the soundside. Out on the sound beach, I looked west and realized that while I was being mesmerized by the beauty of the island, I had walked much farther than I had realized. I hiked back to my pick up site doing double time to make sure that I wasn’t late for the last return boat trip of the day.

When I reached the freshwater seep known as the Mullet Pond, I was close to the rendezvous point so I took a quick look to see if any of the horses were taking a drink. Without a horse in sight I walked to the pickup spot where a number of sandwich terns were diving after some small surface fish just feet from the shore. As I sat watching the terns, I remembered trips here years ago, running across the dunes with a surfboard under my arm without even a backwards glance at the island as I paddled out into the waves. After today, I know that I will return many more times to Shackleford Banks while leaving my surfboard at home.

Related Stuff Worth a Look

• They watched the “Chrissie Wright” go down
• Whaling in North Carolina
• Wild ponies of Shackleford

Like tens of thousands of tourists each year, Sam Bland hiked to the top of Jockey’s Ridge in Nags to capture the sun casting its dying light over Roanoke Sound.

	The Cape Hatteras Lighthouse was moved back from the ocean to a safer location. Visitors can climb to the top to see the Fresnel lens.

The Outer Banks of North Carolina are one of my favorite places to spend some free time. I’m talking about Core Banks north to Corolla, the real Outer Banks. The rugged beauty, interesting culture, amazing history and diverse wildlife on this sandy ribbon of sand have always appealed to me.

So when my wife had a business trip scheduled for late March in the northern Outer Bank’s town of Duck in Currituck County, I begged to tag along. March is usually a great time to visit, tourists have yet to arrive and the daytime average temperature is 60 degrees.

We departed for Duck under clear skies with a temperature of 50 degrees. Upon arrival we were greeted with snow showers, 34 degrees and blustery winds. No good for a couple of people with the thermoregulatory ability of a lizard.

The next morning, I headed south along N.C. 12, entering the Cape Hatteras National Seashore and into the area known as Bodie Island. When they say the word “Bodie,” most folks will hang onto the “o” and mispronounce the word. It’s pronounced “body,” which is how the island was originally spelled. It was named after the Body family that owned much of the island. It is not known why or when the name was changed to its current spelling. Local legend attributes that the name is actually a reference to the frequency of dead sailors that the washed ashore after shipwrecks.

Standing guard over the island is the black-and-white banded, freshly restored 170-foot-tall brick lighthouse. This is the third lighthouse serving the role as protector along this stretch of shoreline. The first, built in 1847, was so poorly constructed that it soon started sinking into the soft ground and began to list like the Tower of Pisa. It was eventually demolished and another guardian was built in 1859. This lighthouse was sound; however it was blown up by Confederate soldiers in 1861 to prevent invading Union troops from using it as a lookout post.

The existing lighthouse, completed 11 years later, stands proud and still contains the original Fresnel lens. Made up of hundreds of glass prisms, this lens can cut light through the darkest of nights for 19 miles.

The Park Service started a $2 million restoration effort in January of 2012. For the first time, visitors will be able to climb the 214 steps to the top of the lighthouse, starting April 19. The keeper’s duplex now serves as a visitor center, housing a great bookstore and displays about the lighthouse.

The old Oregon Inlet Lifesaving Station was abandoned more than 20 years ago and left to its fate.

A few miles down N.C. 12 in Rodanthe, bulldozers and front-end loaders work feverishly to save houses from their fate.

I continued south on N.C. and crossed over Oregon Inlet on the aging Herbert C. Bonner Bridge and landed on Hatteras Island and into the Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge. Off to the east, nestled among some sand dunes, I can see the lonely roof top of a building boasting the classic architecture of a Coast Guard lifesaving station. From a nearby parking lot, I follow a short trail through the dunes to this abandoned historic building. Built in 1897, the Oregon Inlet Lifesaving Station was one of 23 stations positioned along the Outer Banks where the cold Labrador currents clash with warm Gulf Stream waters creating fickle weather, unpredictable currents and expansive sandbars that baffled even the most experienced mariner. Lifesaving stations were a necessity to aid in the rescue of sailors that found themselves victimized by the harsh hand of the sea. This station stood at the ready near the inlet from 1897 until it closed in 1988.

According to local folklore, the name Oregon Inlet dates back to 1846 when the enormous storm surge of a hurricane pushed the steam vessel “Oregon” into the Pamlico Sound and cut open the inlet. The next day the Oregon made its way through the new inlet and continued on its voyage.

This section of N.C. 12 south to Rodanthe sits like a string of taffy placed on a bed of powder sugar. With the ocean just yards away, even the mildest of storms melts the sugar and twists the taffy creating uncertainty for the residents of Hatteras Island. Yellow excavators, front-end loaders and bulldozers are an almost permanent sight as they go about clearing the road of sand, creating makeshift dunes and tending to a temporary bridge that spans New Inlet, created by Hurricane Irene in 2011.

At the north end of Rodanthe, heavy equipment is still busy clearing away the debris and tons of sand deposited by Hurricane Sandy that hit in late October. As I pull into the debris covered entrance of an abandoned cottage, my wife excitedly utters an indiscernible plea, which I interpret as instructions to avoid the boards with nails. For the rest of the day, I call her Ms. Popatire.

Stepping out of the car, the rumbling sound of machinery and power tools fills the air. We walk out onto the beach and see that a soft wall of sand has been piled up as a last ditch effort to save the cottages for another vacation season. From here we can see three homes standing naked on their pilings in the surf and soon to be causality.

We then make our way to the Cape to see an old friend, the guardian of Diamond Shoals, the tallest of all brick lighthouses at 207 feet, the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse. Its candy striped black and white day markings looking a bit faded compared to the Bodie Island tower. We were on hand in 1999 to watch part of its glacial crawl as it was moved away from the threatening ocean to its current protected location. I walked the grounds and followed animal trails among the yaupon, wax myrtle and cedar. Eventually I stumbled upon on one of the freshwater wetlands that were full of great egrets preening in a cluster of the shrubs overhanging the water.

Stumps of old trees poke through the sand near Corolla. The stumps are remnants of trees that once grew on the soundside of the Currituck Banks. As the island moved back, the stumps ended up on the beach.

On our second morning I headed north of Duck, to Corolla and the Currituck Banks N.C. National Estuarine Research Reserve. It is here that I hoped to see the famous wild horses of Corolla. These animals have a history that goes back for centuries and their advocates worked long and hard to get the horses classified as registered wild Colonial Spanish Mustangs. Shipwrecks and explorers deposited these horses on our barrier islands and one time there were thousands of horses roaming the banks. Today there are a few hundred in herds at three sites: Shackleford Banks, Ocracoke Island and Corolla.

I parked my car in a small parking lot where N.C. 12 ends. From the lot, I see a boardwalk with a gate, on the gate a sign instructs visitors to make sure the gate is closed to prevent the escape of the horses. At onetime the horses wandered freely throughout the town but after a number were struck by vehicles, a non-profit support group, the Corolla Wild Horse Fund, built a fence that stretches from the sound and into the sea at the northern end of town. Another fence was built at the Virginia state line and the horses now have an eleven mile stretch of beach and 7,500 acres as their playground. These animals need to be protected; they are an iconic symbol of the rugged character needed to survive during earlier times on these harsh islands. They are such an important part of our cultural legacy that these noble mustangs have been designated as the official state horse of North Carolina.

The dovekie spends the winter in the north Atlantic, but sometimes gets pushed south by storms and wind, as this one off Currituck Banks did.

I stepped through the gate and closed it securely as I interpreted the message of the sign as an indication that finding the horses would be easy. Not far down the boardwalk, a side trail beckoned me into the maritime forest and away from the more sterile boardwalk. Even a placard warning of ticks, chiggers and snakes didn’t deter me; as cold as it was, I knew these critters were burrowed down somewhere trying to stay warm. The twisted shapes of the live oak trees throughout the trail were spiritual and almost daunting at the same time. Some of them seemed to be reaching out as I walked past.

This one way trail ended at the shore of the Currituck Sound where, unlike the other sounds in North Carolina, the water is almost fresh. Since the nearest inlet is nearly sixty miles south, there is little circulation of salt water in the northern reaches of the sound. This creates a peculiar habitat where flounder and red drum swim with the bass and catfish.

The maritime forest was so mesmerizing that I almost forgot about finding the horses. Since I hadn’t seen any in the forest I headed out onto the beach and could immediately see numerous dark objects on the horizon a couple of miles north. An outgoing tide created a flat firm surface suitable to be used as a roadway, which is exactly how the beach is used by anyone owning property north of Corolla. As I walked towards the horses a constant flow of four-wheel drive trucks and SUVs buzzed past. Seventy percent of the land from Corolla to the Virginia border is privately owned and a number of homes have been built among the dunes. It was apparent that low tide is the rush hour for the residents of this isolated community.

As I got closer, I notice that my objects on the beach were not moving at all. I pulled out my binoculars for a quick look and disappointment set in as I realized that my horses were actually old tree stumps. These stumps are great testimonials of the dynamic nature of the barrier islands. As these islands retreat, evidence of the sound side habitat will sometimes appear right on the beach.

The twisting arms of giant live oak trees seem to reach out to visitors of the maritime forests of the Currituck Banks.

Walking past the stumps I continued on my wild mustang quest. I hiked a few miles down the beach without seeing so much as a hoof print, and reluctantly, I dejectedly turned around for the long hike back. My mood turned brighter as I caught a glimpse of a small seabird floating just past the waves then disappearing under the water in search of food. This stocky black and white bird, is called a dovekie, or little auk, and has been making appearances up and down the N.C. coast this winter. Dovekies spend the winter in the north Atlantic, however strong storms or sustained winds can bring them down the East Coast, usually weak and starving. A large group of these weakened birds is called a “wreck,” and in the early 1930s a wreck of dovekies filled the streets of New York City and washed up as far as Florida. Fortunately, the dovekie I was watching appeared active and strong

I decided to spend my last evening on the Outer Banks watching the sun set at Jockey’s Ridge. That’s not a novel idea since hundreds of thousands of people makes a pilgrimage here every year to do just that. Their silhouettes look like shrubs in the fading light as groups gather together to share the experience. But because of the wind and cold, there was not a soul in sight; I had the ridge to myself. As the sun lowered, the sand glowed in a changing soft hue of orange, then red and finally pink. The waters of Roanoke Sound ran red while soaking up the last rays of the day before extinguishing the sun beneath its waters.

After the sun slipped away, I stayed on the ridge under the gathering darkness and was grateful that this pile of sand endures. I remembered the story of an amazing woman who 40 years ago this summer demonstrated great courage by standing in front of a bulldozer to protect the dune and another story of local islanders running off a group of biologists who wanted to plant kudzu to stabilize the dune.

I looked up and saw that the stars were like millions of lighthouses, each casting their own beacon. I realized that I have neglected my love of the night sky over the years and need to repair that relationship. Gazing deep into infinity, I didn’t feel small and insignificant at all. It made me realize that the footprints that we make and the paths that we create have a direction that is launched into its own infinity. All throughout the Outer Banks I saw the beauty of nature and the richness of culture that will endure for future generations to discover.

Then, like a child, I ran down the steep face of the dune into the cool darkness as my shoes filled with sand.

Every morning, even before the first rays of sunlight peak over the horizon, beachcombers all along the coast are scouring the shoreline to discover the gifts that have washed up from the depths. It’s like a sandy version of an Easter egg hunt.

Seashells are the protective calcium carbonate exoskeleton that was once the home to different species of soft-bodied mollusks. The shells made by gastropods are the ones that have one opening that houses a snail like animal, such as a whelk. Bivalves, such as clams, are the shells that have two shells, which are hinged together.

The beauty and intriguing shapes of seashells have long been admired. They are scooped up off the beach and proudly displayed on the mantel. Anyone discovering a pretty shell cannot resist the urge to pick it up and take it home even though they may already have 20 shells of that particular species. I have seen enormous private collections. We have one here at the federation consisting of 15,000 shells that Dean and Dorothy Weber donated. It’s an addiction, I suppose.

These serious collectors even have an official sounding name, conchologist. One day we will probably see a reality show on television called Conch Hoarders. I should know, I was one once. However, a number of years ago I kept a few prized shells and scattered the rest along the beach in the dead of night. I would have loved to have seen the reaction of a groggy eyed beach walker stumbling across this windfall the next morning. Don’t get me wrong, I still love seashells and I am prone to backslide from time to time.

The Scotch bonnet is the Holy Grail of seashell collectors in North Carolina.

Underneath that pretty shell is a fierce predator. The animal that lives in the shell excretes sulfuric acid to weaken the armor of sand dollars. The Scotch bonnet then feasts on this exposed tissue. Photos: Sam Bland

Everybody has their favorite shell, but in North Carolina, the Holy Grail of seashells seems to be the Scotch bonnet. As I was working on this story a coworker exclaimed “I’ve been looking for 12 years and still haven’t found a whole one.”

The Scotch bonnet was first described in scientific literature in 1778 and was named for its coloration pattern that has the appearance of Scottish tartan fabric. The shape of the shell is also said to resemble the traditional Scottish wool bonnet called a Tam o’Shanter. When speaking of the Scotch bonnet make sure that you impress your friends by pronouncing the word bonnet as “bonay.”

Scotch bonnets are found along the East Coast from North Carolina to Florida and their range extends to Brazil. These mollusks like tropical water and are found in water depths of 50 to 150 feet. Even though near and inshore water temperatures can get cool during the winter, the toasty waters of the nearby Gulf Stream create perfect habitat for this invertebrate. This is why the N.C. hot spot for Scotch bonnets and shelling in general is from Cape Hatters to Cape Lookout. Ocracoke Island has even been rated as one of the top shelling beaches by Coastal Living Magazine.

Female Scotch bonnets will deposit thousands of eggs in the spring that are then fertilized by the male. The eggs will hatch into free swimming planktonic larvae that are widely dispersed by ocean currents. After 14 weeks a shell has developed and the animal then begins its life on the sandy ocean floor.

As they grow, they begin to take on their elegant shape and can be 2-4 inches in length. Their base color can be from white to cream with the overlaying yellow and brown tartan pattern. The coloration is striking on the living animal or a very fresh empty shell. Once on the beach and in the sun the colors quickly fade. This delicate shell easily breaks in the tumbling surf with the dome usually getting damaged, leaving imperfect shells scattered along the beach to frustrate collectors.

Underneath their beauty, Scotch bonnets are fierce predators. They will cover a sand dollar or keyhole urchin with their soft body and excrete an enzyme of sulfuric acid to weaken the outer armor and expose the flesh. Then, using a tongue-like proboscis that has the texture of a wood rasp, they will consume the tissue. As prey, Scotch bonnets fall victim to the brutal claw crushing power of stone crabs and blue crabs.

North Carolina is proud of the Scotch bonnet. So proud, that with the urging of the N.C. Shell Club, the state General Assembly saw fit to anoint the Scotch bonnet as the official state shell in 1965. The Scotch bonnet was chosen as a way to recognize the contributions of the early Scottish settlers who came to North Carolina.

Getting this bill passed, however, wasn’t without debate. The state representative from Dare County presented the bill to his colleagues for consideration. To win approval of the bill the representative tempted his fellow lawmakers with a pledge to provide each of them that supported the bill with a Scotch bonnet as a token of appreciation. Feeling confident that the bill would pass, the representative attempted to collect close to 200 shells, he found two. Upon learning this, his fellow statesmen became wary to enthusiastically support this lofty designation on a shell so few would ever see. One senator even joked that he was going to propose the egg shell as the official shell of his home county. Undaunted, the representative continued lobbying and the bill eventually passed.

After the bill passed, a state senator from Beaufort, who sponsored the bill in the N.C. Senate, provided a container of the Scotch bonnet shells for his fellow senators. Thus, this humble mollusk not only became the official State Shell of North Carolina, it was the first such designation of a state shell in the United States. Maybe we should change our license plate motto to “First in Official Seashells.”

So take your pick of over 300 miles of sandy N.C. beaches to search for a Scotch bonnet. If you do find one, I bet you won’t be able to leave it on the shore.

At 40,000 acres, Lake Mattamuskeet is the largest natural lake in North Carolina. It would be much larger had there not been various attempts through the centuries to drain it.

SWAN QUARTER — U.S. 264 cuts through the broad peninsula between Albemarle Sound and the Pamlico River. This is the low country of the North Carolina coastal plain, and the open terrain on both sides of the two-lane blacktop is as flat as both sides of a pancake.

During the winter, this land is the Serengeti of North Carolina.

Instead of wildebeest, the watery landscape draws waterfowl. Hundreds of thousands of geese, swans and ducks are attracted to the alluring lakes, marshes and wetlands. In Hyde County, a large 14-mile-long, five-mile-wide lake is the destination for many of these birds.

As I near this lake, an ancient memory is triggered by a sharp curve in the highway. At this spot, during frequent trips down this road to high-school sporting events, my coach would always point out a large oak tree that had blown down in a storm. Even though the tree was on its side, many of the roots were still firmly in the soil providing life to the branches on the upper side of the massive trunk. Utterly amazed, I saw that the much decayed trunk was still there with live branches reaching strong into the air.

The lake was called Paquippe when John White drew his famous map in 1585.

I turned off of U.S. 264 and onto N.C. 94, and the lake soon comes into view. I immediately see American coots, cormorants and Canada geese everywhere. Overhead on a utility wire, a kingfisher stares intently into the water while a nearby kestrel is devouring a freshly captured field mouse. Down the entire length of this causeway, numerous great blue herons and great egrets stand tall and erect like sentinels guarding the lake.

Lake Mattamuskeet, at 40,000 acres, is the largest naturally formed lake in North Carolina. How it formed is still a matter of debate. Some scientists think that the lake is an impact crater from a meteor strike while others insist that the lake depression was created by a fire that burned deep and consumed the rich, peat soil. The fire theory is supported by an Algonquin Native American account that tells of a fire that burned for 13 moons and the resulting 120,000-acre basin was filled with rain water and soon after was teeming with fish and waterfowl.

During this era, the lake was known as Paquippe by the Natives and was two-thirds larger and a bit deeper than the lake we see today.

A European expedition stumbled across the lake in 1585. The explorers included John White, an artist and mapmaker whose depictions of early North Carolina are now famous. His map of the coast clearly identifies the lake and its name as Paquippe.

The encroachment of the European settlers eventually created open hostilities with numerous Native American tribes along the coastal plain. This eventually led to the Tuscarora War in 1711, which ended four years later after many battles and much bloodshed. The remaining Native Americans fled or were sent to one of the first established reservations along the shores of the lake.

Slaves dug the seven-mile Outfall Canal to drain the lake into Pamlico Sound. When the digging was over much of the lake remained.

A huge pump house was added to the efforts to drain the lake in the early 20th century. It is now on the National Register of Historic Places.

It wasn’t until 1733 that a map of the Province of North Carolina prepared by the Surveyor General Edward Moseley, that the lake took on the current name of Mattamuskeet. This name is interpreted as a native word meaning “a moving swamp.”

Many of the remaining Mattamuskeet Indians, also known as Arromuskeet, sold their reservation lands to the settlers and by the late 1760s, the reservation was no more.

Amazingly enough, there was a period of time when the lake didn’t even exist. There have been a number of schemes over the years to drain the lake and farm its nutrient-rich bed. The colonial governor vetoed once such idea in 1773. More than six decades later, in 1837, the state even financed the digging of a seven-mile-long canal to drain the lake into Pamlico Sound. The idea was to sell off the resulting farmland to pay for needed public education programs. Much of the lake is below sea level though, and after all the digging, 55,000 acres of water remained.

Draining the lake then became an obsession. In 1909, the state General Assembly created a drainage district. Within two years, close to 130 miles of canals were etched into the lake bed, directing water to four gargantuan steam-driven pumps. The building that housed it all was the largest pump house in the world at that time.

By 1932, three different companies reaped various degrees of success in harvesting the fruits of this rich land. The ground was tilled for corn, wheat, oats, sweet potatoes and soybeans while houses, an inn and support services were built on the reclaimed land. High operating costs, lack of coal, empty wallets and even the mosquitoes helped to doom each effort.

After the pumps were turned off, water trickled back in and a 40,000 acre lake reappeared. Due to the large outfall channel along with the associated canals, the hydrology of the lake was forever changed and the lake would never revert to its original size.

By and by, the lake became property of the federal government and was designated as the Mattamuskeet National Wildlife Refuge in 1934. Another 10,180 acres of the refuge consists of forested wetlands, fresh water marsh, uplands, croplands and impoundments.

This habitat diversity attracts a lot more than waterfowl. More than 200 other species of birds have been recorded at the refuge. Mammals such as black bear, river otter, deer, bobcat, mink and the red wolf make a living here as well as 31 species of snakes, four of the poisonous kind. There are close to 800 species of birds and animals here.

This is my kind of place.

After I cruised down the N.C, 94 causeway, I headed east on Wildlife Drive, which is bordered by a canal and one of the impoundments. Along the canal, hundreds of yellowbelly sliders were clinging to the steep bank, crawling over one another to find a spot in the warm sun. Out in the impoundment, a number of northern shovelers and pied-billed grebes were clustered within the rushes seeking protection from the wind.

A river otter snorted his displeasure at Sam’s intrusion and then struck this defiant pose.

As I moved along, I spotted what I thought was a cormorant perched with open wings on a dead snag hanging over the canal. But the silvery back and spear-like bill differentiated this bird from the cormorant as an anhinga. I have never seen an anhinga, so this was pretty cool. It then seemed to take a bow and then launched into a short flight over the canal before landing on the water. Its body quickly sank below the water with only its head and long neck protruding. It glided along the water and demonstrated why it is also known as the “snakebird.”

Wildlife Drive ended at the refuge office, which is also near the old pump house. In 1937, the Civilian Conservation Corps renovated the structure into a hunting lodge which operated until 1974. Environmentalist Rachel Carson stayed at the lodge for a brief period while preparing a booklet on the lake. Her enduring memory of the lake was “the constant, haunting music of the geese.”

The anhinga is also called the snakebird because of the way it chases prey in the water.

A great blue heron stands like a sentinel.

This historic building is on the National Register of Historic Places and is managed by the N.C. Wildlife Resources Commission, which hopes to reopen the building as a museum and lodge.

From here, the Outfall Canal stretches from the pump station to the Pamlico Sound. Other canals were also cut to drain the lake into the sound. These canals allow blue crabs to swim all the way up to the water control structures at the lake where crabbers are waiting with chicken necks baited onto strings. The lake is well known for its monstrous sized blue crabs.

From the lodge area, I drove over a short bridge to head down a couple of the refuge access roads. Almost all of the roads here will parallel a canal; I kept glancing at the canal and soon saw that something was creating a wake in the water. I hopped out of the truck and ran down to the edge of the canal and waited. A brown head with big nostrils and threaded with large whiskers silently rose out of the water and was staring straight at me. The animal then let out a series of explosively loud snorts that indicated much displeasure with my presence. Startled, I jumped a bit as a river otter dove back under the cloudy water. It continued to surface and snort until I felt unwelcomed and I even said out loud “OK, I’m leaving.” I saw the otter dive under the water one last time and I could follow a long line of air bubbles popping onto the surface as it retreated way down the canal.

This shallow lake has long been a productive source of the submerged aquatic vegetation necessary to sustain the thousands of waterfowl that overwinter here. However, there is some concern that the abundance of these plants is diminishing. The eastern half of the lake supports mostly submerged vegetation while the western half is more turbid and yields mostly algae. This curious unique situation has piqued an interest in scientists to monitor and research the lake for clues. Past and current water quality monitoring is being analyzed to determine the relationship of water quality and the decline of the aquatic vegetation. This will help establish land use and watershed management practices that will hopefully keep the lake functioning as a vibrant ecological community.

Back on the move, I drove down one of the long access roads that terminates at a short hiking trail. The trail provided great views of the forested wetlands that are dominated by bald cypress trees. Reaching up in the water around these trees are “knees” that are part of the root system of the tree. Cypress knees were once thought to provide oxygen to the tree; however scientific research has been unable to fully confirm this theory. It is more likely that the knees provide anchoring stability in the wet soft soil.

It was time to head home and I slowly made my way back down the narrow tree lined road. A bald eagle glided over at tree top height then dropped down low over the gravel road bed just ahead of my vehicle and sailed along as if in a canyon. I followed behind the eagle for about a mile until it finally gained altitude and flew above the trees and out of sight.

The incessant wind that batters the sand dunes of Bear Island constantly buries the present and unearths the past, as the skeleton of this long dead tree attests.

The handsome shell of an eastern murex, rolling in the surf, was quite a find.

Bleached keyhole urchins, better known as sand dollars, covered the beach.

BEAR ISLAND — The shorter days of winter along with the security and safety of my daily routine had insulated me from the amazing natural world that surrounds us. I needed to feel the raw cold wind of nature against my skin and head out to kick around on one of our remote barrier islands to get back into balance with nature.

Even though I was savoring the mild winter weather, I was looking forward to the first blast of cold arctic air to hike my favorite undeveloped barrier island. So I went home, home to Bear Island. Not home where I had a house and lived, but home to my heart, my soul and my spirit. I first went to Bear Island at Hammocks Beach State Park in Swansboro as a young teenager on a hot and windy late summer day. The park ferry meandered through the marsh grass and deposited me on this big, powder sugar island that immediately filled me with joy, excitement, wonder and questions. That trip reminds me of a passage from an old John Denver song, “coming home to a place he’d never been before.” This is a place that nourishes me and can dissolve any worry. It is a refuge of peace and serenity.

On this day, Bear Island was all mine. The northwest wind was at 15 miles an hour and a temperature of 40 degrees provided just the wind chill to ensure solitude.

When I reached the island, the sun was all alone in a big blue sky except for a few jealous clouds peeking over the horizon. It was close to midmorning and the sun was casting long, exaggerated shadows. During the winter, the sun doesn’t creep too high into the sky, only about 32 degrees off the horizon compared to 78 degrees in the summer. This low angle bathes everything in nice, soft light.

Since it was low tide, I immediately headed to the beach and started walking east. I was surprised to see that the big primary dune line was slashed in half as if cut with a knife and I didn’t realize that storm surge from Hurricane Sandy had pulled this much sand back into the ocean. But this is how it is on the barrier islands; storms and wind are constantly reshaping this dynamic, mobile ecosystem.

The wide, flat beach stretched out before me, and I walked along the water’s edge as loons and cormorants trawled for fish close to the shore. The cormorant disappeared below the surface and reappeared with a fish that was quickly sliding down its throat. As the waves lifted, the stiff north wind blew off the crest creating a misty spray that rained down like a shower. Out to sea, the gannets were soaring about looking for schooling surface fish. These birds have forsaken land, except for the nesting season, and will spend their lives out on the open sea, a true mariner.

Up ahead on the beach near the dune line, I thought I saw a stump of drift wood move. I walked towards the driftwood and a merlin took to flight with a dead bird clinched tightly in its talons. It traveled only a short distance before settling down again on a small piece of driftwood that was a poor substitute for a proper perch. It then flew about in a frustrated search for the security of a high perch until it headed off to the back side of the island seeking the refuge of the maritime forest to finish eating its prey.

Large groups of yellow-rumped warblers flit through the shrub thickets, filling the air with the sharp chirps that keep the groups together.

I wandered back down to the water and found that the receding tide had littered the beach with bleached keyhole urchins, also known as sand dollars. They were everywhere, but what really caught my eye was a handsome eastern murex shell that was being tumbled about by the last surge of incoming waves. It had been rolling around for quite a while as its spines were rendered short and smooth, but still a good find. I picked up the shell and looked out to sea just as a group of four brown pelicans silently glided above the breakers surfing the updraft created by the curling wave. I listened as the wind and waves sung a song that I know well.

With my craving for the beach and ocean whetted, I now crossed over the primary dune line to hike through the interior dune fields. The topography of the island is not as flat as you would think. There are big dunes here with large valleys and pockets of shrub thickets and open grasslands. The grassy areas contain little blue stem grass that was busting open with fuzzy seed heads creating the illusion that the landscape was out of focus.

The antlion,or doodlebug, lays traps for unwary ants.

Within the blades of this grass, tiny caterpillars have folded over the blade into a tent where they are camping out for the winter. In the spring they will awaken, feed on the grass and metamorphose into a species of butterfly known as a skipper.
Among the blue stem, bare sea oat stalks poked up out of the sand, their seed heads stripped away and sewed into the sand by the winds that shape the island.

The pockets of shrub thickets contained way myrtle, bay trees and yaupon laden heavy with red berries so bright that even a color blind person such as myself could spot them from a distance. Among these bushes, a confusion of tiny yellow-rumped warblers darted in and out of the branches to take a peek at me. Their sharp chipping sound filled the air and enables the birds to keep in contact and stay together as a group.

The insistent winds out here are constantly burying the present and revealing the past. As I walked along, I saw exposed burnt tree stumps, evidence of a fire in the 1940’s that wiped out a large maritime forest in the central part of the island. I also came across a couple of Native American midden piles that made it quite evident that the native people, most likely Neusiok and Coree tribes, feasted here on clams, scallops and oysters.

I continued out onto the open dune flats where a number of clam and scallop shells were scattered about. This is evidence of what my old friend Ranger Jesse Hines referred to as “nature’s microwave.” The gulls will pull the mollusks out of the marsh, fly over to the dune field and drop the shell onto the sun baked sand. Then it’s just a matter of time before the shell pops open providing a meal for the hungry birds.

As I walk along, I stop dead in my tracks; depressions in the sand indicate that lions are about. Well, not real lions, but the larval form of an insect called an antlion which is also known as a doodlebug. This bug will build a conical shaped two-inch depression in the sand to trap ants. When an ant stumbles into the depression, the loose sand on the sloping sides make it difficult to get out. The antlion will then flick out sand from a concealed position at the bottom of the pit. This causes the sloping walls to collapse and bury the ant. The antlion can then easily capture the ant with a nasty set of choppers.

Coree or Neusiok Indians left behind these piles of shells, evidence of Bear Island’s importance to Native Americans.

Nearby, something else steals my attention, a small two-inch gray object partially buried in the sand. I immediately recognize that this is a fulgurite, or what is also called petrified lightning. These hollow glass-like tubes are formed when a bolt of lightning strikes the sand and fuses the quartz particles at 3,270 degrees Fahrenheit. I feel lucky since these prizes are hard to find.

I begin to meander towards the dock to catch my boat ride back to the mainland. Overhead one mature and two immature bald eagles fly in lazy circles before drifting low over the marsh.

The undulating dunes are obviously marching along, tiny sand grains are being blown along and piling up until they spill over the angle of repose and cover anything in their path. These bare dune fields, not the mammal, are how the island got its name. Early records indicate that the island was originally named Bare Banks. Over time the spelling evolved into Bear Island. Black bear do, however, visit the island; about every four years a young bear seeking out territory will wind up on Bear Island. They soon move on after a few weeks when they realize that the food and water that a bear needs are bare. The name Bare Island may also be the reason that the island was long rumored to be a clothing optional beach.

I finished off the day by hiking to the highest dune field on the island which is close to 60 feet high. From here the view is incredible. The landscape stretches out like a patchwork quilt of shrub thickets, grass lands, white sand dunes, maritime forest, ocean and sound.

The breeze blew in spirits of the past. Native Americans, pirates, Colonial politicians, ship captains, soldiers, a hunting guide and a brain surgeon all called this place home, just like I do. I’m sure that this beauty did not escape them either. My friend Ranger Hines frequently told me stories about buried treasure on this island, after today, I realize that most of these treasures are not very well hidden.

Gannets, like this juvenile, have beautiful glacier blue eyes that are highlighted with a ring of blue flesh. This ring is so prominent that the bird is also called the “spectacled goose.” Photo: Sam Bland.

EMERALD ISLE — I recently headed out for a predawn jog and abandoned the roads for the pleasure of the sandy beach at low tide. A brisk north wind had rendered the ocean surface lifeless except for the small, crystal clear waves that were only breaking once they reached the shore. The cool temperature was accompanied by a steel gray sky that was wringing out a steady drizzle.

Mile after mile the beach was a mine, not a soul in sight, not even footprints. Even though the beach was void of people, it was far from lonely. The glassy surf allowed a bottlenose dolphin to keep pace with me, swimming horizontal to the beach in a trough just a few yards from shore, so close that I could hear it exhale. Just beyond the outer sand bar another dolphin playfully leaped out of the water so many times that I lost count.

Looking down the beach I could see in the distance a very large white bird flying towards me just over the ocean. For a moment I thought it might be a tundra swan heading to one of the big lakes in the eastern part of the state. However, as the bird got closer I could see black wing tips and I then began to think it might be one of the white pelicans that have been seen recently seen flying over the White Oak River.  Just as it was overhead, the bird banked hard to the right and began soaring back out over the ocean. I now had a good enough look to know that this white bird with wing tips dipped in black was a northern gannet.

The northern gannet is a big sea bird that spends its life out on the open ocean. It only comes ashore during the breeding and nesting season. Photo: Sam Bland.

The northern gannet is a big sea bird that spends its life out on the open ocean. It only comes ashore during the breeding and nesting season. They are found in the North Atlantic, down the U.S. East Coast, south to the Caribbean and over into the Gulf of Mexico.

Their nesting colonies are only in the North Atlantic where they are also very abundant along the European coast of Great Britain and Ireland where huge colonies nest along the shear rocky cliffs that tower over the ocean. Gannets were once so plentiful along this coast that in the old English poem Beowulf the Danish King Hrothgar described the ocean as “a gannet’s bath.” They also nest along the coast of Newfoundland and Bonaventure, Quebec.

The mating pair will produce only one egg and feed the chick regurgitated fish. Even though the rocky cliffs provide a safe haven from predators, such as foxes, it is a daunting launching site for the chicks when they are ready to fledge. Pushing away from the cliff, the chicks will half fly and half fall down to the ocean below. They will swim away from the island and live off fat reserves for about two weeks until they master the awkward skills of take offs and landings on the open water.

The juveniles are gray with white specks and will eventually have the snowy white plumage of an adult in a few years and will begin breeding in five years. Gannets have beautiful glacier blue eyes that are highlighted with a ring of blue flesh. This ring is so prominent that the bird is also called the “spectacled goose.”

As I watched the gannet I realized why it made the abrupt turn away from the surf and out over the open water where dolphin were scouting a school of fish. There it joined a large white swirling tornado cloud of gannets feeding on a school of surface fish, menhaden, most likely. The gannets looked like Kamikaze pilots raining from the sky and into the water from great heights. They take on the shape of an arrow with their straight bill and neck and their wings stretched out along their sides. This aerodynamic form quickly becomes hydrodynamic as the bird slices into the water to capture the fish. If the initial dive is unsuccessful they will swim using their webbed feet and wings as deep as 70 feet to pursue the fish. When they surface, the fish is already in their throat and they will clumsily run along the surface of the water to take off and rejoin the feeding frenzy.

Northern gannets join other birds feasting on menhaden off the beach at Emerald Isle. Photo: Sam Bland.

Gannet populations are pretty stable now, but it hasn’t always been that way. Daredevils once scaled the steep rock cliffs to reach nesting sites where they harvested the eggs and chicks, which were then sold in the markets as a delicacy. Even today, limited traditional harvest is allowed in parts of the United Kingdom. The taste is described as fishy. Adult gannets were also once hunted to use their body fat as a treatment for gout and to render the fat into a mechanical lubricant.

In April 2012, an amazing northern gannet sighting occurred at the Fallon Islands off the coast of California. This was the first recorded northern gannet in the Pacific Ocean and is thought to be an indication of global warming. Gannets stay out over the open ocean water and do not venture over land. Warmer global temperatures have resulted in much of the Northwest Passage to be free of ice. Thus, it is assumed that this gannet left from the north Atlantic and followed the open water of the Northwest Passage out into the Bering Sea and then migrated south into the Pacific Ocean.

Gannets are often overlooked by the casual observer and thought to be just another gull. So next time you are going for an early morning or late afternoon walk on the beach, lookout over the ocean for the solitary gannet gliding gracefully above the ocean or for the busy commotion of a flock of gannets plunging after a meal.

Once the winds of fall have stripped away the leaves of our deciduous trees, clusters of green foliage can still be seen clinging to their bare branches. These clusters are not in all of the trees, but here and there you can find some, usually oaks and red maples, with these round shaped objects that are obvious once you start looking for them.

The green leaves and white berries of this foliage are not produced by the trees but are the product of the mistletoe, a plants long associated with Christmas holiday romance.

Mistletoe berries are favored by many birds. Photo: Sam Bland.

A native of the eastern North America, mistletoe, Phoradendron serotinum, is a semi-parasitic plant that can absorb organic matter, water and minerals from the host tree. The first part of scientific name, in fact, is Greek for “thief tree.” However, mistletoe isn’t completely dependent on the tree. Like all plants, it has the ability to produce chlorophyll and pull energy from the sun.

But a bundle of mistletoe has no roots. It does have sinkers that penetrate and embed into the branches of the host tree. Mistletoe has been called “vampire plant” since it will “bite” into the tree and suck out its water and minerals allowing it to stay green all year long and survive periods of drought. A tree infested with mistletoe can weaken and die.

Among the thick green leaves are small sticky white berries that some birds, such as robins and bluebirds, love to eat. The seed in the berry is spread when the birds fly high onto the branches of other trees and eliminate the seed. Still sticky, the seed will adhere to a branch and eventually start a new plant. The English word for the plant is derived from two Anglo-Saxon words that mean “dung on a twig.”

Ancient cultures valued mistletoe as a sacred mystical plant and used it as an aphrodisiac to promote fertility and life. It was also placed in cradles to protect infants from being stolen by fairies and hung in homes to protect the house from lightning. Mistletoe was once a symbol of peace, and ancient warriors who found themselves fighting under mistletoe were obligated to stop fighting until the next day.

Frigg, the Norse Goddess of Love, is linked to the tradition of kissing under mistletoe.

It has also been used as a folk medicine to treat a variety of conditions such as arthritis, infection and epilepsy. A number of herbal remedies still use mistletoe even though it is considered poisonous. So, just to be on the safe side, don’t eat the leaves or berries and make sure that your pets don’t ingest them either.

The tradition of hanging a sprig of mistletoe in the house and kissing under goes back thousands of years and is linked to a Scandinavian custom involving Frig or Frigga, the Norse Goddess of Love. After her son was killed with an arrow made of mistletoe, Frigg declared that mistletoe will now bring love, not death, and that she would kiss those who pass under the mistletoe.

Frigg had a good idea there, but as a young tot scurrying around the house during the Christmas holidays, a bundle of mistletoe tied to a doorway hung like a hatchet over the Christmas dinner turkey. The idea of being smooched on by my sisters and aunts terrified me and I moved through any mistletoe tethered doorway faster than holiday cookies on a platter. The mistletoe custom notes that each time someone kisses under the mistletoe that a berry must be plucked off the twigs. After all the berries have been picked, the kissing must stop. If I knew that then, I would have pulled off all the berries.

As a young teenager, my mother once asked me to go out into the woods and collect some mistletoe to decorate the house. I knew that mistletoe was high in the trees and difficult to reach so I asked some of my buddies to help me retrieve some of the plant. We found a tree with the closest cluster about 20 feet up and out on some flimsy branches. One of my friends immediately began to bear hug the trunk of the tree and made his way to the first branch about 10 feet up. He reached with one hand and grasped the branch, and then when the other hand grabbed hold, the full weight of his body snapped the branch with a thunder-like crack. He landed flat on his back with a thud and the dry crisp forest litter leaves puffed out around his body in a halo and fluttered about like butterflies. It took a few seconds, but he was finally able to suck air back into his lungs.

An oak tree is laden with clumps of mistletoe. Photo: Sam Bland.

As my buddy struggled to catch his breath we realized that climbing the tree was no longer an option. We stared up at the mistletoe and my other friend had an idea. He took off running. After about 20 minutes he returned, not with a ladder, but with a shotgun. Probably not one of the smartest things that I’ve done, but with a quick aim and one shoulder bruising blast, mistletoe was raining from the clear blue sky. Ancient customs state that the mistletoe must not touch the ground but there was no way we could catch the twigs as they fell. We collected enough to share with a number of families and I guess a lot of kissing went on that year.

How and when mistletoe, and all that kissing, became associated with Christmas is often debated. It is known that the ancient Celtic Druids collected mistletoe for their ceremonies just after the winter solstice, which is near the 25th of December. Mistletoe was considered sacred to them and carried great powers. They cut down the mistletoe with a golden sickle and would adorn their homes with the foliage to bring joy, blessings and good health while protecting the family from bad spirits. These pagan rituals were later frowned upon by those practicing Christianity, and this custom faded away for some time.

But the rituals of the past were preserved in folklore and during the Victorian era this custom began anew and continues today.

During the Great Depression and Dust Bowl era, mistletoe was regarded with great respect for its persistence and stubbornness that allows it to remain green during drought and cold weather. Oklahoma, which suffered greatly during the those days, actually named mistletoe the official state floral emblem.

The beacon of the Cape Lookout Lighthouse sweeps across Back Sound and the wild horses on Carrot Island. Photo: Sam Bland.

BEAUFORT — Under a warm sun on a gorgeous fall afternoon, I slid my kayak into the flat waters of Taylors Creek along the business waterfront of this Carteret County town.

A stone’s throw across the creek is what appears to be one island that runs parallel with the waterfront for over two miles. What I have always thought of as Carrot Island is actually four islands, including Bird Shoal, Town Marsh and Horse Island. This group of islands, along with a section of salt marsh called Middle Marsh, is a nature lover’s destination known as the Rachel Carson Reserve.

Preservation of these islands started in 1977 when local residents objected to proposed development of the islands. By 1989, all four islands consisting of 2,315 acres of salt marsh, dunes, beaches, tidal flats, shrub thickets and maritime forest, were protected. This is one of 10 state education, research and recreation sites managed by the N.C. Coastal Reserve and National Estuarine Research Reserve. The site is named after the great ecologist and writer Rachel Carson who alerted us in 1962 to the effects of pesticides in the environment in her book Silent Spring. Also, her 1955 book The Edge of the Sea, was inspired by her time spent in the marshes in and around the Beaufort area.

I decided to paddle around these same waters and let my senses enjoy the pleasures of the day.

Heading east along Taylors Creek, the tide is in my favor and at times I only use my paddle as a rudder.  I swiftly and silently glide past numerous “snowbird” sailboats that have taken rest among the mooring buoys that line the creek in their southward quest to outrun winter. I turn my boat south into a tidal creek known as Deep Cut, which separates Town Marsh to the west and Carrot Island to the east. Waist-high marsh grass delineates the creek and clumps of oysters stick up like knife blades through the water.

The molt of the horseshoe crab on Bird Shoals. Photo: Sam Bland.

I continue on until Deep Cut isn’t deep anymore and ditch my kayak on the highest nearby sandbar. Walking out across a mud flat, an army of fiddler crabs greets me and parts like the Red Sea, creating a path that quickly closes behind me. From here, I can see Horse Island to the east, which lies parallel to and is south of Carrot Island and Bird Shoal to the west, which runs parallel to and is south of Town Marsh.

Off in the distance I can see the silhouettes of about 25 horses with heads bowed and as still as statues. The origin of these horses is still debated. The reasonable theory is that they were put on the island for grazing in the 1940’s by a Beaufort resident and over the years they became feral, or wild. The romantic theory is that they swam over from Shackleford Banks where the horses are known to be decedents of Spanish mustangs that survived shipwrecks long ago.

Either story is fine with me, the horses are magnificent. Their long, wind tangled manes cascading down and their shiny coats creat handsome sturdy creatures.

I observed them for a couple of hours, unable to escape their allure. The dynamics of the group soon became obvious with the dominant males staring down any rival that strayed too close.

Since they are considered a cultural resource, they are not managed as an exotic species even though their presence does create some resource damage. The reserve staff conducts a number of research and habitat restoration projects designed to reduce sediments loosened by their hooves from reaching the wetlands by stabilizing the soil with native plantings. These project areas are identified by the protective fencing that prohibits horse grazing and trampling. They also employ a birth control program to keep the population under 40 horses.

Reluctantly, I left the horses munching on the marsh grass while flocks of white ibis probed the ground for fiddler crabs and I walked over to the white sandy beaches of Bird Shoal. Here and there tiny horseshoe crab molts are scattered about. Semipalmated plovers dominated the sand flats with a few ruddy turnstones and a couple of piping plovers mixed in.  Closer to the water’s edge, large groups of brown pelicans were roosting and busy preening their feathers. Then, a cloud of black skimmers rose into the sky and drifted in unison towards Shackleford Banks. As if choreographed, they flashed their black backs and white bellies as they rapidly changed direction before finally settling back down exactly where they left from.  The reserve is a birding hotspot with close to 200 species of birds having been documented there.

The boardwalk on Carrot Island is a good place to take in the beauty of nearby Middle Marshes. Photo: Sam Bland.

Watching the birds from a low mud flat, where many a Beaufort resident have scratched out a few clams, I could feel tidal water leaking into my shoes and realized that I better check on my unanchored kayak. I hustled back without a moment to spare as the kayak was now floating on the rising tide.

I paddled east in the waters that separated Carrot Island and Horse Island. Years ago, much of Carrot Island and Town Marsh for that matter was fortified and elevated with dredge spoil material. This has allowed pockets of shrub thickets and maritime forests to establish a foothold over the years. The red cedar and live oak trees have been sculpted into gnarly shapes by years of salt laced southerly winds. Within these upland areas, raccoons, foxes (gray and red) and rabbits (marsh and cottontail) are able to survive in these harsh coastal conditions.

Companions joined me beside the boat. Striped mullet repeatedly jumped out of the water landing each time with a slap. In the early 1800s, Carrot Island was the site of a thriving mullet fishery. The fish were netted, cleaned, salted and then sold in Beaufort.

The unique name of the island is the result of the number of carts that were used by fishermen to move their catch of fish from the south side of the island to Beaufort. At the time, there was a “bridge” built  of ballast stones piled across Taylors Creek. A number of the carts were often left, or stored, on the island during the year. Cart Island, as it was originally known, eventually became Carrot Island. If you hear the word “cart” in the Down East brogue, it sounds a bit like the word “carrot.”

Native Americans, particularly the Coree Tribe, also used the island to catch red drum, speckled trout, oysters, clams and crabs that surrounded the island.

The island was also used as a campsite by British troops during the Revolutionary War.

By now the tide had flooded in and was higher than usual allowing me to paddle everywhere I wanted. A flooded raccoon trail was just deep enough for me to paddle across a marsh island to reach the Carrot Island boardwalk. Here, I took a break and absorbed the views of Middle Marsh where great egrets and great blue herons took refuge in the shrub thickets from a high tide that was too deep for their long legs. Overhead, a couple of kingfishers loudly chattered as they argued over fishing territory rights. A sinking sun cast a golden illuminating glow on everything it touched. The light was so flattering it could have even rendered an opossum beautiful.

I paddled back towards Town Marsh along the south side of Carrot Island, reaching Deep Cut I turned for one last glance of the ponies. In the distance the beacon of Cape Lookout swept out across the marsh beckoning like beautiful siren.

A trip to the Cape will need to wait for another day since one afternoon was not near enough time on the reserve. I need a day to check out Middle Marsh, another day to spend just watching the horses, another day for birding, another to hike the Town Marsh trails, another day to…

Regardless of their origins, the wild horse of the Rachel Carson Reserve are magnificent creatures with tangled, windswept manes cascading down their handsome, sturdy bodies. Photo: Sam Bland.

The soft evening sun lured me out of the house to enjoy the last day of daylight saving time. My wife and I drove to the public beach access at the point of Emerald Isle and walked over to the beach to try to get some photos of the black skimmers that had been congregating along Bogue Inlet. Once we reached the wide flat sand spit that meets the inlet, it was clear that the skimmers had found an alternative roosting site since none of them were in sight. Under a cloudless sky, we then decided to walk across the sand spit and then head east along the beach. Hundreds of horseshoe crab shell molts were scattered all over the beach and someone had created a horseshoe crab totem with dozens of the shells. With our imagination unable to decipher what the creator of the crab pile was trying to convey, we started walking east.

We didn’t get far when a modern day Paul Revere in a pickup truck pulled up and excitedly told us that three pilot whales were about two miles east down the beach, swimming just behind the breakers and heading our way. The crier’s excitement was contagious as he continued down the beach telling all the people that were fishing, walking, jogging or sitting along the beach. It wasn’t “the whales are coming, the whales are coming”, but it was pretty close. “In the fifty years that I have lived on this beach I have never seen this,” he exclaimed.

I quickly stowed my camera in my backpack and we began to quickly walk down the beach towards the whales. I soon realized that I was walking alone and turned back to let my wife catch up. “GO!” she said, and I went.

I took off in a sprint with my backpack jumping around and pounding into my back like a jack hammer. Way down the beach I saw a pickup truck moving slowly towards me and assumed that they were watching and keeping pace with the whales. As I ran I kept my eyes glued to the water just behind the breakers. After about ten minutes of running I began to close in on the truck and saw a number of dolphins swimming behind the surf.

Then, to my amazement, the whale exploded out of the ocean and fell over on its side with a tremendous splash.

It didn’t completely breach, but it did get about half of its body out of the water. Due to the size, I immediately knew that this was not a pilot whale but a humpback whale on its migration to southern breeding and calving grounds. This is the type of whale famous for its mysterious songs and vocalizations.

My excitement caused my digital dexterity to evaporate as I clumsily fumbled to get the camera out of the backpack. I waited for another breach that did not occur, but the whale did, however, continue to surface with a misty plume of exhaled air. This “spout” is actually water vapor that is expelled under great pressure at about 240 miles per hour and has a fishy smell.

 It was obvious that the town crier had already informed everyone on this stretch of beach about the whale as people stood like the Easter Island statues staring out over the ocean in stunned, jaw-dropped silence. As the whale approached, some people were pointing as others were taking video or pictures with their phones. The calm sea made the viewing easy as every so often the whale would surface and “blow” before melting back into the sea. As the mammal began to get closer to the end of the island, the numerous sandbars near the inlet forced the whale to swim further offshore into deeper water. It moved out past the whistle buoy heading towards Bear Island and the exhale plume of its breathing soon became distant.The occupants of the escort truck turned out to be friends of ours and they invited me to ride on the tailgate as we kept pace with the whale. As we continued down the beach I made feeble attempts at anticipating where the whale would surface again to get a decent picture. I was only able to get a couple of blurry images of the “hump” as it slipped back under the water.

 People that had never met now talked to each other like old friends about the magic that they had just witnessed. One rugged-looking old-timer that seemed indifferent to the whale sighting turned to me and started to speak. The judgmental side of my brain was already starting to make me cringe as I expected some type of negative comment. “Coolest thing that I have seen in my life”, he said, or something to that effect, as his words were laced with a salty tongue that doesn’t need repeating.

As we walked home, we talked about the excitement and joy that had infected everyone. It made me think that if anyone, regardless of political affiliation, economic status, age, race, religion or ethnic heritage, could see a whale in the wild that they too would be filled with this joy.

 And this gives me a glimmer of hope, that as a society, we have the capacity to make a difference to protect and preserve our natural heritage that is more important to our spirit than we realize. It made me think that maybe we can overcome the somber story of the 1975 David Crosby and Graham Nash song, To The Last Whale, and that future generations will experience the joy of whales.

As we walked up our driveway, we both started laughing as we realized that the whale-induced intoxication caused both of us to forget that our car was still at the public access parking lot.

A monarch butterfly sips on the nectar of a goldenrod to fatten up before setting off on a long migration to Mexico. Photo: Sam Bland.

A welcomed high-pressure system dropped down from the north a couple of weeks ago and brought cooler air to represent the arrival of fall. Along the way, the wind corralled a bunch of monarch butterflies and gave them a breeze to ride on as they began their annual migration.

While out on a bicycle ride that morning, I counted hundreds of these butterflies decked out in their Halloween colors of orange and black. The day before I only saw one monarch. They fluttered along and provided some butterfly diversity as they mingled with the yellow cloudless sulfurs and orange gulf fritillaries seeking out nectar from the new goldenrod blooms.

The monarchs will slurp up nectar using their long proboscis to fatten up and actually gain weight as they make their way to wintering grounds high in the mountain forests of central Mexico. It is thought that taking advantage of the wind currents during migration allows the Monarch to conserve fat supplies that will be crucial to survival as they endure the winter. Monarchs east of the Rocky Mountains will head to Mexico and those west of the Rockies will winter in southern California.

Two factors require monarchs to migrate: They cannot tolerate freezing temperatures and their host plant, milkweed, is not available year round.

Due to the magnitude of their annual migration, monarchs are dispersed from northern Mexico to southern Canada and they inhabit almost all of North America and are found in other parts of the world as well. This wide range of distribution earned it the name monarch. Entomologist Samuel Scudder was the first to document the name in 1847, because as he put it, “it is one of the largest of our butterflies, and rules a vast domain.” The monarch was also called King Billy by settlers in honor of King William III of England.

It takes four generations of monarchs to complete the annual migration. In the spring, the monarchs that overwintered in Mexico will head north and the females will search out their host plant, milkweed, to lay eggs on one at a time. When they land on a plant they will use their legs to scratch the plant and chemoreceptors will taste the plant juices to confirm that it is the correct plant. This egg will produce a caterpillar that will feed on the milkweed plant which contains a secret weapon against predators. By eating the milkweed, the caterpillar and subsequent adult butterfly have a chemical called cardenolide in their bodies. When predators such as birds, frogs and lizards eat a monarch, they get sick and usually throw up. This experience is bad enough that they remember the bright orange and black colors and avoid targeting the monarch for a meal.

Tagging butterflies helps determine where they came from. Photo: Sam Bland.

The first three generations travel northward and each generation lives only about six weeks. By then they are dispersed well into northern areas, and the fourth generation of adult monarchs are crawling out of their chrysalis in late summer. This generation will not mate until spring after they have migrated and survived the winter. Unlike the first three generations, the final generation can live up to eight months.

Following ancient instinctual urgings, the monarch’s southward march is triggered by dropping temperatures and shorter daytime hours. During their migratory journey, a number of these insects will be captured and fitted with a tag to help unlock some of their mysteries. A research program known as Monarch Watch, under the direction of the University of Kansas, uses volunteers, teaches, researchers and students to collect data to learn details of their southward movement.

On a number of occasions, I have been one of the people trying to snag these slippery elusive butterflies. I can testify that few things can make you feel and look more foolish than trying to net a butterfly that seems to be toying with you. You must be able to run with the direction of a squirrel on a roadway during rush hour while swinging a net at imaginary ghosts. Most of my netting attempts captured only air. After miraculously netting one of the butterflies, I would carefully remove it from the net and hope that it would not escape from my gentle grasp. I would take note of the butterfly’s sex — the male has two obvious black “pouches” on the dorsal side of their hindwing — and then apply the tag.

Now when I tell people that I have tagged butterflies, they laugh, thinking that I’m joking. I assume that their imagination immediately visualizes a heavy metal band on their thin wispy leg that would weigh it down like a bowling ball. The tag is actually a small all-weather ultra-light decal that is applied, or stuck, on the ventral side of their hindwing. The decal has a unique six symbol code of letters and numbers as well as reporting information. As the tagged butterflies make their way to Mexico and eventually reach their special overwintering site, they will be observed or found dead. Hopefully the person who observes or recovers the tag code will report it to Monarch Watch. This information is used to help determine mortality and thus, population trends. The data is also scrutinized by researchers to learn more about their navigation, the migratory corridors that they use and the impacts of weather.

Monarchs cling to sea oats behind sand dunes. Photo: Sam Bland.

For many years, the location of their wintering site was a mystery. Then in the 1970’s biologists found them in the misty transvolcanic mountains of Mexico, hanging by the millions in a small section of oyamel fir trees. Why here? Well this spot has all the essential elements that allow them to survive. At close to 10,000 feet, the site is cool enough, without freezing, that the monarchs do not metabolize and, thus, conserve their fat reserves. The forest is frequently covered in clouds and fog which keep the insects moist and provides water to drink. Finally, the surrounding forest forms a protective buffer from high winds during storms. This site, known as the Monarch Butterfly Biosphere Reserve, is so special that it has been designated as a World Heritage Site to protect the 60 million to one billion monarchs that spend the winter there.

One of my most successful outings tagging monarchs was on a late October day after a cold front passed through leaving a chilly layer of 50 degree air over the barrier islands. I went to one of my favorite monarch sites, a sand dune covered in a blanket of sea oats and goldenrod. The cool air had grounded an entire fleet of these cold-blooded insects, hundreds of them clinging to the vegetation like Christmas tree ornaments. Without a net, I easily plucked them off, applied the tag and gingerly placed them back. Once, under the hazy influence of “monarch-xide,” I jumped off the tailgate of a moving pickup truck to capture a monarch that had already been tagged. This butterfly had traveled from Cape May Point, N. J. to Bear Island along our coast in eight days, averaging 40 miles a day.

Monarch Watch has started a number of programs to help monarchs overcome their vulnerability to insecticides, herbicides and loss of habitat. Their Monarch Waystation and Bring Back the Monarch programs create fields of milkweed and flowering habitat at schools, public lands and residential landscaping.

It may not be as spectacular as thousands of thundering hooves of wildebeest pounding over the Masai Mara, but the fall migration of the monarch is one of the world’s greatest wildlife spectacles. These tiny insects will fly over two thousand miles and as they begin to reach their final destination, groups will merge together and form into great clouds of butterflies.

How they locate their wintering grounds is not really known. Scientists speculate about magnetic fields, sun orientation, a chemical compass and a sun clock in their antennae.

As they settle in on the fir trees to take their rest, the local cultures celebrate their arrival of the monarch which coincides with the Day of the Dead or Dia de los Muertos holiday. It is believed that monarchs represent the souls of ancestors coming back to earth for a visit.

One of the fledgling chicks grabs a quick meal from its mother. 

By Sam Bland

EMERALD ISLE– Even though the temperatures are still toasty, summer is waning and the signs are everywhere. The muscadine grapes are fat and heavy on the vine, the goldenrod is starting to bloom and of course, the yellow cloudless sulfur butterflies are everywhere to usher in a new fall.

As my wife and I walked the beach and waited for the blazing orange ball to extinguish into the horizon, I began to reminisce about the fleeting summer and where all the time went. One event that dominated a good amount of my time stood out in my mind. A hummingbird, actually three hummingbirds took over my life.

Two eggs, the size of peanut M&Ms, fill the little nest.

The mother patiently sat on the eggs for 18 days through sweltering heat and ferocious thunderstorms.

Then she had two hungry mouths to feed, every 25 minutes every day.

One of the chicks is ready to leave the nest and try its new feathers.

One evening in June, my wife and I were standing on the back deck of our house waiting to catch sight of a gray fox that had been passing through our woods.  Suddenly, a female ruby-throated hummingbird appeared and buzzed away. It reappeared numerous times when my wife noticed that it kept landing at the same spot on the same branch of a live oak tree about 25 feet from the porch. We forgot about the fox and watched the hummingbird as it continued to return to the tree.

My wife retrieved some binoculars and when the hummingbird landed again on the branch, she exclaimed, “She’s building a nest!”

With these words, we began a surveillance operation that would rival any undercover police investigation. Spotting scopes and binoculars were placed at strategic locations throughout the house and window screens and a section of porch railing was removed to allow for clandestine photography.

We watched with amazement as the hummingbird built the nest over the next two days. The tiny cup shaped nest, no bigger than a walnut, was constructed primarily with thick layers of lint that she recovered near the dryer vent. After a foundation layer was placed on the branch, it was anchored in place with multiple wrappings of pilfered spider webbing. As the walls of the nest went up, they too, were secured with ropes of spider webs.

Once the nest was complete, the outside was decorated mainly with bits of lichen, which provided excellent camouflage and a bit of water proofing. The female would then hop on the nest and snuggle in. At times you could see her kicking the outer walls with her legs to expand the diameter of the nest.

Over the next few days she would fly in and sit on the nest, but when she left I could see that the nest was void of eggs. When she wasn’t leaving the nest as frequently, I realized that eggs were in the basket, two peanut M&M sized eggs to be exact.

Over the next 18 days, this delicate little bird endured sweltering heat, torrential rain from thunderstorms and wind that had the nest bobbing up and down like a rowboat in the ocean during a hurricane. I fully expected to find the nest abandoned after a few of these thunderstorms, the eggs thrown out as if with a slingshot.

Then one day, she landed on the nest and didn’t settle in, she stood on the edge of the nest and looked down into it. One of the eggs had hatched and a bald, dark gray little head with closed, bulging eyes rose upward with its mouth wide open. Mom’s long slender bill reached into the mouth of the chick and the chick thrusted itself so vigorously onto the needle-like bill that I thought it might skewer itself.

A couple of days later the second egg hatched and the adult now had two to feed. Even though I knew that there were only two eggs, I could still see another egg in the nest. This turned out to be half of a shell from one of the eggs. The shell must have irritated the chicks since I could see them trying to push it over the rim of the nest. After a few days, they grew stronger and were able to actually flip the shell into the air a bit. It looked like they were playing volleyball until one of the chicks successfully flung the shell out of the nest.

For the next three weeks, the adult female returned to the nest about every 25 minutes from sunrise to sunset, feeding the chicks a slurry of nectar, sap and tiny insects. As the chicks grew, their naked skin slowly began to show the stubble of feathers poking out.

The female tirelessly continued the feeding and drove off of any intruders that might threaten her chicks. She was on her own as the breeding male was nowhere to be seen and offered no help in nest building or feeding. The male did, however, offer her a free pass if she entered into his feeding territory. Otherwise the male will run off any other male or female hummingbird.

Throughout the nest building and feeding, I was busy trying to document the event with photographs. I must say it was the most challenging animal that I have photographed. The nest was in deep foliage and heavily shaded. Hummingbirds move fast, and achieving the proper position to angle my camera lens at the nest required that I contort my body using the dexterity of a yoga master. Initially my presence out on the porch gave her a bit of concern, but she soon viewed me like a branch on a tree.

The shimmering iridescent green on the back and head of the female mesmerized me and I was obsessed with getting the perfect picture with just the right light. Most of the time, when the female landed on a nearby branch, she would face directly towards me. This limited my chances to get a picture of her from behind. Then, one day, she landed nearby with her back to me as she kept a wary eye on a Carolina wren. I fired off so many photos that the shutter sounded like an old-fashioned teletype. I felt like a fashion photographer shooting away as she preened and posed.

The mother hummingbird feeds a  newly hatched chick.

I smugly went to view my award-winning photos, popped open the compartment to remove the memory card and stood in stunned, numb silence as I discovered that the card was missing. I went through all the seven stages of grief on this one, lingering on anger for quite a while, angry at myself for being such a bonehead.  Acceptance kicked in and about a week later she gave me another opportunity.

As the chicks grew bigger, their plumage of over 900 feathers slowly filled in and they looked just like the female parent. If either of the chicks were male, it would take a while for the namesake throat patch to turn red.

Eventually, the older chick began to stand on the edge of the nest to test out its specially adapted feathers and wings that allow it to fly forward, backward, up, down and hover. At times it would hover slightly above the nest and return with a clumsy landing. Beating their wings at over 60 times a second, these little jets can easily fly over 25 miles an hour.

One day, I looked out the spotting scope and there was only one chick in the nest. Scanning the nearby tree branches, I found the chick hunkered down on a branch. It had successfully fledged. A few days later, the second chick was conducting preflight tests also.

I thought I was going to lose this baby when a large green anole slowly crept down the branch towards the nest looking for a meal. The baby chick hunkered down low in the nest, its bill and eyes poking over the rim. Oh no, I thought, but this is the law of nature, this is what happens on the wild side. But then the chick hopped up, puffed out its feathers and frantically buzzed its wings causing the anole to abort its attack.

I have never had children, but I did get to literally experience the empty nest syndrome when a check through the scope revealed a lonely nest. Both chicks were now on the branches, flying short distances and still being fed by the female. They stayed in the same area for another 10 days and were eventually nowhere to be seen near the nest area.

The flowering plants around my house continued to have regular hummingbird visitors as they fatten up for migration and I assumed that some of these birds are “my” hummers. Soon they will be making the long trek to Mexico and Central America where along the way they will fly 500 miles non-stop over the Gulf of Mexico. This is such an unbelievable task that it was once believed that hummingbirds hitched a ride on the backs of larger birds for the flight across the Gulf.

When the light hits the back of a hummingbird just right, it is understandable why some Native Americans referred to the hummingbird as a living sunbeam. An Indian legend tells the story about a group of sunbeams that wanted to live on Earth and be like the other living creatures. So, since they were children of the sun, to make them happy, the sun turned them into hummingbirds.

The shimmering of the moon reminded me of the hummers and created plenty of light to find our way off the beach and back through the dunes. I noticed that I was walking alone and that my wife had stopped on the dune ridge and was looking back at the orange moon casting a glow over the ocean. She was absorbing one last delicious moment of our summer with the hummingbirds.

• See more Sam Bland nature photos in our Gallery

The bird’s mottled coloring allows it to blend into the background. Photo: Sam Bland.

I was awakened recently in the middle of the night by a driving rain storm so ferocious that it sounded like it was raining pennies on the windows of my house. Fortunately, I was able to go back to sleep until my alarm clock, which is my cat, woke me right on time to get up and head out for my morning exercise.

As I pulled on my running shoes, a new sound now reached my ears, a steady pulsating murmur that was coming from outside. With all the rain, I knew exactly what creature was producing this melody. As I opened the front door, a rush of moist humid hot air greeted me along with a deafening joyous chorus of green tree frogs. You could actually feel the vibrations of their calls. The wetlands on and near my property were full with water and amphibians were quite happy to have their habitat wet again after a long period of little rain.

It was still dark out as I started my run and after a half mile down the road I could still hear the rowdy frogs. As I jogged on, the songs from the frogs began to fade away and were replaced with other predawn sounds of nature.

Off in the distance I could hear a familiar bird call. A three part call that to me, sounds primal. The first part of the call, the “chuck”, is a click of the bill which is much quieter than the other two parts and is only heard if the bird is sitting on your head. Well, that’s an exaggeration, but the bird needs to be close by. If you are unable to hear the first part of the call you might be fooled into misidentifying this secretive bird. The second two parts of the call are a loud and clear “will’s-widow”. But without the “chuck” it is often mistaken for a whip-poor-will.

Only the male will call to attract a potential mate or to stake out breeding territory. They can pump out 15-30 calls a minute and have been known to call out up to 800 times without stopping.

The call of the Chuck-will’s-widow is one of my favorites, as long as it is in the distance. I once had a Chuck-will’s-widow belt out a repetitive performance just outside my bedroom window during the middle of the night that had me considering throwing a shoe into the tree to shoo it off.

A Chuck-will’s–widow is pretty much inactive during the day. It will sit undetected on the horizontal branches of trees waiting for the sun to set. When this bird settles in on a branch, their cryptic pattern of mottled brown, gray, black and white feathers provides camouflage that allows it to vanish into the tree. At dark, they will take to the skies in pine woods and around marshes searching out flying insects such as moths and beetles. They have even been known to eat bats. Their eyes are adapted with reflective membranes which proved great night vision for hunting in the dark. If their eyes catch the headlights from a car, they will shine a vivid orange similar to the glowing eyes of some mammals.

Long pointed wings allow them to maneuver quickly as they dart around obstacles chasing the prey. Even though they have a short bill, their mouth can open up quite wide and is equipped with long rigid feathers, called rictal bristles, which funnel the prey into their big mouth. These bristles are evidently pretty important to the bird. Their middle toe is specially adapted into a comb-like structure that is used to preen the bristles, keeping them in proper working order.

When nesting, the female will simply lay the eggs on the ground among the floor litter of leaves or pine needles. While sitting on the nest, her camouflage will render the nest undetectable. Yet, if the nest is somehow disturbed, she will pick up the eggs in her mouth, and one at a time, and move them to a new location.

Due to their nighttime activities, the Chuck-will’s-widow is in a family of birds known as the nightjars. This is because of their nocturnal nature and their call, which can be considered a jarring sound when they call out unexpectedly on a quiet night. This family of birds has also been known as goatsuckers due to an old, strange myth that even had the Greek philosopher Aristotle fooled. In ancient Greece, shepherds tending their goats at night thought that the Chuck-will’s-widow would fly in and suck milk from the udders of goats. The birds were actually flying around the goats scooping up insects that were attracted to the goats. Part of their scientific name is even derived from Latin words that mean “goat milker.”

As I continued my run, I was eventually so close to the bird that I could hear the complete call, “chuck-will’s-widow.” I stopped and began scanning the horizontal tree branches and as the first light of the sun created crisp outlines of the pine trees in the stillness of a new day, I was finally able to spot the silhouette of the bird on a branch about twenty feet up. Unconcerned with my presence, it continued calling a loud, “chuck-will’s-widow, chuck-will’s-widow”, over and over and over. I ran off down the road with the song fading in the distance.

Bumping along a sandy Forest Service road camouflaged with a thick layer of pine needles, I find myself under towering longleaf pines deep in the Croatan National Forest.

I am riding in a government pickup truck along with two National Forest Service wildlife biologists who have agreed to let me tag along and observe them banding endangered red-cockaded woodpecker chicks.

As we travel under the shade of the trees, I am consciously containing my excitement by casually asking a number of questions about this wood chipping bird. The enthusiasm of the biologists suggested that this didn’t seem to be just another ho-hum “got to band the birds” day. They seem to truly have a passion for the job that has them working on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.

Since the birds work all day and don’t get a day off, they could care less about the human weekend. Thus, the biologists must adjust to the schedule of the birds.

The truck came to a stop near a pine with an obvious woodpecker opening glittering with a fresh coat of oozing resin. As soon as I opened the door, I could hear a high-pitched squeaking sound and the confused look on my face caused Jason Forbes, biological technician, to say, “That’s the chicks.”

The sound reminded me of a wheel in serious need of oil. But in this case, the only thing that would stop this squeaking was more food. The demanding chicks were hungry and quite vocal about it. Right on cue, an adult red-cockaded arrived with a spider firmly in its bill.

Earlier this spring, Forbes and Rachelle Powell, a wildlife biologist, spent countless hours trekking through the Croatan searching for and documenting active red-cockaded cavity trees. These birds will hammer out a number of cavities in living longleaf pine trees to create roosting and nesting sites for their colony. Living trees are selected for cavity construction because the injured area will cause the tree to ooze a thick sticky film of resin around the cavity and down the trunk of the tree. The amount and duration of resin production of the longleaf is superior to other pines. This layer of fresh resin discourages predators such as black rat snakes from scaling the tree and entering the nest cavity in search of eggs or chicks.

A red-cockaded woodpecker perches in its resin-coated longleaf pine nest. Photo credit: Sam Bland

Drilling out a roosting or nesting cavity is tough work; it might take the adult birds over a year just to tunnel into the soft heartwood. The large older longleaf trees are ideal because the heartwood no longer produces resin and is usually easier to chip out due to decay. The cavity must also be free of the sticky resin that can easily trap the chicks and fowl the feathers of the adults. It is here in the heartwood that they will open up a chamber that will serve as a nesting site and eventual nursery for the chicks.

A colony of red-cockaded woodpeckers consists of a mating pair and the male offspring from previous years. Female offspring usually disperse to colonize other clusters. The older male offspring are called “helper birds” and they will help tend to the new chicks during the nesting period.

The area where the colony cavity trees are clustered is called, well, a cluster. Powell has documented around 100 of these clusters in the Croatan.

In mid-April, the female lays three to five eggs in the roosting cavity. After 10-12 days, the chicks will peck their way out of the eggs. This brief incubation period is one of the quickest of all birds, and it shows. The chicks do not pop out of the shell all cute and fuzzy; they are tiny, featherless, alien-looking creatures. Talk about falling out of the ugly tree; they fell all the way from the top. The scientific term for this type of development is called altricial.

These vulnerable chicks are born naked with their eyes still closed and they rely on their parents for warmth and food. The parents and helper birds will gather any insect, such as grubs, moths and spiders, which live among the scaly bark of the pine trees to fatten up the chicks. A little over three weeks later, the chicks are outfitted with a striking coat of feathers and are ready to fledge.

USFWS Wildlife Biologist Rachelle Powell bands a red-cockaded woodpecker chick to track the movements of the local nests. Photo credit: Sam Bland

The vast open old growth longleaf pine forests that once dominated much of the North Carolina coastal plain provided the specific habitat conditions necessary for the survival of the red-cockaded woodpecker. Beginning in colonial times, the longleaf was harvested to provide the products necessary to support a growing nation. The appetite for longleaf timber continued and now only a small fraction, three percent, of mature longleaf forest now exists.

The fate of the longleaf pine also holds the fate of the red-cockaded woodpecker. Throughout its range, it is estimated that red-cockades have declined 97 percent since the first European settlers came ashore.

This small bird was listed as endangered and received protection under the federal Endangered Species Act in 1973. In 1985, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service developed the Red-cockaded Woodpecker Recovery Plan to give this little bird a chance for survival.

Red-cockaded woodpeckers are picky. Not only do they need the longleaf pine forest, they need it just right. They require mature stands that are open and void of hardwood trees for both nesting and feeding. Usually, nature does a great job in creating this perfect habitat; however, sometimes nature needs a little help.

The Forest Service will conduct low-intensity controlled burns of the longleaf forests to prevent the domination of hardwood trees that would create a dense forest undesirable for nesting and feeding. In some areas, timber thinning practices are used to also achieve the same results. Since the construction of nesting and roosting cavities necessary for a successful colony might take years for the woodpeckers to hammer out, the forest service will install little bird condos, called artificial cavities, in mature longleaf trees. The biologists are also banding and monitoring the birds to establish population trends, which will provide scientific documentation that will hopefully someday lead to the delisting of the red-cockaded as an endangered species.

Powell scales the tree to collect the chicks for banding. Photo credit: Sam Bland

Back in the forest, Powell dons her climbing safety gear and scampers 25 feet up to a nesting cavity opening with the agility of a squirrel. Within seconds she lassoes a chick and gingerly pulls it out of the nest. A second chick is retrieved and Powell is back on the ground as Jason prepares the jewelry the chicks will soon wear.

Powell coats her hands with a layer of corn meal to prevent any resin she may have on her hands from sticking to the chicks. The two biologists quickly apply the bands to the squirming blobs of flesh and record the bird’s weight.

Banding the birds will help the biologists to identify individual birds to learn where they are and where they are going. This will allow them to concentrate habitat improvement practices along the corridors where the birds are active. The whole process took only a few minutes, and Powell quickly has the chicks back in the nest. It wasn’t long before the parents and helper birds were arriving with a room service delivery of spiders.

During 2012, Powell and Forbes documented 71 active red-cockaded clusters, of these, 70 were considered an active breeding group with a male and female. From these groups, 129 chicks were banded; the biologists are now out in the woods looking to see how many of these chicks fledged from the nest. As they survey the chicks, the biologists will also record other adult red-cockaded banding information. This year they learned that a female banded in the Croatan in 2008 is now successfully breeding in the Holly Shelter Game Lands in Pender County.

I stayed in the forest as the biologists headed off to another section of the Croatan National Forest to check on a few more cavity trees. As the sound of the truck faded away, the songs of the forest filled the air and the red-cockaded continued its quest for survival.

An oyster catcher chick stays close to its parent. Photo: Sam Bland

A few weeks ago, I headed over to Bear Island at Hammocks Beach State Park near Swansboro to accompany my friend, Ranger Sarah Kendrick, in surveying shorebird nesting activity on the island. As we headed down the beach, an elegant black skimmer acted as our escort, gracefully gliding an inch or two above the water with its hair-trigger bill waiting to snap down on an unsuspecting fish.

Reaching the low, wide sandy spit of sand that is greeted by Bogue Inlet at the east end of the island, we notice that quite a few of the dainty least terns had already established scrapes in the sand and are sitting on eggs. The mating pairs are taking turns incubating the eggs and hunting for food. These birds perform acrobatic aerial maneuvers plunging head first into the water after small surface fish. Their tiny splash would make any Olympic diver envious. But the artistic disposition of their feeding flight is in stark contrast to the flight pattern employed to protect their eggs or chicks. Resembling a fighter jet, these terns will conduct fast swooping dives, lock in on their target and use their beak as a weapon. Anyone venturing too close to a nest or tern chick will be rewarded with a bloody scalp missing a tuft of hair. Since terns are colonial nesters, the whole group will join in to drive off any intruder; there is safety in numbers.

 Scanning the tern colony with binoculars, we notice a larger black and white bird with bright yellow eyes and a long orange bill snuggled into the sand in a nesting posture. It was an American oyster catcher, nesting among the least terns to take advantage of their protective nature. A good number of oyster catchers nest on inactive oyster shell outcroppings that are found throughout the marsh waters behind the island. But in recent history, it has been rare for oyster catchers to nest on the sand spits at either end of the island.

Using a spotting scope, Kendrick was able to determine that the bird was sitting on three eggs. The gray eggs with brown speckles are well camouflaged in a shallow scrape decorated with bits and pieces of broken sea shells. Happily surprised, we hop back into the truck to check out the nesting activity at the west end of Bear Island bordered by Bear Inlet. The suitable nesting habitat at this end of the island is quite smaller, but we quickly notice least terns, Wilson plovers and willets, all exhibiting nesting behavior. Then tucked up near the base of a small dune we discover another oyster catcher sitting on two eggs. I know for most people this is no big deal, but for us, the prospect of baby oyster chicks scurrying about was quite exciting.

With our reconnaissance work completed, it was time for me to head home. Kendrick promised to give me a call as soon as the chicks chipped their way out of their speckled enclosures. As I drove home I realistically knew that the possibility of seeing any chicks was remote. It would be difficult for the eggs to go undetected by predators such as raccoons, foxes and even rat snakes that prowl the dunes eager to make a meal of bird eggs.

Forgetting about the oyster catcher eggs, a few weeks passed until I received a phone call. I was preparing to take an afternoon slumber when the phone rang and I let the answering machine serve as my proxy. A familiar voice told of chicks out and about being fed by the parents. I drove to the park in record time and raced from the parking lot down to the ferry dock. But alas, seeing the chicks was not meant to be, the ferry was pulling away from the dock. With the boat leaving, I gave a halfhearted wave of desperation for the boat to come back. Then the boat slowed down and turned, the captain generously returned to the dock and let me climb aboard. I gave the captain a big “thank you,” but I could tell that I wasn’t the first knucklehead to miss the boat.

Kendrick met me at the dock on the other side and we were soon scouring at the nesting area with a spotting scope looking for the chicks. Conspicuous as always, the parents were easy to spot. The chicks were close by, tucked away under a small clump of beach grass to take advantage of what little shade they could find. Looking through the long lens of my camera, they appeared to be sleeping. After a while, they began to stir and were soon wandering about. Even though they hatched only a day earlier, these precocious chicks were already venturing out with their parents and learning their new life.

The chicks look disproportionate with their long legs, but they were very steady on their feet and able to run like a sprinter. Compared to their parents, the bill on the chicks did not look out of place. It will take about sixty days for the bill to reach Pinocchio status and be useful for feeding. Until then, the parents will feed the chicks.

As their name implies, oyster catchers like to eat oysters. An oyster catcher will use the blade-like bill to reach into a slightly opened oyster. Once the bill is inside the shell, the damage is done and so is the oyster. It may not seem like it, but eating bivalves can be risky. Oyster catchers have been reported to drown when a bivalve puts the squeeze on their beak and the tide rolls in. They will also eat other bivalves, worms, crabs and urchins.

Of the two oyster catcher nests, only the nest with the two eggs hatched out, the three eggs in the other nest most likely were victimized by a predator since the chicks were never seen. Hopefully they also hatched out and the chicks were guided undetected to the safety of the nearby marsh grass.

As with many other shorebirds, oyster catcher populations took a nose dive in the late 1800’s when they were hunted for food and their feathers were used to adorn garments. Today, oyster catchers face different threats. Development along our barrier islands has reduced the amount of suitable habitat, crowded beaches discourage nesting and poor water quality has diminished food sources.

The preservation of jewels like Bear Island is important to the survival of oyster catchers and other shorebirds. But it is also necessary to have these natural wonders where we can observe these creatures that nourish our spirit.

Smoke from a fire in the Croatan National Forest looms over the White Oak River. The smoke was an inconvenience to most, but the fire means survival for the longleaf pine forest. Photo: Sam Bland

By Brad Rich and Frank Tursi

A version of this story first appeared in the Tideland News

SWANSBORO — For a longleaf pine forest like the Croatan National Forest, fire is the common cure for illness. Fire is to the longleaf forest what rain is to a rainforest and tides are to a salt marsh. Take away fire and the longleaf forest will perish.

So while smoke from the Croatan wildfire has caused problems in the area and fighting the fire has been expensive, biologists are far from unhappy about the effects.

In fact, Rachelle Powell, the forest biologist, said the fire is happening in a “wilderness” area that officials were in the process of seeking permission to burn.

The fire started on June 14 in a permitted “prescribed burn” area, which is burned every two or three years, Powell said. But it jumped into the wilderness area, pushed by stronger than expected winds on June 17, and has now blackened more than 21,000 acres.

Ideally, Powell said, the National Forest Service would like to burn even wilderness areas every few years, both to reduce wildfire fuel and for the ecological benefits, but that’s prohibited by Congress.

“We’ve been working on changing that, but it’s a long process and we want to make sure we do it right when we can do it,” Powell said.

Fire and Longleafs

Historically, frequent, yet low-intensity fires started by lightning strikes burned every three to 10 years to maintain the Southern longleaf forest. Native Americans and then European settlers also set fires to flush game and clear land. Thus molded, the longleaf forest is made up of plants and animals that are tolerant of and dependent on fire. Biologists like Powell call it a “fire climax community.”

“Almost the whole forest is a fire-dependent ecology,” she said. “People don’t realize it, but each year we successfully burn thousands of acres. It’s necessary.”

Burning promotes seed germination, flowering, or re-sprouting of fire-adapted native plants and generally improves wildlife habitat. Regular burns improve the quality and quantity of plants, nuts and fruit for wildlife. New shrub, herb and grass sprouts capture the quick flush of nutrients into the soil after a fire and are often more nutritious and palatable than older plants. Insects, food for many animals, also increase rapidly after most fires. Burning also helps to control pests, such as bark beetles, and diseases on seedlings.

Flames consume other trees that would out-compete longleaf pines. Photo: Sam Bland

No inhabitant of the forest is more immune to the scorching effects of fire and more dependent on it for survival than the stately longleaf. The tree’s thick bark and copious resin protect it from all but the hottest fires. The seedlings spend much of their energy in their first few years growing a deep taproot to better survive a fire. They look more like bushy candles at this stage, their branches a wiry tangle of long needles that protect the terminal bud from fire.

It can take a longleaf 150 years to reach full height. Because they don’t grow very fast, young pines would soon find themselves in the shade of other, faster-growing trees. Denied of sunlight, the seedlings would be doomed. Those other trees, though, must eventually face the flames. Most will be consumed, and the longleaf forest will thus go on.

The Land of the Longleaf

A canopy of longleaf and the park-like wiregrass savannah below it once stretched from Raleigh to the coast. The pine forest then covered maybe as much as 60 million acres of the Southeast coastal plain.

The tree was such a defining characteristic of the state that it got top billing in the official state toast:

Here’s to the land of the longleaf pine
The summer land were the sun doth shine..

New land uses, starting in the late 1800s, triggered changes to the great longleaf forest of the Southeast. Large swaths of forest were cleared for farm fields and pastures, for roads and highway interchanges, for subdivisions and strip malls. The forest became fragmented as we began heeding Smokey’s advice to put out all forest fires.

Experts estimate that about 2 percent remains of the great Southern longleaf forest. That remnant needs fire to survive. Forest managers use these “prescribed burn” to mimic a natural fire over a small area.

The Croatan fire is in region of the forest that hasn’t burned in at least 15 years, so lots of fuel – undergrowth and vegetative debris – has built up. That last wildfire in the area, Powell said, was almost exactly the same size as this one, maybe even slightly larger.

“I’m not an expert, but dendrologists … will tell you that from looking (at tree rings) over 300 years – since settlement – you’ll see that it generally happens every three years or so, sometimes up to 10 years,” Powell said. “In this case – 15 years, at least – I guess we just were lucky.”

The Greening of the Croatan

Some of the grasses and understory vegetation will be back – not noticeably different than before – within a week after the fire is out, Powell said. Other vegetation will take longer to come back, but it will return.

If the dry weather continues, the process might be somewhat slower than would normally be expected, she said, but a year from now, no one is likely to see any difference, except for scars on the trees.

“The plants in the forest have evolved over time to this ecology,” Powell said. “The fire is healthy for the forest.”

The fire, she added, has had no negative effect on animals within the forest. “We haven’t seen one dead animal,” Powell said. “These animals – bears and deer and others– are also well-adapted to fire-dependent ecology. When they smell smoke or see flames, they just move away for a while but come right back.”

This story is provided courtesy of the Tideland News, a weekly newspaper in Swansboro. Coastal Review Online is partnering with the Tideland News to provide readers with more stories of coastal interest. 

CEDAR ISLAND — Most people who travel through Cedar Island in eastern Carteret County are most likely on their way to or from the state ferry to Ocracoke. They are probably either stressed out as they zip along N.C. 12 in a hurry to catch the ferry or relaxed after a refreshing ferry ride from Ocracoke.  Either way, there is a good chance that they never noticed the highway signs announcing the Cedar Island National Wildlife Refuge. I’ve seen the signs for quite a while but never bothered to stop and explore until recently, and I’m glad that I did.

As I made my way east on U.S. 70 towards Cedar Island, an armada of big puffy marshmallow clouds sailed across a sea of blue sky. I knew that I was officially “Down East” after I crossed the North River Bridge and began to pass through the uniquely named communities of Bettie, Otway, Smyrna, Williston and Stacy. At the turn off to Sea Level, I kept straight onto N.C. 12 and after I crossed over the “thorofare” on the Monroe Gaskill Bridge, I was in Cedar Island. From the top of the bridge you can see a vast marsh that seems to stretch out forever with a tree line marking the horizon.

The female, top, and male seaside dragonlet feed on mosquitoes, which means they find plenty to eat in the refuge. Photos: Sam Bland

I cruised on down the road all the way to the ferry terminal passing through the collection of houses on the island. The unincorporated town is inhabited with hearty souls who maintain the strong will necessary to make a living fishing the waters of Core and Pamlico sounds.  The landscape of the town is decorated with boats, nets, crab pots and small seafood houses and the natives still speak with a thick local Old English dialect that is unique to this area of coastal North Carolina.

Many residents stand by the claim that Cedar Island, not Roanoke Island to the north, was the site of the famous English Lost Colony. In 1946, a man named Melvin Robinson wrote the book Riddle of the Lost Colony in support of this claim, which is also mentioned in the 1994 book Cedar Island Fisher Folk by Jean Day.

Over half of the island is now part of the refuge. In 1964, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service bought thousands of acres of marsh, pocosin and upland to protect and provide habitat for migratory waterfowl and all other wildlife. Totaling 14,480 acres, the refuge contains 3,480 acres of woodland and pocosin while the remaining 11,000 acres are comprised of brackish marsh.

I turned around at the ferry landing and headed back to find one of the undeveloped trails that cuts through the woodland and pocosin. The easiest one to find was just off the highway and identified with a sturdy iron gate. I brought along my mountain bike to cover more ground and, as I was unloading it, I was greeted by a few mosquitoes. A few months back, federation assistant director and Coastal Review Online editor, Frank Tursi, gave me a stern warning about visiting this refuge. “Go now before the bugs get bad,” he said. I didn’t listen, but I figured I could outrun the mosquitoes on the bike and headed off down the trail.

The loblolly and long leaf pines were scorched at the base indicating that controlled burns wereused here for ecosystem management and fire control. Popping up among the pines were wax myrtle and yaupon shrubs along with a few red bay trees.

My concentration was soon diverted to address the cloud of deer flies and mosquitoes that were hot on my trail. They captured and devoured me. After about only about a mile down the trail, I was forced to abort and race back to the truck. I must have sounded like the cartoon character Muttley as I mumbled my displeasure. The only way I will try this trail again is when it’s covered by a glacier.

With the bike quickly stowed, I drove a short distance to the open marsh area near John Day’s ditch. Local historians report that Mr. Day dug the ditch to stop his cows from roaming off his property. I slid my borrowed kayak into a different ditch that lead out into West Bay. The sturdiness of this super lightweight kayak had me a bit worried since it is basically a thin layer of fiberglass stretched across nothing.

The ghostly form of a jellyfish rises from the depths. Photo: Sam Bland

Once on the water, all of my aggression towards the mosquitoes and concerns about the kayak melted away. I was immediately under the watchful eye of numerous diamondback terrapins, their heads popping up like tiny periscopes to track my position. As I headed down the 20-foot wide ditch, a red-winged blackbird showed up and became my companion for the entire trip. Due to the windy conditions, I never ventured too far from the edge of the marsh allowing the bird to leapfrog ahead of me and perch on weather beaten shrubs sprinkled throughout the marsh.

As the ditch opened up into West Bay, fish-hungry least terns performed aerobatic dives into the water in hopes of capturing a meal. This open water around the marsh is a haven for migratory waterfowl such as redhead and ruddy ducks. Scaup, bufflehead, mergansers and canvasbacks also seek refuge in these waters.

The entire Cedar Island efuge is amazingly diverse with 270 different species of birds documented, including the black rail. Black rails are super shy and hide out among the salt marsh cordgrass and black needlerush. It may take even the most avid bird watcher years before they are lucky enough to see a black rail. The vast marsh area of the refuge is an incredibly productive habitat that serves as a nursery for fish and shellfish that supports the local fishing economy. In the woodland and pocosin areas, mammals such as otter, mink, white-tailed deer and marsh rabbits scamper about.

A black skimmer flies past my kayak and is headed to one of the white sandy beaches that line the West Bay shores of the refuge. Yes, that’s right, white sandy beaches that pulled me in like a magnet. Strolling along the beach I quickly discovered quite a few tracks etched in the sand indicating that female diamondback terrapins had crawled ashore to deposit the eggs of future generations. A scattering of dried up egg shells and the impressions of paw prints on the beach revealed that an opportunistic raccoon had searched out a nest and made a meal of these terrapin eggs. As I walked

This magical dragon fly display kept me mesmerized for quite a while. I snapped back to reality and started to feel weak from my earlier mosquito blood drive donation. Reluctant to leave, I was pouting a little bit as I paddled off to find the ditch that lead to my truck. As I rounded one of the marsh points, I lost the leeward protection from the wind and a gust pushed me away from the marsh edge. I began to stow my gear into a dry bag since I knew the choppy waves would throw some spray into the cockpit. Glancing into the water, I saw a ghostly apparition rising from the depths to the surface.  A pristine jellyfish emerged and pulsed along the surface with long tentacles trailing behind like nets off a boat. It undulated with the grace of a ballet dancer before dissolving below the rippled surface as the red-winged blackbird guided me back to my launch site.through a patch of saltmeadow hay to inspect the egg shells, an explosion of dragonflies drifted up into the air and slowly settled back down on the vegetation. Moving along the grass line, clouds of dragon flies continued to erupt around me everywhere I walked. Both the colorful female seaside dragonlet and dark drab male were silently buzzing about. There were thousands, if not, hundreds of thousands of these delicate creatures. But these dainty insects are carnivorous beasts that can, in thirty minutes, devour enough prey to equal their body weight. It’s no wonder that they are so prolific in Cedar Island, their favorite food, you guessed it, mosquitoes!

Back at the truck, with the kayak and bike secured in the bed, the mosquitoes showed up to say goodbye.  But when I think of the Cedar Island National Wildlife Refuge, I will not think of mosquitoes, I will remember the delightful dragonflies.

Female diamondback terrapins crawl onto the white, sandy beaches in the refuge to lay their eggs. Photo: Sam Bland

A few weeks ago I found myself in the blue crab town of Belhaven where clear blue skies encouraged the local seafood vendors to market their fresh catch along the shoulders of the main road. The circumstances of my journey allowed about one and a half hours of free time before I needed to depart for home.

Belhaven lies along the shores of the Pungo River and is awfully close to one of my favorite nature havens, Pungo National Wildlife Refuge. Temptation got the best of me and I raced off to the refuge knowing that I would only have, at best, an hour in the refuge before I needed to attend to my other commitments.

Timber rattlesnakes have a docile reputation, which is why they were the favorite of religious snake handlers. Photo: Sam Bland

Road construction detours turned my bee-line to Pungo Lake into what felt like following the path of a drunken cow.  This reduced my free time to about 45 minutes. Once in the refuge, I took quick glances, but pretty much ignored the bald eagles, white-tailed deer, nutria and a parade of butterflies as I headed straight to the north lake road to search for black bear.

Overhead, the blue skies were captured by dark, moody storm clouds that teased with the threat of rain that never materialized. I grabbed my raincoat anyway and headed out with a stiff wind nudging me down the path. Down the road a ways, I could see that a sturdy tree branch had been blown down and was stretched across the road. I had just walked past the branch when my mind processed that the branch must have just completed metamorphosis and it was now a long, thick snake. I must have done a pretty impressive snake scare sprint because when I looked back I was quite a ways down the path from the snake. I’m just glad I didn’t pull a muscle. I love snakes, but when I see one unexpectedly, fight or flight kicks in and flight always wins.

With my breathing under control, I walked back to observe this beautiful creature. True to its reputation, this timber rattler was docile and calm while keeping a watchful eye on my movements as its forked tongue flicked about trying to pick up my scent. A timber rattler is reluctant to bite or even use its rattle. When provoked, however, it will defend itself. This demeanor is why it became the symbol of the American Revolution.  Due to its calm disposition and hesitation to bite, the timber rattler became a favorite of religious snake handlers intent on following the directions set forth in Mark 16:17-18: “They shall take up serpents.”

The coastal pocosin landscape surrounding Pungo Lake is perfect habitat for the timber rattlesnake to prey on small mammals. They will find chemical clues left behind by animals to select an ambush site where they will lay-in-wait. Specially adapted with a sixth sense, pit vipers utilize temperature sensitive organs located behind their nostrils. This snake can detect prey and strike out like a heat-seeking missile in total darkness. Their long fangs will inject toxic venom that will immobilize the prey.

The snake flicks its tongue to pick up Sam’s scent.

Its rattle, nature best early-warning signal, is made of keratin, the same as our hair and fingernails. Photos: Sam Bland

Timber rattlers are known to have geographic variations in the composition of their venom. Four different venom types are found throughout their range. One venom is a neurotoxin that effects circulation and respiratory functions, another is a hemotoxin that destroys tissue and causes internal bleeding, a third is a combination of the two and the fourth is a weak version without compounds found in the other venom types.

Annoyed with my presence, the timber rattler finally half-heartedly presented a weak rattle as a signal for me to back off. Respectfully, I did. It began to lazily undulate its body and slide into some tall grass where its cryptic camouflage made it seem to disappear. It was now completely in its element and my attempt to get one last close look was greeted with a rattle that sounded like a group of grade school kids with brand new maracas in music class. Dancing at 50 beats per second, the rattle did its job and I backed off into the next county.

The rattle is made up of keratin, same as our hair and fingernails, and is comprised of numerous hollow segments. Each time the snake sheds its skin a new segment is added to create one of nature’s most effective early-warning systems.

As I continued to watch, the last I saw of the snake was its erect rattle slaloming through the tall grass before it vanished. I checked the time and couldn’t believe that my forty five minutes had already expired.

And yes, I did see what I came here for, one last fortuitous glance down the north lake road, a black bear ambling casually along.

Along a 30-mile stretch of the central N.C. coastline, what may be the rarest butterfly in the world is awakening from its winter slumber. To ward off the cold and wind, tiny green caterpillars had snuggled into the leaves of seaside little bluestem, a grass that grows in tufts amid the dunes of barrier islands.

The caterpillars were inactive through the winter and in a life stage called diapause, a state of dormancy in which all development is suspended. Unlike hibernation where development and metabolism still occur at a slower rate, during diapause all cellular growth stops.

As the days grew longer and warmer, the caterpillars began to feed on bluestem leaves before beginning the transformation into a type of butterfly called a skipper. By mid-April, a small fuzzy brown butterfly emerged and begin looking for some nectar.

A crystal skipper sips nectar from a toadflax bloom. Photo: Sam Bland

Known scientifically as Atrytonopsis new species 1, this butterfly is being called the crystal skipper because of the crystal-like white shapes on its wings and because it is found nowhere in the world except the Crystal Coast. The butterfly lives along a thin stretch of beach from Bear Island in Hammocks Beach State Park in Onslow County to Fort Macon State Park at the eastern end of Bogue Banks in Carteret County, and on a few dredge spoil islands in between.

It was first documented in the late 1970s at Fort Macon. Since then biologists have

debated whether the insect is a distinct species or closely related to other similar skippers. Some biologists think that it is a subspecies of the abundant dusted skipper. Other scientists say its wing markings are a bit different and it has two flight seasons a year. The dusted skipper only has one. Could it be a subspecies of the rare loammi skipper? But those skippers live in a completely different habitat and lay their eggs on a different plant.

To settle the issue, the Smithsonian Institution is analyzing the DNA of the various skippers. The early results indicate that the crystal skipper could indeed be a separate species.

While the biologists debate and try to come to a consensus, the crystal skipper continues to hang out at the beach. As a skipper, the crystal skipper doesn’t have the flair and colorful markings of other butterflies. Due to its muted colors and hairy body, this small brown insect with white shapes on its wings is often mistaken for a moth and overlooked.

When it takes to the air in April and May, this skipper can be found primarily amid the primary and secondary sand dunes along the beach. It’s often found on the sound side of Bear Island where seaside little bluestem is abundant. They skip about in a fast and erratic flight pattern that at times makes them seem to disappear. They look for the sweet nectar of the southern dewberry or yellow thistle, which they will collect with their long proboscis.

Fortified with the energy-boosting nectar, the skippers go about the urgent business of looking for a mate. Since the adult butterfly lives for only a few days, there is little time for courting. After mating, the females lay eggs only on the blades of seaside little bluestem. Flying low to the ground, the females make quick pit stops on the outer blades laying only one white egg at a time.

A skipper caterpillar on a blade of bluestem. Photo: Sam Bland

As they mature, the eggs develop a reddish tint, and eventually a pale green caterpillar with a black head hatches out. The caterpillars take on a reddish-brownish-purple color as they grow. That allows them to blend in among the bluestem leaves and to avoid detection by predators. The caterpillars graze on the tender bluestem leaves and by late July this new generation will have transformed into butterflies that now search for morning glory as their nectar source.

The largest populations of this butterfly are found on Bear Island, where the dune fields full of seaside little bluestem are protected from development. There is also a large population at Fort Macon State Park. However, pockets of the crystal skipper are also found throughout the developed areas of Bogue Banks wherever its habitat has not been destroyed.

Even though the skipper’s habitat has been fragmented along Bogue Banks, there’s enough bluestem scattered about to support populations of the insect. These smaller areas are needed to prevent the populations on Bear Island and at Fort Macon from becoming isolated, which would weaken the skipper’s gene pool.

Though it has yet to be scientifically described and officially classified, the skipper is distinct enough for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to consider it a federal “species of concern.” This designation is an indication of how significantly the insect’s habitat has been destroyed and fragmented, but it provides no legal protection.

Some efforts are being made by the N.C. Aquarium and the N.C. Division of Coastal Management to improve and increase the seaside little bluestem grassland habitat at the Rachel Carson National Estuarine Research Reserve near Fort Macon State Park. If successful, this could create critical habitat and potentially expand the range of the skipper.

It is obvious that this shy little butterfly is living a fragile existence since much of its small range is developed and continues to be developed. The larger populations in the protected state parks could take a devastating blow with one monster hurricane.

Habitat protection, dune restoration and native landscaping are vital for the conservation of this dainty insect that could turn out to be one of the rarest butterflies in the world.

MAYSVILLE — The sun is low, creating long shadows of the tall mature pine trees as I drive along a wide, dusty, gravel road known simply as FS 1105. The road started out paved off N.C. 58 just south of this small town in Jones County and was announced only by a small green street sign that read “Catfish Lake Road.”

This 962-acre lake is a small part of the 16,000-acre Croatan National Forest that stretches into parts of Craven, Jones and Carteret counties.  A kettle of turkey vultures swirled high in the sky, gliding in lazy circles over my destination, Catfish Lake.

As I make my way down the road, I meet several vehicles that are traveling much too fast on the loose gravel road bed. As they passed, a thick rooster tail plume of white dust creates an artificial fog that obstructs my visibility for a few seconds. The first section of gravel road is bordered by stands of fire-resistant longleaf pine trees. The trees were once an important source of turpentine, tar, rosin and pitch  and heartwood lumber for building boats and houses.

The ground underneath these trees is scorched black from a recent “controlled burn” of the brushy undergrowth and leaves, pines needles and branches on the ground. The U.S. Forest Service, which manages the Croatan, uses these burns as part of its efforts to restore the longleaf ecosystem. The fires mimic the natural forest fires that lightning ignited for centuries. They prevent the accumulation of thick layers of leaves and branches on the ground that could lead to devastating forest fires.

A low-intensity “controlled” fire is also so vital to the survival of the longleaf pine ecosystem that forest rangers set them about every three years. Burning off the ground cover allows the pine seeds to reach the sandy soil, absorb nutrients and establish a tap root. The fires also open up the forest floor and eliminate competing vegetation that would otherwise shade out the young pine trees.

This is perfect habitat for the endangered red-cockaded woodpecker that has taken up residence in the forest. This is the only woodpecker that chisels out a nesting cavity in a live tree, patiently drilling away for up to two years to complete the cavity. Since the tree is still alive, sticky sap oozes from the wounded tree creating a protective barrier that discourages predators such as black snakes from entering the nest. In 2011, forest rangers catalogued 68 nesting pairs of these rare birds. They also discovered that the woodpeckers have their work cut out for them to establish new nesting cavities, since 38 cavity trees were brought down last year during Hurricane Irene.

The smoke from controlled burn curls above the shore of Catfish Lake. Photo: Sam Bland

Scorched by a controlled fire, this longleaf pine forest will soon bud with new life. Photo: Sam Bland

From the road there is no indication that a fairly large lake lies just a few hundred yards to the north.  The tall pines no longer dominate, but the pocosin shrubs are so dense that they obscure any glimpse of the water. To actually find the lake, I turn onto a dirt road identified only with a thin fiberglass post marked “NC4.”  Thin chocolaty dust clouds billow up behind my truck as I slowly bump along wondering if this is the road to the lake.  A parade of butterflies escorts me along the open road corridor; cloudless sulfurs, palamedes swallowtails and eastern tiger swallowtail butterflies are busy looking for nectar-producing flowers or scouting out a safe place to hunker down for the night.

I finally come across a small opening in the vegetation and see the lake. It’s much bigger than expected. This access spot is already occupied by a vehicle and a family tending to their fishing poles. As I continue down the road I notice a short path that opens up with a larger view of the lake and room for more than a few vehicles to park. A group of young men are tentatively minding their fishing poles and seem more interested in why I am intruding on their hangout. I get out of my truck and put them at ease with small talk about the beautiful evening and the obligatory “catching anything” question. They quickly ignore me as I gaze out upon the calm smooth surface of the lake.

Tiny ripples well up on the shore and reveal water that is the color of strong tea. The water has been darkened with suspended decaying peat particles, called tannins, stirred up from the organic bottom of the lake. Very little aquatic vegetation and plankton can survive in this lake since sunlight can’t penetrate the brown water. However, some plankton does exist; two new species of single-celled plankton from Catfish Lake were recently described by researchers. It is thought that these two new species may have adapted to the dark acidic water that prevents other algae from growing.

Fishermen try their luck. Fishing isn’t very good in Catfish Lake beacause of the lake’s high concentration of tannins. Photo: Sam Bland.

Catfish Lake is one of over 500,000 elliptical-shaped lakes that pepper the East Coast from Florida to New Jersey and possess unique characteristics to be classified as Carolina bay lakes. The formation of these lakes has ignited passionate debate among geologists, scientists and biologists. Theories range from up- welling of artesian springs, peat burning by Native Americans, dams created by giant beavers and dust devils.  Some contend that when the coastal plain was once covered by the ocean, these depressions were scoured out by submarine currents or thousands of spawning fish. Spurred by an aerial photo in 1933, one popular theory was that the lakes were created by comet fragments that slammed into the Earth. Here’s the fanciful account of this cosmic event that appeared in Harper’s Weekly that year:

The comet plunged down with a hiss that shook the mountains, with a crackle that opened the sky. Beneath the down plunging piston of star, compressed air gathered. Its might equaled and then exceeded that of the great star itself. It burst the comet nucleus. It pushed outward a scorching wind that must have shoved the waters upon the European shores, and on land leveled three hundred foot pines, spreading them radially outward like matches in a box. The comet struck, sending debris skyward, curtaining the east, darkening the west. Writhing clouds of steam swirled with writhing clouds of earth. For ten minutes there was a continuous bombardment, and the earth heaved and shook. For 500 miles around the focal spot of 190,000 square miles, the furnace snuffed out every form of life.

It is not really known how these lakes formed, but out of the 19 theories, I like the one involving giant beavers the best.

Endangered red-cockaded woodpeckers dig their nests in the live pine trees surrounding Catfish Lake. The sap that oozes from the wound deters predators. Photo: Sam Bland

Further down the dirt road I find a third access spot, it too already has occupants. Three friendly young Marines are earnestly trying to catch fish and report that they have indeed pulled in some very small catfish and bullheads that they released. The chemistry of this lake does not allow for a diversity of fish, other than catfish, a few yellow perch and bluegill. This is not a fisherman’s paradise, thus, Catfish Lake does not attract a crowd. People may also avoid the lake because it is reported to be a relocation site for delinquent alligators.

The entire area around Catfish is a natural delight, and the longleaf pines and woodpeckers are just a start. Insectivorous plants such as Venus fly traps, sundews and pitcher plants share the ground with three different species of rattle snakes. Black bear, mink and raccoons roam about while prothonotary warblers, wild turkey, indigo buntings and Swainson’s warblers are sought after by avid bird watchers.

This remote isolated boggy wilderness may seem devoid of life at first, but spend a little time here and you’ll find yourself wanting to go back.

During the winter months, I often take advantage of the cooler temperatures and the lack of pesky insects to hike through the interior of our undeveloped barrier islands: Bear Island, Shackleford Banks and Core Banks.

As I walk among the island shrub thickets, I am usually accompanied by yellow-rumped warblers (Dendroica coronata). The wax myrtle bushes are alive with yellow-rumps flitting about from branch to branch with sharp, crisp chirps splitting the air.

Affectionately known as “butter butts” because of their obvious yellow rump feathers, the birds seem to magically appear overnight in large numbers during late fall. In the eastern half of the United States, the yellow-rumped subspecies is also known as the myrtle warbler and as the Audubon’s warbler in the western states. It is thought that these two different types of yellow-rumps came about when they developed different physical characteristics after being separated by glaciers during the last ice age, 20,000 or so years ago.

We know spring has arrived when yellow-rumped warblers no longer frequent our bird feeders. Photo: Sam Bland

This plentiful, active, small songbird breeds in the dense coniferous forests of Alaska, Canada and in the western states. Like other songbirds, they will migrate south to spend the winter in milder climates. However, it can winter farther north than any other warbler due to its specially adapted digestion system. During much of the year, it will feed on a variety of abundant insects such as caterpillars, beetles, spiders, ants and mosquitoes.

However, during the winter when the insects are hard to find, these birds will feast on the berries produced by wax myrtles (hence, the name myrtle warbler), bay trees and Virginia creeper. As protection from the harsh salt spray that blows in off the ocean, the berries are wrapped with a waxy coating. Unlike other warblers, yellow-rumped warblers possess a special enzyme that allows them to digest the waxy coating covering the berries and thus receive nutrients from the berries. Since this food source is also available further north, the birds don’t need to migrate so far south in search of food. Consumption of these berries by the yellow rumps is beneficial for these plants since they will help disperse their seeds.

A wintering flock of yellow-rumped warblers will frequently call out with a chirp to keep in contact with each other while foraging. Soon, the yellow rumps will be migrating back north to mate and raise a couple of broods. While in flight as they migrate, the birds will also use the chirping call to keep the flock together during their long journey.

These little birds usually stay deep in the cover of the shrub thickets; however, a pishing sound will easily coax a yellow-rump to an exposed perch, offering a great look at these winter visitors.

Throw some sunflower seeds in the bird feeder. That will help fatten up the butter-butts for their journey north. When they have departed, we will know that spring is here.

Tundra swans glide over Pungo Lake as the setting sun casts a golden shine on the clouds. Photo by Sam Bland.

PLYMOUTH — Many coastal N.C. residents are unaware that a great wildlife spectacle occurs each winter just a day trip away.

Tens of thousands of ducks, snow geese and tundra swan navigate the Atlantic Flyway and begin arriving in November at Pungo Lake in the Pocosin Lakes National Wildlife Refuge  in Hyde, Tyrrell and Washington counties. That’s why when the Navy wanted to build a practice field nearby residents and bird lovers rose up to stop it. Protest signs sprouted in front of area homes and businesses. Lawsuits were filed and permits challenges. The Navy finally backed down in 2008. The birds were safe.

Best Viewing Spots

Once you find your way to the refuge, you must navigate a maze of dirt roads to find the five wildlife observation areas, three of which offer good views of Pungo Lake. It’s really just a large, shallow depression that was created long ago when a ground fire burned the thick, peat-rich soil. Rainfall then filled the hole to create the 2,800-acre lake.

Tundra swans squabble on the lake. Photos by Sam Bland.

One of the best spots to view some of the 25,000 tundra swans or 100,000 snow geese that migrate here is from the south lake platform on the Charles Kuralt Trail, which honors the N.C. native who brought these special places into our homes with his “On the Road” TV segments on CBS news.

From this elevated platform, you can lose track of time just watching the swans take off and gracefully land on the glassy lake surface as they come from and go to the feeding sites in the nearby fields. Farmers are allowed to grow crops in the refuge but are required to leave 20 percent of their harvest behind for the birds and other wildlife.

The large, white, 20-pound swans use the lake as their roosting site for resting and sleeping.  Floating out on the lake at night provides a safe buffer from predators.  Here they will rest and try to fatten up for the long spring migration back to the breeding grounds on the arctic tundra of Alaska and northern Canada.

Just a short drive down the dusty road is the Duck Pen Wildlife Trail that leads to the Pungo Lake Observation Point. A blind provides excellent concealment allowing you to see a variety ducks.  As you walk down the trail you will notice that the surrounding land is quite wet with standing water. This is a pocosin, the Native American word for “swamp on a hill.” This bog is thick with evergreen shrubs such as wax myrtle, sweet bay and red bay with a few pine trees scattered around.

A Favorite Hike

One of my favorite activities at Pungo Lake is to take a hike down the North Lake Road. On the south side of the road is a wide swath of thick woodland that boarders the lake. On the north side of the road farm fields with food plots stretch out into the distance. As I headed down the road, I flushed out two bald eagles, one mature and one an adolescent, that were perched in the tall gum trees. They flew out over the fields and began gaining altitude until they were soaring high into the blue sky. The soaring eagles flushed thousands of red-winged blackbirds feeding in the fields. They rose in a dark cloud and buzzed about like a pulsating orb before settling back to the ground.

An adult black bear and two cubs feed in a field. Photo by Sam Bland.

As I continued to walk, the air was quiet except for the occasional piercing cry of a red-tailed hawk and the laughing call of a pileated woodpecker. After about two miles, I finally came across evidence of an animal that I wanted to see. Huge muddy paw prints and island-sized piles of scat were scattered about indicating black bears were nearby. Just off of the trail that leads to the north side observation area I saw a number of bear and deer trails and found a spot to hunker down and wait for a sighting. Alas, it was not to be.

With the sun setting, I headed back to my truck since there was one more stop I wanted to make. Racing the sun, I swiftly walked the muddy road bed in a bit of a funk since I hadn’t seen any bear. I’ve always seen bear from this road. This area has probably the greatest concentrations of black bear in the state, and I was skunked.

Almost to the truck, I took a glance across one of the farm fields with a food plot. Off in the distance I could see three black objects, one large and two small, slowly moving about. A check with the binoculars revealed an adult bear with two cubs. They weren’t as close as I would have liked but they stayed out in the open for some great looks.

With a shot of excitement from the bears, I drove back to the observation platform for my favorite part of the trip. As a gate of darkness began to lower toward the horizon, the tundra swans were flowing back to the security of the lake. Their bodies were a dark silhouette against a golden-hued sky that was changing colors as the last light of the day was fading away. I could hear the wind rushing over their wings as the swans passed overhead. They glided in and skidded on their big webbed feet, landing softly onto the dead slick calm lake water.  The cold evening air was now filled with the soft cooing and honking of their magical calls as they settled in for the night.

To Get There: The refuge is six miles south of Columbia off N.C. 94 on the east and 18 miles south of Plymouth off N.C. 45 on the west. There are several access points to the refuge. Pungo Lake can be accessed by taking N.C. 45 South to Pantego.

More information

• Pungo Lake map
• Refuge regulations
• Pungo Lake video

Red-winged blackbirds, spooked by a soaring bald eagle, darken the sky. Photo by Sam Bland.

I have observed many serious beachcombers strolling along the high tide line in what I call the “sea shell shuffle” in search of oceanic prizes cast upon the sandy shores by the spilling waves. In a zombie-like trance, beachcombers appear inebriated as they slowly shuffle in a zig zag pattern with their head downward and upper body swaying from side to side. Then suddenly, sobriety returns as their shelling radar locks in on a target causing them to swiftly walk in a bee line to the object. A squeal of pleasure is often heard over the crashing waves as the item is examined, especially if a starfish is the object of attention.

Many stuffy marine biologists would scoff at the term “starfish” since this animal is not a fish at all. The scientifically correct prefer “sea star.” By whatever name, the animal is a type of invertebrate, similar to sand dollars and sea urchins, that are known as echinoderms. Many echinoderms have a rough, tough spiny outer layer that provides protection from predators. The term echinoderm is actually Greek for “hedgehog skin”.

Sea stars can also breathe through tiny structures called papillae that are on the surface of the skin. If these breathing structures become obstructed with seaweed or other debris, the common sea star uses small pincer-like organs, called pedicellaria, to pluck off any undesired objects.

As more carbon dioxide is pumped into the atmosphere, more ends up in our oceans. Even though these calcifying organisms rely on the carbon in the ocean, too much carbon dioxide makes the ocean more acidic. Research suggests that increased acidity could impact the ability of sea stars and other echinoderms to produce calcium carbonate and eventually reduce their role as a carbon sink. It’s important that we have these natural carbon sponges that help reduce the amount of carbon dioxide in our atmosphere.

Flushed now to an exposed perch, I could only see the silhouette of its uniquely shaped body through the gathering darkness. Its large crested head included a long, stout pointed bill and a stubby body with very short legs. This distinctive shape and coloration is not easily forgotten. Sporting a slate blue head, wings and back, the kingfisher has a white chest and belly with a blue neck band. The female is a bit showier and flaunts an additional reddish chest band. A legend contends that the band was scorched across the breast of the first female kingfisher when she flew too close to the sun.

The belted kingfisher (Ceryle alcyon) primarily eats fish, but has also been known to eat crabs, insects and even lizards. It uses two methods to find prey –patrolling or perching. The kingfisher will patrol a stretch of clear water, scanning for surface fish. It will hover, acquire the target and dive head first into the water. The bird then spreads its wings to keep from going too deep into the water. From a stationary perch near water, such as a dock railing or piling, a kingfisher will sit as motionless as stone then launch itself headlong after the prey.

Once a fish is firmly pinched in its powerful bill, the bird will return to a favorite perch to consume the meal. But first, to prevent the slick mucus covered fish from squirting out of its grasp, the
kingfisher will pound the liveliness out of the fish on a hard object. It will then position the fish head first and gulp it down. I was once on a boat tour conducting a birding program when a kingfisher began patrolling a section of marsh water near the boat. I had just finished presenting the group with detailed information about their hunting technique when the kingfisher slowed to a hover right next to the boat. It then plunged into the water with a splash, then promptly flew onto
the boat rail, pounded the fish a few times on the rail and then flew away. The passengers all turned and looked at me in stunned silence.

The belted kingfisher is a year-round resident in much of the United States and can be seen along rivers, streams, lakes and fresh or salt water marshes. A male will try to impress a potential mate with the presentation of a fish. He will approach in a low posture with his wings dropped, as if a man on one knee wearing a cape, then stretches the offering out before a female.

A kingfisher pair will mate for life and build a nest on a steep dirt bank near water. The pair will use their chisel-like bill to mine a tunnel into the bank. As their work progresses deeper, they will use their specially adapted feet (with two toes fused together) to shovel out the material. The tunnel will gradually slope upward for about eight feet and end in a wider nest chamber that can accommodate the chicks and parents. The upward slope of the tunnel will prevent any water from
flooding the nest. If a predator ventures to close to the nest entrance the female parent might flutter about on the surface of the water below the nest to distract the intruder. The chicks are born naked and helpless and hardly resemble a bird, but in a little over two weeks they are covered in plumage and look much like the parent.

As their name implies, kingfishers are experts when it comes to hunting their favorite prey. Native Americans believed that tying kingfisher feathers to their bows would cause the arrow to fly as true
as a kingfisher to a fish. To become a master at fishing, the young chicks must enroll in fishing practice with the parents acting as coaches. The parent will catch, then subdue a fish and fly to a perch where the chicks are eagerly waiting for a handout. After a quick tease, the parent will drop the fish into the water below, forcing the chick to dive in after it. With a couple weeks of practice, the chicks graduate to fishing on their own and will soon disperse to claim and actively defend a fishing territory of their own.

The kingfisher is prominent in many legends, myths and stories from various cultures. According to Native American folklore, the feathers on top of the kingfishers head didn’t always form a crest. Old Man, a mythical creator god, was left alone in the cold snowy woods when his hunting companion, Wolf, fell through the river ice while chasing otters. Old Man cried and wailed at the thought of being left alone. Kingfisher, sitting high on a branch witnessed the whole thing, and
laughed at the crying Old Man, who swung his club in anger at Kingfisher, The blow merely grazed the head feathers causing them to stand on end, creating the crest.

In Greek mythology there are a few versions of how the first pair of kingfishers was created. All of the stories pretty much agree that Zeus was displeased with Ceyx and his wife, Alcyone. When Ceyx was at sea, Zeus threw a lightning bolt at the ship causing it to sink resulting in the death of Ceux. Distraught, Alcyone went to the sea to drown herself to be with Ceyx. In a show of mercy, the gods changed them both into kingfishers so that they could be together. The kingfisher was then
known as the Halcyon Bird and the gods would calm the seas for fourteen days near the winter solstice so that Alcyone, now a bird, could care for her eggs that floated on a nest at sea. This time of year is known as the Halcyon Days and represents a tranquil time of peace and calm.
Thus, old mariners always felt that the sight of a kingfisher would protect them from storms and calm the seas.

Everybody probably remembers the fable by Aesop about the tortoise and the hare. Well, what about the sea turtle and the hare! Just kidding, but we do have a type of hare that lives in our coastal waters, just not the kind of four legged hare that you are probably thinking of.

Sea hares are without a doubt one of the most intriguing animals you will ever encounter.  Anyone that has spent time wading the shallow beach and marsh waters has most likely come across what appears to be a pulsating blob of mottled brown flesh slowly and steadily swimming by. Most people view sea hares with caution, concern and sometimes disgust and give them a wide berth. This could be from the misconception that has its roots in ancient Greece that a person would die if they touched a sea hare.

Young kids however, are fascinated and drawn to the sea hare like a magnet. I once observed a young boy in the marsh waters behind Bear Island meandering along staring intently into the water.  To no one in particular he loudly exclaimed, “I love these things.” I instinctively
knew what produced this proclamation of joy. The boy then reached down and gently stroked the sea hare as it moved along.

Sea hares are marine gastropod mollusks that do not have an external shell and resemble a big 8- to 10-inch garden slug. They do have a soft thin calcified shell that protects their heart and gill. It is embedded into the mantle and can partially be seen on their dorsal side.

The philosopher Aristotle has been credited with naming the sea hare due to a pair of body parts that, with an active imagination, resembles the long ears of a hare. These are actually head tentacles called rhinophores, which are sensory organs that can detect dissolved chemicals in the water. This gives the sea hare an excellent sense of smell that is essential in locating algae and eel grass. Due to their diet, these herbivore grazers have been referred to as “rabbits of the sea.” The flesh color of the sea hare is the same color of the food that it eats. This provides great camouflage to avoid detection from predators and could easily be mistaken as a dirty sponge by humans.
However, any predators brave enough to nibble on a sea hare will soon regret that decision as their tissue contains a toxin that makes them undesirable.

Since the sea hare cannot retreat into a shell for protection like other gastropods, it does possess another form of defense. When disturbed, the sea hare will eject a cloud of ink similar to an octopus or squid. One would assume that this is a smoke screen to provide cover for a quick escape. Yet remember, this animal is like a slug and can not make a fast get away. The ink is thought to contain chemicals that confuses and interferes with the senses of a potential predator. As a chemical engineer, the sea hare is able to convert harmless algae pigment into this potent ink concoction. The sea hare can then move away from the disoriented predator using one of two methods. It can use the large foot at the base of its soft body to crawl away or it can undulate
wing-like flaps of flesh called parapoda and swim away.

Native Americans would actually use the ink as dye for clothing. Today, some species of sea hares are used in neurobiology research due to a bundle of nerves that makes up their brain. They have the largest neurons of all animals, allowing particular actions to be traced to a single cell. Dr. Eric Kandel’s use of sea hares in understanding how neurons develop memories won him the Noble Prize in physiology in 2000. Also, a chemical in their ink called escapin, has anti-bacterial properties that is being studied to develop compounds to be used in eco-friendly biofilm products applied on boat hulls and other marine equipment.

But the most enjoyable use of this creature is to ponder its mystery as it cruises about in our diverse estuaries.

During my life living and working along the coast and spending time on the water I have learned that no species of animal brings more joy, reverence and awe than the magical bottlenose dolphin. They command your full attention and seem to make time fly and stand still at the same time.

Throughout time, the sleek, mystical creatures that cruise the oceans have captivated humankind.  Prehistoric engravings in Africa portray the image of people swimming with dolphins, and 3,500 years ago the ancient Greeks and Romans depicted dolphins in great works of art and stamped their image on coins.  Prominent on many early ships, the symbol of a dolphin was thought to provide protection from a fickle and sometimes angry ocean. Aristotle was the first to document that dolphins were indeed mammals and not a fish.  He noticed that they breathed air, were warm blooded, possessed hair, bore live young and nursed their young.

The dolphins that we see near the ocean shore and swimming in estuarine waters is the coastal bottlenose dolphin. Their sleek sturdy grey body can grow up to nine feet long and weigh up to 700 pounds.  Propelled by a mysteriously powerful tail, bottlenose dolphins usually cruise at a leisurely 3-6 miles per hour.  However, this superior swimmer has a streamlined body perfectly designed to reduce drag and can torpedo through the water at 15-22 miles per hour when chasing fish. They also have a smooth slick outer skin that allows them to easily glide through the water.

This layer of sensitive skin is being replaced almost every two hours and is easily damaged resulting in scars.  These scar patterns are unique to each dolphin and serve as a signature to researchers that study these toothed whales.

The individual characteristics of the dorsal fin are another fingerprint used by researchers. This fin acts as a keel and to keep the body from rolling and also has a thermo-regulating function to dissipate heat and prevent overheating. Their short pectoral fins gracefully maneuver the dolphin and also provide balance and assist with stopping.

Bottlenose dolphins use a variety of methods to snag fish with their cone shaped teeth.  They might individually chase fish or cooperatively work together to corral fish into a tightly packed ball and take turns charging through this “fish in a barrel”. A strong whack of the tail is sometimes used to stun fish for easy eating.  They have also been known to chase groups of fish into the shallows driving them onto a sandbar or muddy bank.  The dolphins will then get a running start and hydroplane on a thin cushion of water to reach the vulnerable flopping fish.  They will then wiggle their way back to deep water.

This method of fishing, however, has some serious risks.  In 1995, I rescued two dolphins that stranded themselves using this technique on a sandbar in Bogue Inlet.  When I reached them the dropping tide had left them in only a few inches of water with more than a hundred feet separating them from deeper water.  I knelt down beside one of the dolphins with my thighs against the midsection of its tail and began splashing water on the exposed skin to help keep it cool.  Feeling my presence the dolphin then used its tail and pushed away from me using my legs as a fulcrum and scooted several feet away.  I knelt down beside it again and it pushed off of me once more, another six feet.  We were on to something!  With the help of a friend who immediately responded to my call for help, the dolphins pushed their way to deep water using the sturdiness of our bodies. They exclaimed their freedom with a few celebratory leaps high out of the water.

This type of intelligent thinking is legendary for dolphins. They have been trained for years to entertain tourists and for use by the military.  By 1964 the CIA was already using dolphins to detect and plant mines; to protect divers; to attach listening devices on ships and to recover lost objects. The military has also researched their ability to determine the shape and location of objects using echolocation.  Dolphins can emit a powerful burst of clicking sounds to create an “echoic image” when the return echo is transmitted to the inner ear.  This keeps them alert for danger and the ability to locate food.

Dolphins are quite social and communicate through whistles and squeak produced from the blowhole.  They also alert each other using sound created by body language activities such as leaping and tail slapping.

A dolphin lover will stumble over their words when trying to explain the spiritual presence they feel when near a dolphin.  My wife once buckled at the knees and passed out when she touched a dolphin named Benny that was rescued and being rehabilitated in Beaufort in 1995.   To Native Americans, the dolphin symbolized the life force, the “keeper of the Sacred breath…”

As a kid growing up in coastal North Carolina I spent many a hot summers’ day out on the barrier islands hiking through the sandy dunes, body surfing the ocean waves and walking the moonlit beach looking for ghost crabs.  I would also love to stray over to the sound side of the island and spend a lazy afternoon wading through the shallow waters of Bogue Sound looking for hermit crabs, blue crabs and sting rays. During these excursions it wasn’t unusual to frequently see the head of a small reptile breaking the surface of the water for a fresh gulp of air.

As I grew older, I was always out on the water of our coastal estuaries through pursuits of pleasure and as a career.  I would continue to see the snouts of these creatures bobbing like a cork that has escaped the tether of a fishing line. Now, as over 40 years have passed, I rarely catch a glimpse of this intriguing marsh inhabitant that I consider to have the most stunning coloration of all the turtles.

Yes, the giant sea turtles are the media hogs with their cute little hatchlings dancing down to the ocean, but the diamondback terrapin is just as cool to me.  The terrapins love the brackish coastal marshes. They don’t venture out into the super salty ocean and they don’t swim too far up river where the water is fresh.

The top of their grey to brown shell is covered with scale-like scutes that contain the hieroglyphic looking namesake diamond pattern.  Their shell is excellent body armor, but they are unable to completely seek refuge inside their shell like the terrestrial box turtle.  The light grey skin of their exposed body parts looks as if it has been stained with henna in a tortuous pattern of Mehndi.   These patterns have the uniqueness of a fingerprint to each individual.

Along the Atlantic Coast from Cape Cod to Florida and along the Gulf Coast to Texas, terrapins cruise about the estuaries feeding on fiddler crabs, worms and a favorite food, the periwinkle. Diamondback terrapins don’t grow anywhere near as big as their sea turtle relatives.  The shell of a male will be around five inches while the female is a bit larger at seven inches; one of the largest shells ever recorded was nine inches.  At the end of all four legs are webbed feet with exposed claws.  The rear feet are quite a bit larger, flattened out and well adapted for pushing their streamlined shell through the water.

As a cold blooded reptile they sometimes will crawl ashore to bask in the sun during cooler weather.  When the temperatures dip too low they will dig into the muddy marsh bottom and hibernate for a few months.

The females will also come ashore during high tide in search of a sandy shoreline that will offer easy digging for a nest.  She will deposit eight to 10 leathery eggs, and in about two months the tiny terrapins will make their way into the marsh waters.  If a nest is laid in late summer, chilly temperatures at hatching time may persuade the hatchlings to ride out the winter in the nest and crawl out the following spring.  It’s a good thing that they are cautious about escaping from the nest until conditions are optimal since only one to three percent of the eggs develop a hatchling.

The name terrapin is derived from the Native America Algonquian word “torope,” meaning edible turtles that live in brackish waters.  During the American Revolution, General George Washington fed the hungry bellies of his troops with terrapin meat.  In the late 1800s through the 1920s, terrapin stew and soup was the haute cuisine in the upscale restaurants of big cities along the East Coast.  Demand for terrapin meat was high and the little reptile was almost hunted to extinction.

Salvation from the stew pot came from an unlikely event.  Terrapin soup and stew was rich in essential ingredients, sherry and cream.  The teetotaling ban of sherry during the Prohibition in 1920s caused the consumption of turtle stew to decline and thus a lull in hunting the terrapin.  The high class trend of eating terrapin began to wane and their populations rebounded even though modest harvesting continued.

The culinary popularity of terrapin meat demonstrated the potential for a cash fishery.  In 1900, the federal government established the U.S. Fish Commission Marine Laboratory in Beaufort.  During the next 40 years, one of the primary activities at the Beaufort Lab on Pivers Island was to study and raise diamondback terrapins.  More than 250,000 terrapins were raised and released along the east coast to help enhance and reestablish the native populations.

Today, almost all coastal states have put an end to the terrapin fishery and have listed the reptile as endangered, threatened or as a species of concern.  Essential nesting habitat has been lost to development.  Females in search of nesting sites have actually shut down JFK International Airport in New York when they crawled out of the bay and onto the runway.

But the greatest threat to terrapins isn’t airplanes; its crab pots.  Lured by bait into the pot and unable to escape, the turtle will drown if it cannot reach the surface. Close to a million crab pots are dropped into North Carolina waters each year and of those, around 17 percent become abandoned “ghost pots.”   Unless found and removed, these ghost pots continue to kill until the pot deteriorates years later.