1
Last Walk on Bald HeadIsland, Again
By Bill McIlwain
In 1972, when my father and I came to BaldHeadIsland, I was 14, Pop was 46 and the ancient island ranked among the wildest places then remaining on the southeastern seaboard. To show me the island before development changed it forever, Pop took me on a backpacking trip there, an experience he described in "Last Walk on BaldHeadIsland," an essay published in Harper’s Magazine in 1973. Today, 36 years later, I'm middle-aged, Pop is 83 and we've returned to BaldHeadIsland for a last walk, again.
Bald Head lies at the mouth of the Cape Fear River in southeastern North Carolina, 17 miles downstream from the port of Wilmington, where Pop grew up and began his career as a newspaperman during World War II. Comprising 12,000 acres of subtropical maritime forest, salt marsh and 14 miles of waterfront, the island -- like so much of the eastern seaboard -- is highly desirable real estate. In the mid-1970’s,after years of legal battles, development of the southern tip of the island began. Today the island features 1,900 million-dollar homes, an 18-hole golf course, a country club and a marina where gleaming yachts await their owners. There is, however, no bridge to the mainland, which gives visitors a pleasant feeling of separation.
On our first trip to Bald Head we walked to the island, crossing from FortFisher to Zeke's Island, then wading a wide salt creek at low tide and camping under the open sky in a grove of low cedars. Pop, whom I called Dad back then, was worried then that even careful development of even a portion of the island would ruin its diverse ecology, driving away its exotic birds and Loggerhead and Leatherback sea turtles, changing the island’s ecology irrevocably. Today, on a sunny Good Friday, we've returned by boat to see how the island has changed and what has remained the same. We've also come knowing how much we have changed.
At the private ferry terminal in Southport, N.C., we boarded a hulking ferry that would carry us two miles across the choppy CapeFear to Bald Head. I insisted that Pop, who has grown unsteady in recent years, carry a stout walking stick I carved, and as we walked up the gangway he gripped my elbow tightly with his free hand, and we moved along at a turtle's pace, followed by well-to-do vacationers looking forward to spending the Easter weekend on the island, playing golf, sipping drinks on the patio and enjoying a genteel seclusion in what has become largely a province of the wealthy. A steady 20-knot wind coursed the deck of the big ferry. We settled on a bench on deck, and Pop accepted the offer of my parka, which I helped him get zipped. As we steamed across the river's mouth in the distance I could see Old Baldy, the 1817 lighthouse that once warned sailors of treacherous Frying Pan Shoals. With binoculars I could see the houses and the 10-acre marina lining the waterfront.
"Take a look," I said, handing the binoculars to Pop, who fumbled with them briefly, took a quick look and handed them back. "It surely looks different," he said.
Twenty minutes later we pulled into the marina, shuffled off the ferry and set foot on Bald Head. Cars are not allowed on the island, so people get around in golf carts mostly, with a few riding bicycles for fun and even fewer walking. Leaving Pop in a quiet nook, I located our luggage and found the "tram" that would take us to the fancy inn where we would spend two nights enjoying each other's company.
"Nice palms," I said as we motored along a narrow paved pathway, pulling over several times to let other carts buzz past. Across a patch of marshland Old Baldy loomed above the live oaks and yaupon trees, a quaint reminder of the way the island used to be, when its only residents lived at the now abandoned Coast Guard station at the island's southern tip on the edge of what sailors dubbed “the graveyard of the Atlantic.” Lovely homes lined either side of the cartpath, each dwelling a bit different from its neighbor and each tastefully painted in subdued colors in compliance with the island's restrictive covenants.
Arriving at the inn, we were greeted by Leslie, the lovely innkeeper, who charmed Pop and quickly became a focus of his attention. She showed us around the inn, and Pop was pleased to hear that the coffee pot in the pantry stayed full at all times. She showed us to our suite, and we settled in. Pop would have the reproduction antique bed. I would sleep on the sofa.
"This is quite a place," I said, opening the wooden shutters to reveal a pleasant view of the marina and the transom of a yacht named My Reward. "It surely will be different from sleeping last time," said Pop, recalling our earlier trip, when we slept under the stars in blankets beside a campfire that Pop kept burning all night.
Leslie showed me how to operate the golf cart that was included in the price of the room, and after getting Pop settled on the passenger side with his stick we headed out to explore the island. Most of the homes, some costing more than $2 million, are nestled in the maritime forest near the lighthouse along a maze of shaded cartpaths with such names as Chicamacomico Way, Sabal Palm Trail and Edward Teach Wynd. Breezing along in the cart, I recalled the arduous 19-mile hike we made in '72, leaving our gear at the campsite on the north end of the island and walking down the beach to the old Coast Guard station near the mouth of the CapeFear. Today's traveling was much easier and far less satisfying.
At an understated but well-stocked grocery a mile or so from the inn, we ordered sandwiches to go, piled back in the golf cart and rode out to the beach, parking on the edge of the continent to enjoy the food and the expansive view of the Atlantic Ocean. A narrow boardwalk designed to protect the fragile sand dunes crossed the open 100 yards from the cartpath to the beach. "Do you feel up to walking out to the beach?" I inquired. Pop, who suffers from arthritis and various other ailments, said "sure," and we started out, with Pop gripping my arm with one hand and the walking stick with the other. It was late afternoon, and small groups of people were coming the other way on the narrow boardwalk, which had no railing along most of its length. Several times we paused to let families squeak past. I worried that Pop might misstep and suffer a disastrous fall four feet down to the sand. One family, recognizing Pop's unsteadiness, opted not to pass, saying, "Take your time. We're in no hurry."
By and by we reached the end of the boardwalk and crossed the uneven sand to where the surf lapped. I snapped a picture of our shadows on the sand, two silhouettes connected by the shadow of Pop's arm on mine. Looking up the beach I recalled our long hike from years ago and wondered if, as a 50-year-old, I could walk 19 miles in a single day. Perhaps, but the ending wouldn't be pleasant, and I would pay dearly the next day.
The wind threatened to chill us both, so we didn't stay long. We negotiated the boardwalk again, this time getting caught up in a clot of two parties with unleashed dogs that scrapped with each other and bounded past us, giving us both a fright. At the golf cart Pop said he was ready to head back to the inn. Through the rolling forest we went, never violating the 18mph speed limit. As a matter of fact, we never got above about 10 miles per hour because our old cart wouldn't go any faster. Several times I heard the whisper of another cart come up behind us, eager to pass, and I pulled over to let them hurry on.
In his 1972 essay, Pop wondered how Bald Head's ecology would fare if the island were developed. "However much care is taken with the ecology of the island, someone must attack its insects or there will be little patio dining on the hot dead-still nights in the long dog days of summer," Pop wrote. "I wondered how the birds will fare. And the baby shrimp that are nurtured in the marshes of Bald Head before moving out into the ocean. Can they live on?"
The answer is yes. Bald Head's ecology lives on, but like so many things along the North Carolina coast the changes have been mixed. For example, several prominent bird species that were in trouble 40 years ago are far better off now: Ospreys and Brown Pelicans have made a remarkable comeback, partly due to stricter environmental laws. Fish, shellfish and crabs, however, have not fared well. Water pollution, caused by sewage discharges and run-off from surging coastal development, has degraded habitat. Most of the once-rich oyster beds near Bald Head are closed to harvesting as a result of pollution. Over-fishing has depleted many fish species. Loggerhead turtles are struggling, too. They require undeveloped, dark beaches for nesting, and there aren't many dark beaches left on the North Carolina coast. The Bald Head Island Conservancy, a non-profit group founded in 1983, maintains a vigorous sea turtle protection program that includes nest protection efforts, education, tagging, monitoring and "sea turtle interns" patrolling the beach with flashlights all night from mid-May to mid-August. The conservancy’s primary goal is protecting the ecology of the Smith Island Complex (Bald Head, Middle and BluffIslands), known colloquially as “Bald Head.” Functioning as the island’s environmental advocate, the conservancy offers educational programs and sponsors scientific research dealing with the unique environment of this barrier island. The Smith Island Land Trust, a subsidiary of the conservancy, strives to acquire and preserve ecologically significant aspects of the island. Since it was founded in 1996, the land trust has preserved more than $10 million worth of property, partly through tax incentives offered to landowners. In 1997 the land trust raised $1 million to purchase 11 acres at Cape Fear Point, which is now part of the Bald Head Island State Natural Area. The island, like Pop and me, has changed since 1972, some for the better and some for the worse.
***
Eb and Flo's Steam Bar, the only open restaurant, was packed when we arrived at 8:30 for a late dinner. We made our way slowly back to the bar to wait for a table, and I was touched when a 30-something fellow dining with his wife gave up his stool at the bar for Pop. Old age has some benefits, at least sometimes. We ordered a bucket of steamed local oysters, two of which were dead and filled with mud from the nearby Lockwood's FollyRiver. The apologetic waitress brought us another bucket, some of which hadn’t opened from being steamed. Pop, who loves oysters, showed me how to insert the blunt oyster knife in just the right spot to pry open the shell and reveal the slimy prize.
Pop loves to talk. When we're together he does most of the talking. I listen dutifully as he holds forth on various topics: politics, current events, family, friends, alcoholism, "war stories" from his days as a big-time newspaper editor, writing, himself, all in the charming Southern drawl that I never picked up as a kid growing up in the suburbs of Long Island. At one point during dinner the conversation drifted to the various camping trips we've done, including one to Stone Mountain, North Carolina when I was 15. It was on that trip that our relationship shifted significantly on a slippery stream bank at dusk. Having lingered too long by the creek, we were overtaken by darkness. As we made our way back to camp, Pop put his hand on my shoulder to steady himself as we climbed the steep bank. Although I didn't appreciate the significance of it at the time, he remarked that I was taking care of him instead of vice-versa. The balance had shifted.
Then there was the trip to Cape Sable, Florida when I was in college. We flew to Miami, drove to Paradise at the edge of the Everglades, rented a canoe and set out for a two-night camping trip to the Cape Sable, a pristine mangrove beach on the Bay of Florida and the southernmost point of the continental United States. Ten miles we paddled in a swampy canal as straight as a surveyor's line, turning only once (90 degrees at the seven mile mark), and finally arriving at Cape Sable ready, as Pop said, “to rest our souls.” It was a pleasant trip, but not without some unpleasantness. But despite the heat and bugs, a harsh word never passed between us. When the going gets tough we lean into the yoke and bull on through, being careful with what we say to each other. That's the way it has always been with us. But an opportunity for harsh words presented itself the next day when we paddled the unloaded canoe up a salt creek into the mangroves in search of fishing, something we both enjoy but aren't very good at. Flanked by the ubiquitous, eerie mangroves, the creek branched repeatedly, disappearing into the anonymity of the dark, leggy mangroves, their odd, spindly limbs rising out of the army-brown water. At each branch I scored an arrow in the mud to guide us home on the return trip. Hours later, having caught no fish, we attempted to paddle back to camp only to find that the tide had risen, obliterating my careful markings. With no current to guide us and everything looking the same, we pressed on, with me in the stern, steering the boat and making uneasy choices at every fork with images in my head of that scene in "The African Queen" when Bogart and Hepburn get lost in the river delta and give up hope. But somehow an hour later we found our way out; the Bay of Florida opened up before us. I've never been so glad to see a campsite.
***
At Eb and Flo's the food was mediocre and the service lackluster, so when the check came I encouraged Pop, who is always a good tipper, to leave a minimal tip. But the waitress was young and pretty, and Pop insisted on leaving a good tip. We walked a few hundred yards back to the inn in the dark, and I was glad that I had brought a flashlight along. There are no streetlights on the island, and several whizzing golf carts had me worried that we might get hit. As we passed the stern of the My Reward we both remarked about the boat's name being outlined in garish, purple, neon light.
Saturday dawned sunny, breezy and chilly. We enjoyed a fine breakfast on the inn's back deck, and I gently warned Pop not to sunburn the top of his bald head and offered him my cap, which covered my balding head. He declined, saying he would put one on soon.
I proposed a tour of the island, and after 30 minutes of getting ready we headed out in the slow cart, following a colorful real estate map to Cape Creek Road, passing more stately homes partially hidden in the woods, and undeveloped quarter-acre lots selling for $250,000. Near the end of the road the pavement ended. We continued on, passing beneath twisted live oaks, laurel oaks and ironwood, stopping every now and then to take pictures across the marsh where several long-legged White Ibis worked the shallow water and a family in kayaks frolicked in the sunshine.
At the end of the road we discovered the Ibis Lake Sanctuary, a serene preserve managed by the Bald Head Island Conservancy. Although I wanted to pass the gate on foot and explore, I didn't mention my desire. Pop wasn't up to it. Maybe someday, under difference circumstances, I'll return to Bald Head and explore the vast undeveloped areas, but today we would see Bald Head on Pop's terms, and those terms precluded such a venture.
BaldHeadIsland is the northern edge of a subtropical ecosystem that is home toa wide variety of creatures. American Alligators and Diamondback Terrapins work the margins of the salt marshes, and Snowy Egrets and Great Blue Herons keep them company. Corn snakes and the Eastern Glass Lizards inhabit the woods and scrub thickets, eeking out a gritty existence. Pennywort, Sea Rocket and Muscadine Grape grow in the thickets and dunes, while Salt Meadow Hay, Smooth Cordgrass and Black Needlerush thrive in the salt marsh. These species continue to live on, despite the development on the southern end of the island, including the golf course, which has had the largest environmental impact by the removal of so many trees. But like some of the other changes on the island, the golf course has had its positive effect, with its water hazards providing habitat for alligators, turtles and waterbirds. Strict regulations now protect the dunes, unlike in the pre-development days when enterprising fishermen brought old cars over on barges and roamed the dunes and beaches in search of bluefish, puppy drum and flounder. Ironically, the loss of Bald Head as a possible state park back in the 1970’s helped bring about stricter regulation of North Carolina’s coast, including laws that prohibit “hardening” beaches with seawalls and jetties in an effort to prevent erosion and protect beach houses. Prior to the Bald Head development controversy few people paid much attention to the need for regulation of development along North Carolina’s coast. The Coastal Area Management Act, which came out of that era,imposed an array of regulations, including one that mandated public beach access points along the coast, providing access to ordinary folk not wealthy enough to own a beach house. Now the only hard part is finding a parking spot.