In the middle of the Chesapeake Bay, Smith Island stands defiant. Its community remains strong and proud while all the other island towns in Maryland have faded away, their populations fleeing for the mainland.
Smith Island clings to a way of life that is centuries old: hard work on the water all week and then a day of rest to worship the Lord on Sunday. Many of its residents refuse to evacuate, even in the strongest of storms, even when county emergency officials beg them to go.
Visit once, and it won’t be enough.
Spruce Knob stands at the western edge of the Chesapeake Bay watershed. But a visitor standing atop the windswept peak would be excused for thinking they were at the edge of a northern wilderness.
Even in midsummer, the top of this West Virginia mountain is a refreshingly cool escape from the heat and humidity common in a mid-Atlantic summer.
At 4,863 feet, Spruce Knob is the highest point in West Virginia.
Mark Mendelsohn has fond memories of visiting his grandparents on the West River in Annapolis. The family would pile in a skiff and run out to the banks of Poplar Island in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay. There, his grandmother would catch so many bluefish that her arms would be sore.
But the past half-century was not kind to Poplar and the cluster of islands that surround it about three miles north of Tilghman Island on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Erosion and sea level rise had whittled away the islands. In 1847, Poplar Island covered more than 1,100 acres. By the early 1990s, when Mendelsohn and his Army Corps of Engineers colleague Justin Callahan went to survey the island, it was fewer than five acres.
I was one of five people trekking through the woods at Robinson Neck Preserve, on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. It was a sunny, shoulder-season day that put all of us in a good mood — bright enough for sunglasses and cool enough for fleece.
About halfway into the hike, the forest around our narrow trail suddenly gave way on both sides to reveal long, lush views of the Slaughter Creek marsh. While each member of our group spends a fair amount of time in lovely outdoor places, we still gave a collective gasp at the sight.
Wind was tugging at a red, white and blue flag hitched to a dock in Somerset County, on Maryland’s lower Eastern Shore. Mike Hinman, whose wisps of gray hair were also dancing in the wind, caught the flag and pulled it taut.
“Want to see who we are?” said Hinman. “I’ll show you.”
Dragonflies, like most insects that appear aplenty in the summer, flourish where there’s plenty of water, sun and perches for resting their wings.
But, unlike the season’s other crop of insects that bite or buzz in your eyes, dragonflies actually diminish summer’s worst pests — think mosquitoes, gnats, wasps and even stinkbugs — by snacking on them.
Dragonfly enthusiasts prize the four-winged creatures for their beauty and rarity as much as their eating habits, and they say the Chesapeake Bay watershed is as good a place as any to become an enthusiast.
Lost River State Park was almost lost, a near casualty of Colonial era land speculation and Depression era hard times. Thankfully, West Virginia stepped in and bought this beauty in 1934, making it available for all to enjoy.
Today, the 3,712-acre state park in Mathias features 19 trails, including one that reaches Cranny Crow overlook and offers a stunning mountain view. The park also has an outdoor pool, tennis and volleyball courts, and riding stables.
At the edge of the gravel trail, a small, dark-brown salamander with mustard spots is limping off the footpath. It’s a spotted salamander, a member of the mole salamander family, and its tail looks as if a predator took a bite and didn’t like what it tasted (which, in this case, would be poisonous). The salamander is one symbol of the unique ecosystem that Huntley Meadows Park in Alexandria, VA, has helped preserve for the last 40 years.
When it came to Pennsylvania’s outdoors, there was little Ned Smith didn’t experience. He hiked, hunted and fished.
He filled volumes of loose-leaf binders with notes and drawings of his observations, turning them into magazine columns and, ultimately a book, “Gone for the Day.”
He was an avid photographer and dabbled with archeological digs along the Susquehanna River.
This spring, re-enter a more elemental time. Rising moon, May or June, a third of a billion years ago. Sunset gleams in the lap of saltwater on sandy shore. Today’s continents have not formed. Birds and trees, even dinosaurs are 100 million years or more in the future.
The tide swells, stars emerge, and just offshore a dark spike of a tail punctures the surface, followed by dozens, thousands. It’s a scene set since the oldest mountains were forming: horseshoe crabs, an impossibly ancient species, each spring emerging from the deeps, massing by the millions, bulldozing their way onto beaches to lay their eggs.
The Nansemond River is a paddler’s paradise sitting on the edge of Norfolk’s westward sprawl. Here, the adventuresome will find more than 4,000 acres of wetlands, national wildlife refuge lands and a water trail that is steadily gaining new canoe and kayak launch sites. Plus, centuries of history enliven the river’s banks.
Stand on Mount Vernon’s back porch and look out across the Potomac River. The nearly unbroken sweep of woods and farm fields is very similar to that which George and Martha Washington would have seen any spring day in the 18th century.
That this beautiful and historic view is nearly intact is no accident. Protecting it required the foresight to recognize the threat that the fast growth in the suburban DC area posed to the view from Mount Vernon, and it took hard work by the Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association and an act of Congress to address it. The solution was Piscataway Park, created specifically to preserve the view from George Washington’s house.
The Appomattox River valley in central Virginia’s Piedmont has two relatively new — but very different — state parks that are forever linked by the battles fought at each during the days before Gen. Robert E. Lee surrendered to Gen. Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox Court House.
The Chesapeake Bay has drawn travel and trade for thousands of years, its tidal rivers and natural harbors connecting people with others across the region and across the world. But, farther upstream, the waters that feed the Bay are less cooperative.
Historically, people in these areas have been less interested in traveling by water. They mostly just wanted to cross it. During the 1800s, covered bridges were a popular solution.
Don Shomette was about 10 years old in when he first encountered the “ghost fleet” of Mallows Bay.
He was aboard a jon boat with his father and brother, coming down the Potomac River from a shoreline campsite in the mid-1950s. It was a gray morning. The water was churning and visibility was poor. On the river, they met an old waterman setting out crab pots who asked if they were trying to find the ghost fleet.
Some people’s default position is active-outdoors mode. They have kayaks strapped to the roofs of their cars and paddles in their backseats. They know all of the Chesapeake’s put-in points. They have maps, optimized Smartphones and an eye for identifying birds. They are the people for whom the Subaru commercials are made.
Then there are people who like being outside, but are a bit intimidated to paddle the Bay and its tributaries without a leader. They fear getting lost, or dehydrated or just tired. They want someone to tell them what is that pretty plant over here, what is the name of that bird over there. And, if at all possible, at some point during the outdoors-filled day, they would like to have a glass of wine and take a nap.
If you want to paddle where few have paddled on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, Monie Bay with its three marked water trails — and potential for freelance exploring — is worth a day trip.
The paddler sign-in log where we put in near Deal Island, about 20 miles south and west of Salisbury, had one other name, from more than a year before us.
As river trail maps and smartphone apps continue to pop up around the Chesapeake, the river atlases produced by the Virginia Canals and Navigations Society at first glance seem anachronistic.
But what makes these atlases special is their devotion to the era when the craft of choice to move tobacco, grain and flour down Piedmont rivers was a long, narrow wooden boat called a batteau.
Perched on the eastern rim of the Chesapeake’s watershed, closer to Atlantic beaches than to the Bay, Delaware’s Trap Pond State Park offers the standard recreational amenities, from ballfields and nature walks, to tenting, cabins and picnic tables shaded by tall pines.
But it’s Taxiodium distichum, the lordly bald cypress, that defines this nearly 4,000-acre park that guards the headwaters of the Delmarva Peninsula’s Nanticoke River. It is the nation’s northernmost natural occurrence of a species whose range extends south to Florida and west into Texas.
One hundred years ago, when Harper’s Magazine writer J.W. Church wanted to visit Tangier Island, he presented a letter asking for transport to a Crisfield oysterman.
The oysterman agreed to have one of his captains ferry the writer and his photographer to Capt. Peter Crockett’s island store, but counseled caution. Tangiermen, the Crisfielder said, “sure are a strange lot.”
In the center of an enclosure filled with tall oaks, a bobcat strolls nonchalantly toward what looks like a large rock, wagging his characteristic shortened tail in full view of visitors 20 feet away on an elevated boardwalk. On this sunny late autumn day, the cat opts for a bed of leaves in dappled sunlight nearby.
“That ‘rock’ is actually made of concrete and has a heating element, which makes for a nice dozing spot in the winter,” said George Mathews, Jr., curatorial director at the Virginia Living Museum in Newport News, VA.
Events and Activitys around the Chesapeake Bay Watershed.