I planned to go to a different spot.  Perhaps out past Horse Island to the remote tip of Bird Shoal where I might gain a new perspective on nature in the Rachel Carson Reserve near Beaufort, NC. 

My two previous sit spots at the Reserve had been conducted from the observation deck on Carrot Island. Both had been beautiful, instructive, and remained vividly etched in my memory.  I had learned much about the salt marshes and tidal flats. Now, I figured I knew what I would see.  I was ready for something new, something wilder. 

But, as Geoffrey Chaucer wisely wrote so many centuries ago, “Time and tide wait for no man.”  Time was running out. It was the last day of my timeshare week. The tide was ebbing, the ideal time to view the life rhythms of the salt marsh, the hour when the tidal flats emerge, the shorebirds gather to feed and forage, and the wild horses amble out to the distant beds of cordgrass.

Time and tide dictated that a return to Carrot Island.  With a slight sense of disappointment I launched my kayak at the Lennoxville boat ramp, paddled the short distance across Taylor Creek, beached near the boardwalk.  Traversing the familiar muddy trail across Carrot Island I tried to console myself.   It would be fine, I thought, to see the familiar scene unfold.  I simply had to give up on the idea of experiencing something new and different.

Sounds

My river sandals squished through the gray-black mud.  Ahead hundreds, no, thousands of tiny ghost crabs scuttled across the mud and fled into the sheltering cordgrass.  I paused, watched them, and smiled. This view of the little crabs was exactly what I saw last time.

Stepping past the crest of Carrot Island I noticed a sudden change in the soundscape, almost as if a sound proof curtain dropped behind me. The whir of the marina cranes, the high pitched beep of trucks backing up, the din of traffic on Lennoxville Road, the mechanical putting of motor boats up and down Taylor Creek, the cumulative din of civilization, vanished. 

All of these sounds had formed an auditory background, a level of constant noise that I had acclimated to and unconsciously braced myself against.  In the quiet I felt an immediate release of tension in my face, neck and shoulders.

Stepping further down the trail I began to hear a new soundscape, that of the salt marsh; the whispering and whooshing of the breeze through the stems of grass and the leaves of the trees, the plaintive calls and cries of the shore birds, and far away the faint thump, thump of ocean waves onto the sandy beaches of Shackleford Banks.  I felt a palpable tactile sensation in my chest, almost as if this natural soundscape resonated with my breath and heartbeat.

I paused, savored the sounds and reflected that Rachel Carson deeply loved these sound of the surf, the cries of the gulls, and the songs of the sea breeze.  This soundscape was one element that drew her back again and again to the tidal marshes and beaches around Beaufort, NC where she immersed herself in a systematic study of the life along the seashore.

I remembered this soundscape from my two previous sit spots.  Yet this time, it seemed sweeter and touched me more deeply.  Was I experiencing, I wondered, what in positive psychology is called savoring, the conscious pausing to take in those pleasing and nourishing sensory inputs that reinforce and form healthy, life sustaining neural pathways?

The three As of savoring—attend, amplify, and absorb came to mind.  I took a moment to attend to each element of the soundscape.  I lingered and enjoyed each sound, and then let the experience permeate my being and sink into my memory.

Timing

Setting up my camp stool in the sandy area below the observation deck I took in the view in front of me; a patch of open water edged by vast beds of dark green cordgrass.  Further out I saw of the shapes and silhouettes of the trees on Horse Island and Bird Shoal, and far in the distance beyond the Middle Marshes stretched the long, sand-edged, gray-green line of Shackleford Banks, the barrier island facing the North Atlantic Ocean. From near to far it was a panorama of layers and textures.

Mounds of black oyster shells emerged as the tide ebbed.  Off to my left the first small portion of a mud bank emerged, perhaps ten feet long by two feet wide.  One gull stood on the mudflat while four more waded nearby in shallow water, almost as if they anticipated exactly where the mudflat would emerge  

A light brown wild horse stepped out of the sheltering trees of Carrot Island, plodded easily through the shoreline mud, and splashed confidently across the shallowing water to the emerging beds of cordgrass where it would feed at low tide. 

The horse, so well adapted to its life in this coastal reserve, sensed, saw, and knew the timing, knew exactly the right moment when the water was shallow enough to cross and when the sea grasses were exposed enough to eat. 

Activity

The mud flat grew larger.  If I looked away and then back the flat seemed surprisingly larger. I waited now for what had been the highlight of my two previous sit spots, the gathering of the shorebirds to feed on the mudflat, and for the arrival of the airborne predators, the terns and the pelicans, to patrol the shallow water, to plunge down and snatch the increasingly trapped fish. The wading predators would come as well; the herons and egrets stalking their vulnerable quarry with their long spear-like bills at the ready.

A few seagulls landed on the mudflat. One pelican flew in, dove, and moved on. No terns to be seen. A pair of mottled brown, long-legged, long-billed willets banked in, landed on the mudflat, patrolled for a few minutes, and flew on.  More gulls came and went. 

Three gulls angled in, landed, and then took off.  Another willet landed and flew away, followed by a pair of black-bellied plovers that dropped down, walked along the edge of the mud, and then took off.  Two egrets briefly patrolled the nearby shoreline and then flew away.

Something was different today.  There was no peaceful avian congregation on the mudflat.  The birds were constantly flying and landing, in a state of continuous activity. 

I was disappointed at not seeing the expected gathering of shorebirds.  I began to wonder if something was wrong; if some danger or some pressing need was making the birds restless, a restlessness that I soon began to feel.

No, I thought, this was me projecting my thoughts onto the scene.  I took a few breaths, emptied my mind as best I could, and tried to openly view the scene in front of me.  I realized that I was just seeing a different face of nature, a different reveal.  I was viewing the inherent activity of all living beings, the natural need to scan, and move and react, the drive to survive and thrive.

As I viewed this ceaseless and vibrant activity all around me, a feeling of uneasiness arose.  Did I possess this same level of energy and activity?  Or was I out of this life loop and just a sedentary, lazy slug.

Slowly, it occurred to me.  For humans a primary realm of activity occurs in the mind, in the frontal lobes, the home of so-called executive function, that mental space where we can imagine this possibility, this plan, that solution, that pathway, that option, those effects, turning ideas in the mind like multifaceted crystals.  This I could do and with that thought I felt connected to and inspired by this natural and purposeful activity of the birds around me.

Flight

Since the birds were on the move I had the opportunity to study each species flight characteristics.  I began by watching three laughing gulls with long, slender, sculpted white wings carving directly into a brisk west wind. Approaching the mudflat they set their wings, banked, circled, and landed gracefully, perfectly, with legs extended, feet touching down gently onto the mudflat.  Moments later, two of the birds effortlessly, with a few easy flaps of their wings, lifted off the mudflat and once again become airborne, quickly ascending, gliding, even hovering, before flying off.

Another gull paddled peacefully in the water near the mudflat.  I marveled at how these gulls were so at home, so effective in the two mediums of water and air.  And they didn’t do too bad waddling around on the mudflat either.

One gull at the edge of the flat snatched a little crab from the mud and quickly took off with its tidbit.  Two gulls jumped into the air in pursuit.  The first gull flew fast, right over me as one of his pursuers closed in.  The first gull began to dodge and weave like a fighter jet taking evasive action. The second gull matched every twist and turn, then accelerated, zoomed in, snatched the crab away in mid-air, darted off and landed on another mudflat, where it ate its pilfered treat.  What a display of aeronautic skills!

A cormorant, jet black with steady goose-like wing beats flew low across the water in front of me.  To my left, a white ibis, a heron-sized, ungainly appearing shore bird with a long curved pink bill, pink facial skin, and long pink legs plodded near the shoreline.  Suddenly, with a flap of its long wings, it lifted into the air and flew in front of me.  What had been ungainly on land was now streamlined and graceful in flight, long neck and bill stretched straight, long legs trailing neatly behind, black wing tips showing, flapping steadily, tracing a slight up and down wave-like pattern.

Looking far out to the distant line of Bird Shoal, I spotted strange movement in the air. Binoculars up, I focused in on several hundred distant black dots moving in unison like a giant caterpillar arching up and down, twisting left and right, disappearing and rising again.  It was a murmeration 

From the distance I couldn’t determine if they were willets, sandpipers, or plovers.  What I could see was closely packed dots moving in absolute unison and harmony directed by some mysterious mode of communication and fulfilling some unknown but important purpose.

What would it be like, I wondered, to join a murmeration?  Would it feel like being a member of an orchestra playing a part in a symphony?  Would it be a transcendent shedding of individuality, a merging into a greater whole?

Back

My hour was up. I stepped over to the shoreline to snap a few photos where, now that the tide was out, I saw distinct zones of life spreading up from water’s edge.  In the water oyster mounds, black mud, then on shore a zone of cordgrass where it was flattened by the twice daily tide. Higher up stood a zone of taller cordgrass, then a band of meadow hay, which gave way to beach sand which in turn supported green succulent pickleweed and ocean oxeye.  Higher and drier still grew a few golden rods and some clusters of little blue stem.   All of it seemed another display of perfectly adapted nature in the salt marsh of the Rachel Carson Reserve.  No wonder she loved this place.

I walked back across Carrot Island, launched my kayak into the water, and paddled back across Taylor Creek to the mainland.  It had turned out well to return to Carrot Island.  Some things had been the same: the sounds of the seascape, the timing of the tide, and the journey of the wild horse out to the far flats of cord grass. Perhaps I had changed and was better able to savor these scenes.

Contrary to my expectations, there was also much that was different.  I witnessed and gained insight into the inherent and constant activity of nature.  I also had the opportunity to appreciate the complexities and varieties of avian flight.  And I discovered the clearly demarcated zones of shoreline plants.

Same?  Different?  Maybe, it was time for me to shed those concepts when it comes to viewing nature.

You can read about more sit spots and wander walks on this blog and in my book The Stillness of the Living Forest:  A Year of Listening and Learning available on Amazon and through Shanti Arts Publishing.

The Stillness of the Living Forest: A Year of Listening and Learning: Harvey, John: 9781947067592: Amazon.com: Books

The Stillness of the Living Forest, John Harvey (shantiarts.com