Elliott Coues Nature Trail

A cold front blew in overnight, the wind suddenly shifting around to the north and the west and the temperature abruptly dropping into the 40s.  There were whitecaps scudding out on the dark ocean, and the wind was blowing so hard that it looked like a massive river flowing to the east rather than rolling in on the sand as it normally does.

It has been stressful reading news stories on our computer and listening to Public Radio (we have still not turned on the television), this inauguration and its aftermath casting a dark shadow over what we wanted to be a quiet Sabbatical.  It seems as if there is a new regressive executive order signed every day.  "All I wanted to do was come here and read poetry and walk on the beach," I complained to Martha this morning.  But the sense of Peace and Plenty in our lives always seems to be a struggle, a journey, rather than a place where we arrive and dwell complacently; we are always wrestling with angels.  In Fumbling Toward Ecstasy Sarah McLachlan sings beautifully about:

Peace in the struggle to find peace.
Comfort on the way to comfort.

This afternoon the wind calmed a little and we walked in the peace and comfort of the Elliott Coues Nature Trail, a 3.3-mile loop beginning at Fort Macon, circling back through the Picnic Area, and then returning again.  We hiked the trail in a counter-clockwise direction, starting out through the maritime forest filled with these little red-berried hollies called yaupon that are everywhere here.

Fragrant red cedar shaded the path, and there were well-constructed bridges and walkways all along where the ground was swampy. 

We passed beneath the outstretched limbs of live oak trees, familiar to us from the Outer Banks where it is also plentiful; in fact, the trail reminded us of Kitty Hawk Woods where we have run marathons and half-marathons in the past.

Across the salt marsh to our right we could see Bogue Sound and the big freighters anchored in Morehead City and Beaufort. 

Then we crossed the highway and the maritime forest gave way to a lovely, winding path through sand dunes as we drew near the ocean.  The path was lined on both sides with Christmas Trees, and the fragrance of Frasier Fir was all around us.

In the distance we could see the ocean, gleaming brightly in the afternoon sun.  I have learned where the term "Crystal Coast" originated, by the way; the Carteret County Chamber of Commerce coined the term "to describe the area's extremely clear waters and brilliant white beaches," according to a local Insider's Guide.  This was the kind of day the Chamber of Commerce likes to see!

We climbed atop a sand dune and found these tombstone-like toppled remains of a concrete structure of some kind on which someone had scratched some graffiti that seemed appropriate to the day and the season and the place:  "Be Kind."

We also found the remains of a rock jetty, perhaps part of an old fishing pier, that stretched out into the surf, waves crashing against it and spraying in the air.  

A fishing boat was slowly making its way down Morehead City Channel, steering between a green buoy and a red one, out to the open ocean.

High, puffy clouds.  Bright sunshine.  Steady wind from the north.  Martha remarked that this is the kind of day we will remember for a long time.

We found ourselves back at Fort Macon.  Its cannons were pointed out toward the channel, roughly in the direction of the fishing boat which was becoming smaller and smaller and smaller as it ventured out onto the endless expanse of ocean.

This was indeed the kind of day we will remember for a long time.  Another perfect sunset tonight, and all along the horizon this long, lovely strip of light, resting lightly on the surface of the ocean.