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HomeMy WebLinkAboutOctober 27, 1977 - Walk Along The Inner BayPage 18 by Paul Stoutenburgh Walk Along The Inner Bay For those of you ho missed walking with me out to the old fish ruins on Orient State Park, let me bring you up to date. I'd taken off from school one of the few "good old - fashioned fall days" to get outside and see some of the wonders we are so fortunate to have on the North Fork. Our first part took us west along Gardiners Bay and I'm just about to talk myself into turning back... After leaving the old fish factory foun- dation on the south side of the beach, I took the hard - packed, brick dust road around the inner pond. What I saw, not only slowed me down but I just plumb slid down to a sitting position off to the side of the road. Here was tranquility at its peak, The small pond glistened in the afternoon sun and all around it were rich evergreens. The wind had been muffled to a whisper and the only call I could hear was a pair of crows complaining about my intrusion. I had to be careful when I sat as all around me were huge clusters of prickly pear cactus with its raspberry- colored seed pods, reminding me of an old German couple who lived next to us when I was a kid. They made a delicious fruit drink from them,a far cry from today's quote fruit drinks unquote with their sugars, additives and coloring. With all these clusters of cactuses about, I made a mental note to come back next season to see them in blossom. I've often seen small groups of these waxy - yellow flowers and just can't imagine how such a large cluster would look. I must return. The north side is entirely different than the south. Here the shore is made of larger rounded stones with no sand to speak of. It drops off sharply, I remembered, for I had sailed along here years ago in a canoe at a different time of year Then, a soft wind from the northwest was blowing and I set the sail. Not having anyone along, I tied the main, put on a face mask and slipped over the side. Holding on, my body drag was just enough so I slowly went along the shore looking down into the multitudes of eels, flounders, scallops, sea robins, and shells of all kinds. It was on just such a rare day years ago but the memory was still clear as I stood con- templating the past. I remembered there were beautiful yellow- horned poppies growing on this beach. I photographed them in blossom over 20 years ago. Were they still here I wondered. Sure enough , there were the greenish -grey velvet leaves with their twisted, dried seed pods. Like seeing an old friend again, I got down to look at it closer and feel its soft leaves. It was when I bent over that my shirt and pants parted, letting in the cool afternoon breeze. The sun was lower now, and if I wanted to take advantage of the day, I'd have to move on. off. Two black ducks took off up ahead and almost under my feet an American bittern jumped up and flew, leaving his long squirt of white wash as a reminder he did not like being disturbed. Hands outstretched, child- like, I balanced myself over the water and off I went. Everywhere there were silver gray cedars.These old stumps fascinate me and I had to stop and photograph them. The spirit of the walk was still with me and I literally bounded along, eager just to walk and breathe the greatness of the area. Along the bay salicornia was turning bright red. Later the whole marsh, where it grows, will glow in traditional fall colors. Already the tall thatch grass and the short salt hay had changed from green to straw yellow. As the air cools and the days shor- ten, they will lose all their color and our winter marsh will take over. Sad, yes, but knowing the cycle of nature, I understand its significance. The wet sand revealed that two deer had just passed down the beach. Probably my noisy steps had alerted them and they had moved without sight or sound before me. I know the foxes are out here also and recall a cold winter's day when we were taking the Orient Bird Count and two of them stopped to stare at us - sniffed the air and trotted off unconcerned. After all we were intruding on them and didn't they own the place? How absolutely perfect they seemed to be for the area, a part of the whole. Yet, I can sym- pathize with the farmer when in one night Mr. Fox cleans out his chicken house.