Photography by Dave Hawxhurst
At first, all I notice is the quiet. It’s the type of calm, unassuming silence that immediately relaxes the shoulders as I start breathing in and out, slowly, stress-free. There are no planes, no traffic, no pounding radios. But as I listen more closely, the wetlands that make up Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge are filled with sound: the soft breeze rustling the marsh grasses, the whooshing of duck wings overhead, the plop of a fish jumping, the distant, cantankerous croak of a heron. It’s been a long early morning drive to reach this Eastern Shore marshland, but already, the frenetic modern world is fading out of sight and out of mind.
Until recently, this peaceful refuge, a mecca for birders, kayakers, and seasonal hunters, was bogged down in controversy, as environmentalists, developers, local residents, and county and state officials took sides over a planned multi-use development called Blackwater Resort. At issue were critical land areas and habitat protection areas along the Little Blackwater River, where pollutant-containing runoff could drain into the sensitive 27,000 acres of the refuge. In November 2006, a compromise was reached: the state of Maryland would purchase 70 percent of the land for permanent protection.
The remaining 30 percent of the land will be developed into 675 single-family homes.
Though Blackwater, twelve miles south of Cambridge, Md., is still off the highly beaten beach track that the summer tourists pound each year, its environmental and cultural value is no secret—more than 35,000 people signed a petition urging the state to intervene. The refuge, which gets its name from its rivers’ tea-colored waters, dyed by tannins from peat soils in the marsh, has long been designated a Wetland of International Importance, but the area is steeped in human history as well. Harriet Tubman was born a few miles away in nearby Bucktown, and escaping slaves used the region’s marshlands and waterways as hiding places while traveling on the Underground Railroad.
Even while driving the miles of curvy country roads that lead into the refuge, I can already see what all the fuss is about. The protection that aids migratory birds and resident reptiles has also helped preserve a way of life that has vanished from many places on the Eastern Shore. The marinas are filled with watermen’s work boats, and small farms still dominate the landscape. With 16 million people now calling the Chesapeake Bay watershed home, it’s getting more and more difficult to ditch the crowds. But this corner of Dorchester County is filled with places where furred or feathered creatures are the only residents.
As I stroll up to the newly renovated visitors center on a blustery, gray winter day, a bald eagle alights, as if on cue, on a nearby empty osprey nest platform. The refuge is renowned for its eagle population, and has the greatest density of breeding pairs in the eastern United States, north of Florida. The center has added an observation deck with expansive views out into the marsh, and over the water I can already see large flocks of ducks and geese. Blackwater is a major winter rest stop for migratory birds traveling the Atlantic Flyway, and the fall, winter, and early spring months are the best time to see large varieties of waterfowl, which can reach far into the tens of thousands during the peak of the migration.
During this prime season, the refuge is haunted by another hardy species—the birder. As I meet ranger Tom Miller for a quick tour, an ecstatic, binocular-burdened group has just added the best of their early morning sightings to the tally board in the gift shop: a golden eagle, white pelican, and a rare Ross’s goose.
I clamber into Tom’s government truck, and we head out to one of Blackwater’s two newest hiking trails, Tubman Road, which just opened last fall. (Key Wallace is the other.)
Different from the National Park system, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service refuge system’s main mission is to conserve habitat for wildlife, and they must often limit human access within their public lands. The majority of Blackwater is closed to the public, but rangers and park volunteers have been working hard to create opportunities for flora and fauna viewing while protecting the refuge’s delicate ecosystem. “It’s a tight balance to have to walk.” Tom explains. “We don’t want to dramatically change the landscape and affect the reason people came here in the first place.” Refuge rangers have designed low-impact ways for visitors to experience Blackwater firsthand, from walking, biking, or cruising the paved Wildlife Drive along the Blackwater River, to three paddling trails where kayakers can observe life from the water. The new forested walking trails have opened up a new habitat to the public, and their construction was the result of hundreds of manhours, a labor of love for both staff and volunteers,who built everything from observation decks to trail markers.
“We used existing roads as much as possible,” Tom explains as we pull into a small gravel parking lot next to an observation deck. Any new road can change the way saltwater flows through the marsh during rising and ebbing tides. Water flows across the land in a sheet, and a blockage could push the water up into the river, changing the salinity. The refuge staff used an old dirt road, which predated the car, as part of the trail we’re now strolling on.
We stop at an open section of woodland, where a tornado tore through in 2002. “We chose the trail site before the tornado ripped through here, but now it’s unique,” Tom says, as he looks out for sika deer and wild turkey, which have moved into the cleared region. Rangers and volunteers are reforesting the area—prime habitat for the endangered Delmarva fox squirrel.
After crossing the unexpected clearing, the two-mile trail winds through a dense forest of young loblolly pine trees. The area, reclaimed farmland and cattle pasture, is returning to its native roots. Recent rains have left pockets of mud amongst the pine needles, and it doesn’t take long before I get messy. My noisy slipping and sliding may have frightened the fox squirrels away, but singing songbirds have stuck around for the show. On this winter day, one part is missing from the chorus—the chirps and croaks of the refuge’s thirteen species of frogs and toads. In the warmer months, “this trail is frog heaven,” Tom says. “There are times when you go through here, and the ground is just moving, there are so many frogs hopping across the trail.”
As the winter sunlight fades, I hop in the car and head for the refuge’s birder haven, the six-and-a-half-mile loop that makes up the Wildlife Drive. I’m driving the only car on the narrow lane, which tops the dike dividing the freshwater impounds, manmade creations that provide additional habitat for wildlife. There’s plenty to see on both sides, and it isn’t long before I’m scrambling for the bird book and squinting through binoculars at tundra swans, northern shoveler ducks, snow geese, and soaring eagles. The open water is still and glassy, bleeding into the gray horizon, as two chilled puffed-up blue herons wade through marsh water turned to liquid sky. A bald eagle haughtily surveys them from a nearby mud flat, as chattering gaggles of Canada geese come in for a landing within the bulrushes.
The tranquility is a gift, a moment in time that I’m reluctant to leave. Blackwater may have a quiet voice, but the thousands of people who have spoken loudly to protect its fragile ecosystem hope that new generations will be able to learn the value of stopping to listen.
Freelance writer Sara Edelson is also a TV producer in Washington, D.C.
RESOURCES
Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge
2145 Key Wallace Dr.
Cambridge, Md.
410-228-2677 or http://www.fws.gov/blackwater
Visitor Center hours: Mon.-Fri. 8 a.m.-4 p.m.; Sat. and Sun. 9 a.m.-5 p.m. The Wildlife Drive and associated trails are open from dawn until dusk every day (with the exception of some closures for hunting). Pets are not allowed out of vehicles on the Wildlife Drive or on the trails, even if leashed. There is no camping or food service in the refuge, but local restaurants and hotels are nearby, mostly in the town of Cambridge.
See the website of the Friends of Blackwater, the volunteer group that supports the refuge, for information on public use, trail closures, and the wildlife species found in the park. There is also information there on paddling and hiking trails; a paddling map can also be purchased from the visitors center. Go to http://www.friendsofblackwater.org.
Birders should check out the Webcams placed in bald eagle and osprey nests for bird-breeding action from afar: friendsofblackwater. org/camcentral.html. A brochure listing the refuge’s 287 species of birds can be found on the U.S. Fish and Wildlife website for Blackwater (http://www.fws.gov/blackwater/bird.pdf).
The Power of Petition
The Blackwater Resort Communities development site consists of farmland on Egypt Road, one of the main routes into the refuge. The original development plan for the 1,080-acre site included 3,200 homes, a 100-room hotel and conference center, retail, and a golf course.
Approximately a third of those acres were considered to be in a “Critical Area” along the Little Blackwater River, a designated conservation area where runoff from the planned community could make its way into sensitive areas of the refuge, and ultimately, the Bay. The state will use Program Open Space funds to purchase the land in that zone, plus 441 additional acres, for as much as $10.4 million, permanently protecting the land. The majority of the remaining 326 acres closest to Cambridge will be developed as a single family adult community, limited to 675 homes (pending the outcome of an April Board of Public Works hearing). “This new plan is better than the original development plan,” says Cambridge resident and state senator Richard Colburn, “and better than the deforested land that was there. It will create a better habitat than what existed while also improving the tax base for Dorchester.”
The Chesapeake Bay Foundation gathered more than 35,000 signatures protesting the development. “We’re grateful for the local citizens’ opposition to the project,” says Beth Lefebvre, CBF’s Maryland communications coordinator. “It was the wrong development in the wrong place.”
