I recently visited the Outer Banks for the first time since my early teens. The barrier islands lining the coast of North Carolina are much more built up now than in my youth, but the ocean, sand, and pockets of nature still offered a tableau of memorable sights and photo ops.
Late-Afternoon Beach
It was around 4:30 p.m. on one of the beaches on the east side of Kill Devil Hills. On soft, parched sands not yet kissed and cooled by the rising tide, parents surrendered to the blazing sun and stifling humidity as they sank into beach chairs under canopies that kept them from being broiled but not from being steamed. In the blue-green water, a cluster of four or five teenage boys challenged the ocean on their surfboards. The waves tossed the insolent youths around and crashed hard against others who frolicked in the break zone. Here and there, young couples wading in shallower depths stole an embrace, a touch of each other’s hand, or just a wordless glance in between splashes of salty sea spray.
While the humans occupied themselves with respite, fun, and the enticement of more diversions to come, the local fauna were busy seeking and hiding, depending on their place in the food chain. White seagulls and black-headed laughing gulls patrolled the intersection between land and ocean, keeping their gaze fixed on the encroaching foam while staying just beyond its embrace. Every so often, one of the birds would suddenly dash into the fading front column of a wave’s last gasp. With single-minded purpose, the gull would pluck out a tiny crustacean hidden from human eye by the swirls of dueling water and sand, swallow it in the same motion, and dart back on to dryer footing.
Farther up the beach, tiny crabs ducked inside the myriad little holes that dotted the wet sand, while one of their larger cousins scooted away from the unwanted attention of a human toddler before wedging into a crevice and tending the task of tidying up its temporary refuge, one clawful of sand at a time. Overhead, four brown pelicans circled briefly before turning toward the nearby Wright Brothers National Memorial and gliding out of view behind the beachfront condos and houses.
Sunrise
We had gotten up at 5:30 a.m. with the idea of beating the crowd to the beach to take in the sunrise and hunt for shells. When we pulled into the beach access right at 6 o’clock, we could already see the full orange round disc, newly risen, unfurling its crimson radiance behind the dunes at the end of the sand-covered concrete path. The sky was starting to lighten, and the 80-degree air already dripped with the wet warmth that promised another suffocating day.
A short clamber over the dune dispelled any notion of beating the crowd. While not as packed as it would be a few hours later, the beach already buzzed with activity. The sand was pockmarked with scattered groups of people who looked like they had been there for hours. Three guys walked up from the beach to near the top of the dunes, stopped, and turned, pausing for a last glimpse of the sun before leaving. At the bottom of the dunes, five or six people gathered on a spread-out blanket, them and their long fishing poles standing erect in the sand and silhouetted against the ocean and sky as they surveyed the waves. About a hundred yards away, a solitary fisherman waded in knee-high waters as he busily cast his line.
On the wet, firm sand — a blank canvas not that long ago — myriad tracks criss crossed, hinting at the activity the beach had seen in the short hours since the waves’ predawn heights. Here, a morning walker had passed with her dog. There, a couple teens had posed for sunrise selfies before retreating up to their balconies. Coming behind them, a mother and daughter on the prowl for seashells.
Scattered amidst the tracks laid the remnants of a breakfast buffet for the birds: empty, semi-translucent exoskeletons of small crustaceans; the occasional detached crab claw; and the half shells of various bivalves, robbed of their former owners. A couple crows flitted from sand to perch and sand again, looking for leftovers from the feast.
Back on the dune near the beach access where we entered, a girl sat on a rope swing hanging in the shadow of a wooden overlook, her sights set on the distant horizon where two starkly contrasting palettes met. Out there, the sun continued its perceptibly speedy ascension over the dark blue water, as its orange hue deepened in intensity and spread until it engulfed the whole sky.
Alligator River Wildlife Refuge
While planning our visit to the Alligator River National Wildlife Refuge, we were surprised to read that it had the densest population of black bears in the country. We were even more surprised when we saw said black bears before we had barely embarked on our guided tour.
We met our guide — a college senior interning at the refuge for the summer — in an unassuming parking lot just off Highway 64 near the tip of a peninsula that jutted out between mainland North Carolina and Roanoke Island. Our eight-person electric tram, only two-thirds full on this occasion, ambled carefully down a long gravel path that led into the refuge. After pointing out some birdhouses for purple martins near the refuge’s maintenance yard, the guide pulled up next to a field and told us to look for any black dots in the distance.
This felt like an odd spot for a wildlife encounter. It seemed more farmland than nature preserve. In fact, it was farmland. Two farmers were leasing the land under a special agreement, our tour guide explained as she handed us binoculars. The crops they were growing — soybeans and corn — and other plants in the fields were an irresistible blend for the area’s ursine residents.
Just then, she called out two black spots, one large and one tiny, far off in the distance. On our binoculars they were just somewhat larger dots than when viewed with the naked eye. I pointed my camera in that direction, snapped about a dozen shots in a row, and then zoomed way in on the photos on the camera’s LCD screen. As the magnification increased, the black blobs became better defined, and then, as I scrolled through the pictures, a light-colored face came into view. It was the face of a mother black bear, and next to her was her small cub.
We drove on, with dragonflies and swallowtail butterflies accompanying our tram at every step. Our guide steered clear of the numerous divots in the gravel path while rattling off facts about the preserve. She told us about the 30 wild red wolves that remain in North Carolina, all in this preserve. She gave a brief history lesson about Buffalo City, the old logging town that once thrived inside the territory of the preserve. She gave us a good chuckle with stories about that long-deserted town’s residents turning to moonshine as a trade and how they hid their creations in the dark waters of the channels, in which alligators also lurked.
Meanwhile, we kept an eye out for larger wildlife. At one point, a blue heron suddenly flitted up from the narrow channel that ran parallel to the road. Flapping its wings, it flew low along the channel for about 50 yards before turning and soaring into the air, crossing over the road, and disappearing into the distant tree line. At another spot farther down the road, a bird of prey with an expansive wingspan swooped into the trees off to the right before we could tell whether it was a hawk or an owl.
After circling around the preserve for about an hour, our guide took us down a path that’s closed to the public because it’s one that the farmers leasing the land tended to use. As we drove, we saw clumps of bear poop dotting the road, a clear sign that bears traveled this part of the preserve.
Before long, we got visual evidence of that deduction. Off to the right, in a soybean field, we spotted a bear cub about 100 yards away — right on the edge of being too close. While we excitedly trained our binoculars and cameras on the cub, our guide kept a wary eye out. She wasn’t sure if the cub was more than a year old, which would mean it likely was out on its own. If it was less than year old, mama bear might be nearby. After about a minute, she drove on, taking no chances.
Beach at dusk
The waves were creeping higher and higher up the beach, and yet they seemed calmer than earlier in the day. The sunset is on the other side of the island, the side facing the sound. On the beach side, the light was gradually turned down as the sun’s golden rays retracted farther and farther behind the clouds. A clear split stretched down the beach: The sands basked in the final rays of light of the day, while the sea was already sinking into shadow.
The daytime beachgoers had gone, replaced by a new rotation of vacationers who came down for the evening view. A couple old fishing buddies sat on beach chairs, one of them holding a fishing rod, while waves came closer and closer to lapping at their feet. A group of college guys splashed in the shallow zone before retreating to the beach and huddling in a circle to marvel at what a wonderful weekend they’ve had. A couple strolled past them while wrapped in each other’s arms. Meanwhile, a pair of young lovers frolicked in waist-high water, he lifting her up by the waist as she tried to keep her phone dry while taking a selfie.
Farther up the beach, the waves had not touched the sand, but a sudden rainstorm did, leaving a strange pattern of thousands of tiny holes. A young boy dug bigger holes in search of treasure, while a few gulls still lingered, looking to add to the crustacean remains scattered amid the shells and pebbles. Three young men stood — one with surfboard in hand — and eyed the incoming waves as the last trace of the sun gave way.
