The tidelands of our eastern seashore between Long Island and Georgia are a world apart. Driving across New Jersey between open pastures quite similar to those of Western New York, we briefly pass through an impenetrable appearing belt of pine and oak forest and suddenly emerge to find ourselves looking out over miles of salt marsh. These are the tidelands. Everything is different here. Water channels and mud flats streak browns and blues across the chartreuse meadows.
White egrets pose silently or flap lazily overhead.
Nighttime brings the hyena cackles of clapper rails. Partly ameliorating these dismal emanations is the fresh smell of marsh plants, of chlorophyll doing its work. It takes us outsiders some time to get used to this rich brew. It is difficult to realize that these calm prairies of spartina, these placidly curling channels and creeks and the tranquil ocean front dunes beyond them represent a harsh and unforgiving region. At this season apocalyptic hurricanes bring devastation to the dunes and marshes and destroy beach front properties, and there are less dramatic yet equally insistent forces at work.