Monthly Features
    

Assateague in Autumn
Season is Ripe for Finding Nature’s Beauty

By KERRY DAY

My husband and I rarely get time away. More frequently, we’re packing our mini-van with Hot Wheels, ragged pillows, coloring books and a plastic tub filled with food. But last fall, we pulled away from the curb, waved goodbye to our minions and headed for Assateague Island— tout seul.
Assateague, a wind-swept barrier island just off the Eastern Shore, boasts 48,000 acres of protected wilderness. It offers endless stretches of beach, saltwater meadows and inland pine forests. What’s more, it has over 300 wild ponies and thousands of migrating birds. If you make the journey in autumn, it is also markedly devoid of tourists and mosquitoes.
As we cross the causeway from the mainland to neighboring Chincoteague Island, my eyes are drawn into the sweeping blanket of marsh grass. It is golden. The intermittent tips of glasswort spread themselves in unpredictable patterns. Their maroon color is fire against the charcoal clouds of an approaching storm.
I immediately find myself saying, as so many others have undoubtedly said before, “Ohhhhhhh, I could SO live here.”
We’ve chosen a place on Chincoteague called 1848 Island Manor House. A warm fireplace, privacy and hot coffee at any hour are just a few of the perks. Our hostess tells us everything we need to know: 1) the best way to explore the untamed beauty of Assateague and 2) where to find a bar that serves single malt scotch.
Stepping Into Tranquility
With directions in hand, David and I begin our excursion. A paved road leads us from Chincoteague to Assateague. Already our thoughts are wandering to future visits with kids in tow. We look for campgrounds and places to rent bikes. We wonder about picnics and how long it will take us to hike to the lighthouse.
The first part of our journey is a 3.25-mile wildlife loop. Even in the mist, it is striking in its tranquility. We see white-tailed deer, snowy egrets and red-winged blackbirds. The colors of rust, gold and emerald are everywhere. The breeze pushes its way through the needles of the loblolly pines and carries our eyes upwards.
We wander a bit more until the rain stops. We spy the seamless image of a great blue heron standing amongst the reeds and reflected in the glassy surface of a small pond. It is no wonder that this place calls so many into its embrace.
Soon we find ourselves wandering a path called the Woodland Trail. There are nurse logs, delicate mushrooms and icy green moss. Birds call, and we listen.
Horses in the Mist
David rests his hand on my shoulder. He points towards a shape on the horizon. A lone horse stands in the distance, and the words written by Marguerite Henry in “Misty of Chincoteague” spring to mind. It is Grandpa Beebe speaking to his grandson: “Paul boy… hark to my words. The Phantom aint’a hoss. She ain’t even a lady. She’s just a piece of wind and sky.”
For those unfamiliar, this book follows the path of two determined youngsters, Paul and Maureen, as they capture the elusive mare known as Phantom and her fledgling foal. More than just a gentle tale, this classic brings bigger questions to mind. Questions about freedom, survival and what it means to be wild, about loving something—so much—you let it go.
The rain begins again, but this time the drops are heavy and full. We make our way back towards town and stop at JD’s on the Creek. The restaurant is dark and smoky, the bar particularly so.
“Welcome to my island,” says a stranger, as he approaches our table. His words, while friendly, are laced with the slightest hint of mockery. We are foreign to this place, and our presence is duly noted. Over the next hour, while the light drains away, we are introduced to others and we hear their stories. Stories of how they’ve never stepped off the islands, or, more often, stories of those who left and found they could not stay away.
The Feeling of a Place
Two mornings later, our hostess shares her own tale about her favorite time of year. It is November, when the Arctic snow geese migrate. Her eyes widen in the retelling, “The lake fills with thousands and thousands of birds. When they lift from the water… You can actually feel the sound of their wings in your chest.”
At this particular moment, our children are back in Richmond, making pinch pots out of clay and eating too much sugar with their Nonna. But I wish they were here listening to her voice, because it is through visiting a place that one actually begins to know it.
As Grandpa Beebe says, “Facts are fine, fer as they go…but they’re like water bugs skittering atop the water. Legends, now—they go deep down and bring up the heart of a story.”

Kerry Day is a freelance writer, proud mother of three and author of “Life in the Front Yard.”

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