Two – When A Wrong Turn Leads To Delight

Observations on a wild life. Finding stewardship where I least expected it, and the joy it brought.

I passed my turn today. For some, this would be a cause for instant annoyance, but I actually love it when I am so caught up in whatever song I happen to be listening to (probably a Hozier song)–singing my heart out, that I completely miss the directions my GPS was trying in vain to give me.

I was driving back from a park I had never visited before: Trap Pond State Park in Delaware. In the birding groups I belong to, everyone described it as a popular birding destination in the state.

Trap Pond State Park sits on a cypress swamp. When my husband and I drove from Baltimore to Bethany Beach for the Fourth of July weekend, we passed signs for the swamp, and I was excited to see a cypress swamp so far north. My conception of those gorgeous ecosystems consists of the swamps I visited when I had the pleasure of visiting New Orleans for the first time, in 2023. I was thrilled by the knobby-kneed bald cypress trees, standing in the tea-colored water, and draped with Spanish Moss. The last bald cypress swamp I had the pleasure of visiting, was the Honey Island Swamp.

If you’re picturing a mosquito-ridden bog, stinking of muck, think again. This is often people’s perception when they hear the word “swamp.” Both the Honey Island Swamp and Trap Pond smelled heavenly, and were absolutely teeming with life.

I want to pause here to say that I am writing this piece on Nanticoke land, which Trap Pond was once a part of before the English settlers began to colonize the area in the early 1600’s. The Nanticoke, Pocomokes, Nassawattox, and other tribes belonging to the Algonquin Nation, were some of the first tribes to encounter the English. The tribes of the East fought the longest and hardest to keep their land, but by the 1700’s, many of the tribes, including the Nanticoke, the inhabitants of what would later become known as Trap Pond, were scattered. Though not federally recognized, they are not gone. Members of these tribes still exist today–including the Piscataway, on whose land Baltimore sits.

It’s important to know whose land we stand on. It’s something I think about often. While I could go on, and on, about the beauty of the swamp, how can I, someone who loves the natural world with practically my whole being, not think about the people who lived in stewardship and kinship with the land, then watched as generation after generation of settlers ruined it?

If you’re asking yourself, where is the joy in this line of thinking, then I will answer you plainly–there isn’t any. I am not someone who applauds genocide, but I will tell you, that the more people understand our connection–with history and the land we stand on–wherever you’re reading this from, there is a chance that somewhere, someone else will learn about stolen land, and vow to do better–vow to stop it from happening. That, to me, is beautiful because it gives me hope.

Trap Pond is beautiful. It’s possible to admire its beauty, while still honoring the land and people who were here before us.

One of the most unique features of bald cypress swamps, is the water. I mentioned that earlier, that the water is the color of a rich black tea. The water in cypress swamps get their color from the tannic acid released from the decaying plant matter and cypress needles of the swamp. Despite the color of the water and the tannic acid, cypress swamps boast a diverse ecosystem–supporting birds, fish, amphibians, reptiles, and other wildlife.

Just a few months back from when I’m writing this, at the end of May, I had the great pleasure and luck of being able to photograph a bird I’ve always wanted to see–a Western Tanager. In Maryland, we are fortunate to have two species of Tanager that stay with us for the breeding season: Scarlet Tanager (Piranga olivacea) and Summer Tanagers (Piranha rubra). Both birds are a stunning sight to behold. The males are both a striking shade of vermillion, thought male Scarlet Tanagers also boast black wings, whereas the Summer Tanager is entirely red.

They are elusive birds, preferring to stay at the top of the tree canopy–though, that doesn’t stop me from trying to look for them every spring and summer. I was winding my way down a wooded path at Trap Pond, when an ovenbird’s gleeful and throaty call “teacher, teacher, teacher,” broke through the chorus of Red-eyed vireos on either side of the path. If you’ve never heard an ovenbird before, do yourself a favor and look it up. It is loud, and builds in volume with each call. So loud is the robin-sized bird, that it often overshadows the other birds around it, but my ears perked at the call of a new bird.

The “chip-burr,” call sounded like a robin at first, but more hurried and raspier. A Scarlet Tanager had arrived. I immediately began scanning the tree canopy, carefully and slowly walking over the pine needles, trying to avoid any rocks or pinecones that might make a loud noise and scare the bird away.

I was just about to give up, thinking the bird was nestled too far into the woods, when I spotted him. He sat on the branch of a holly tree, with no branches obscuring him. Perfect. I hadn’t thought I would see a Scarlet Tanager today. This far into the summer season, I haven’t had any luck photographing them, but here he was.My camera shutter snapped open and closed. I felt like I was barely breathing, so I wouldn’t make any noises.

There comes a point when I am photographing birds, where I just want to enjoy the moment. I put my camera down, so I stop living life through a lens, and take a long drink of the beautiful being I am privileged to witness. I watched the Tanager for a few minutes before he gave me one last, “chip-burr,” and flew deeper into the woods. My cup full, I decided I could happily leave.

On my way out of the park, I stopped at the camp store for snacks. On the counter, a small clear shelf displayed stickers that read, “Nature is for everyone,” and my favorite, a sticker of a Barred Owl, which proudly declared, “I’m a hoot!”

I don’t care if it was corny, I was delighted.

Now we get back to where I made a wrong turn. I was, indeed, singing along with Hozier at the top of my lungs (like you do), when my GPS alerted me I had missed my turn.

It rerouted me, taking me down a new path, and I decided to see where it took me. I was, after all, looking specifically for an adventure. I drove down past a patch of Loblolly Pines, when suddenly a field burst forth in front go me, positively bedecked in Black-eyed Susans. I gasped. I couldn’t help it. I think something takes hold of my spirit when I see that much gorgeous yellow.

I wasn’t the only one admiring the field. As I drove by, I passed on absolute kaleidoscope of butterflies, gratefully fluttering from one flower closer to the next. Here, my cup ran over.

Had I not missed my turn, I might have missed this. I would have missed all that delicious yellow, and the hope it gave me, knowing whoever planted those flowers, and made sure no mower touched them, understood that they weren’t just planting flowers. They were creating an ecosystem. They were becoming stewards.

And so, Dear Reader, I employ you not to worry so much about missed turns, and to always look for ways where you, too, can become a steward–no matter how small your patch of kinship with the land may be.