Virginia State Parks

Part 1: Tidewater

Editor’s Note: For the next three issues North of the James explores Virginia’s natural beauty with visits to nine of her state parks. Each cover story will feature three parks from one of the three main physical regions that describe our state—Tidewater, Mountains and Piedmont. This first installment is Tidewater.

Tidewater: Ebb and Flow

 By Charles McGuigan 08.2020

The novel coronavirus disease has crimped much of what we once took for granted, including annual summer vacations. Typically, our family meanders from place to place over a couple weeks (sometimes three or four), staying in Airbnbs, camping when necessary, sleeping in the Honda-CRV when options run out or funds dry up, sampling local culture and cuisine whether sophisticated or crude, and generally getting lost in small acts of discovery.

This year, we satisfy ourselves with what will amount to be a series of day trips to places where we are able to easily follow the protocols recommended by experts informed by science and research, and not by buffoons taking their cues from conspiracy theories and willful ignorance. These trips had to meet three criteria. Each destination had to be a reasonable roundtrip distance from our home so that we could leave early in the morning and be home by midnight. Secondly, those destinations had to be remote enough that social distancing could be practiced. And this, too: each place had to offer natural splendor.

Virginia is fortunate to possess a vast array of public lands that protect our environment from the greed-driven hordes who mine our mountains and flatten our forests with impunity, from those who value profit over stewardship whether to extract ores or fossil fuels, or to lay waste the land for planned communities of putty-colored vinyl.

Virginia is often hailed as having one of the best state park systems in the country. We (the people that is) now have thirty-eight parks in our state, spanning every sort of terrain from the mountains to the coastal plain, for a grand total of more than 70,000 acres that include over 600 miles of trails for hiking and biking.  Like our national parks, these spaces belong to everyone no matter who they are. On these public lands, devoid of corporations and gated opulence, you will not find one “No Trespassing” sign. In fact, you’re invited to trespass because these lands were made for you and me.

From the time they were both very small children, Catherine and Charles, both great travelers, were always up for a daytrip to any state park in Virginia. The one we visited most frequently, particularly when they were both very young, was Westmoreland State Park. We would try to hit it on a spring tide, which has nothing to do with the season. These tides occur twice each month around the time of a full moon or a new moon. It is when you experience the lowest tides, and the highest tides. Low tides were what we were looking for, and the very best of them were generally in the late winter when the wind blew out of the southeast. These were the times when the shoreline below the massive Horsehead Cliffs on the Potomac River were exposed as much as a quarter of a mile. You could walk across a plain of clay and sand, bent at the waste, scanning the riverbed for fossils, many of which were 14 million years older. Among the Chesapecten jeffersonius (Virginia’s state fossil) and glycemeris (another common shell found in Virginia fossil beds), we would also find the vertebrae of prehistoric whales and dolphins, and occasionally the massive teeth of  Carcharodon megalodon, the ancient ancestors of today’s great white shark, though they were significantly larger, measuring as much as 65 feet in length. I once found a black tooth of this predator of predators that was the size of a slab of pie. We would later learn at the visitor’s center that this entire area from the Miocene through the Pleistocene, was a shallow arm of the Atlantic Ocean, and served as a sort of nursery for whales of the era, which attracted the megalodons and their enormous appetites.

That was then.

York River State Park

96 miles roundtrip

In early August, my son Charles and I began the first of three trips over the ensuing two weeks to state parks in Virginia’s coastal plain. The first was York River State Park, which, along with several great spots for fishing, has an abundance of biking and hiking trails that snake their way through the forests and the lowlands of this pristine area near Croaker on the banks of the York River.

We prepare the night before by first filling five disposable plastic bottles with water, and setting them in the freezer. By morning each is rock solid, which we use in our two small coolers instead of ice. These bottles serve a dual function. They keep our provisions cool—fruit, sandwiches or wraps—and as the day progresses and the heat increases, they melt into the coldest water imaginable to replenish our stainless steel bottles and provide constant hydration.

We don’t leave the house until mid-day—after all, the trip down to Croaker is only about 45 minutes. Shortly after arriving at the park, we hike a trail that runs roughly along the York River, up to Fossil Beach, then back down to Taskinas Creek. York River State Park is one of the most perfectly preserved estuarine ecosystems on the entire East Coast, where freshwater meets saltwater, forming a vast incubator for marine life, and there is no development or industry nearby. It is so pristine, in fact, that it was designated as a Chesapeake Bay National Estuarine Research Reserve.

Threading their way through marshlands, river shoreline, and heavily forested areas, more than thirty miles of bike trails and hiking trails, even several equestrian trails, allow you get up close and personal with the environment.

By the time we arrive, the temperature is well into the nineties and the humidity high, but the air is sweet and pure, and my son and I swallow it into our lungs like nectar, then grab our fishing gear—two rods and terminal tackle—along with one cooler that contains drinks and bait, and make our way down to the shore of Taskinas Creek. On a floating dock from which you can launch kayaks and canoes, we look up the creek and can see scores of fish hitting the surface. When we look the other way, toward the mouth at the York River, the piscine cavorting is even more rambunctious. So we decide to fish in that direction.

I strip out one squid, and filet it in thin strips, about a half-inch wide, then slice one tip with a sort of swallowtail that will mimic bait fish—a shiner or a mummichog. After baiting the hooks on a pair of top-and-bottom rigs, we cast into midstream, and even before the half-ounce sinker hits the bottom, there is a strike. One after another, Charles and I reel in fish after fish, gently removing the barbed hooks and returning the fish to their home. They’re all relatively small, just palm-sized, and each of work of art—these white perch that fatten up in the marshy creeks before heading back out to the open water of the York.

As we neared Richmond that evening along 64 we could see two massive fronts of clouds colliding, one from the east, and the other from the west. By the time we reached Richmond, those clouds had merged into a dark, angry purple, and the winds were strong enough that they pushed us sideways as if we were under full sail. As soon as we exited on Chamberlayne, the rain came down in sheets.

When we talked about our trip to the York River the following week, Charles remembered hitting a snag when I went up to the car to fetch drinking water and sunscreen; it was getting very hot late that afternoon.

“I loved the scenery down there on that dock,” he told me. “I loved the marsh grass and the trees and there were many fish jumping up in the water. But, sadly, my line had to get cut.”

“That happens to everyone who goes fishing,” I offered.

“Really?”

“Absolutely. As a matter I would fish at Grandview Fishing Pier many years ago, and every time I went I’d lose one rig, sometimes two or three. And an older man once told me that before you can catch a single fish you need to pay your taxes.”

“What taxes?” Charles asked.

“The rig that I snagged and lost. It was as if the water was demanding payment before she would surrender a single fish.”

“That’s a great line,” said Charles. “I’ll remember that one.”

False Cape State Park

268 miles roundtrip by car; 12 miles by foot or by bike

Just a few days after our trip to the York River, Charles and I headed down to the most southeasterly tip of Virginia, which is home to the least visited state park in the state. And there’s reason for this, too: the only way you can get there is by foot, by bike, or by water.

We took the roundabout way down, across the Monitor-Merrimac Bridge-Tunnel, which carries you over and under Hampton Roads, and then back onto 64 and the Indian River Road exit. This road quickly becomes a two-lane country byway that sweeps by Stumpy Lake and winds through rich farmland, then spills out on the headwaters of Back Bay and into the seaside village of Sandbridge. Just below this quiet beach community we enter Back Bay National Wildlife Refuge, and the environment changes completely. For one thing, there is not a single house, and there are no other cars. Thirty-foot sand dunes replace the beach houses on one side of the road, and the other side is skirted by a canal of dark water that’s alive with fish and turtles, and flanked by spatterdock and water hyacinth. In the parking lot at the visitor’s center there are less than a dozen cars and not a human being in sight.

Our first leg of the journey would be over the dunes and to the wide sandy shore. We fished for a little over an hour, wading out to the first sand bar and then casting into deep water on the other side of the second line of breakers.  I caught two croakers—a deuce—on one rig, but that was it. I held the hardhead firmly, careful to squeeze the spiny armor of its gills, which can inflict a nasty cut, worked the barb out from its lips, kissed the fish on its forehead and released it in the surf which quickly sucked it and its comrade back out to sea.

A couple years ago, Charles and I caught half-a-dozen floor mat summer flounder at this very spot. And before that, Catherine and I hit a blue run here in early October and took a cooler of Taylor blues back to Richmond where we smoked them over hickory chips—the best eating fish there is. Once, I caught a 140-pound bull shark in the surf, which I released. Another time, we found a giant sea turtle (probably a loggerhead) dead and maggot-ridden, shell-down in the sand. In years past, we would often encounter family groups of wild horses, descendants of Spanish mustangs that had gotten stranded on this isolated strip of Virginia when Spaniards still ruled these seas. Now those wild horses are restricted to North Carolina, which is just ten miles to the south; the horse were apparently wreaking havoc with the indigenous plants.  More than twenty years ago, several days before Thanksgiving, when Catherine was still a baby, her mother, Joany, and I found a large wooden rib made of black oak with a single spike of bronze, the remnant of an English tall ship  that had probably run aground in the eighteenth century (this is where the Graveyard of the Atlantic begins). It took me an hour to flip it back, end over end, to our car, which groaned under its load. After the trip home, the shocks of that poor car were shot.

After finishing up on the beach, Charles and I returned to the car, refilled our water bottles, and rode our bikes down a hard-packed gravel-dust dike road.  The water impounded by those dikes come suddenly alive in the dead of winter, serving as a stopover for millions of birds, from tundra swans to snow geese. It’s a crucial link in the Atlantic Flyway, and is a birder’s paradise.

Along the dike roads we spotted several red-winged blackbirds, a few tree swallows, some purple martins, numerous catbirds, and a single indigo bunting, its feathers a color of blue unmatched in nature; a blue so rich it makes your heart skip a few beats.

Among the other wildlife we saw were rabbits in great abundance, along with bull frogs, five-lined skinks, and painted turtles and mud turtles and elegant sliders. Three years ago, we had seen a five-foot long cottonmouth moving across the still waters of one of the canals. I’d never seen one swimming, and it blew me away. They seem to float on top of the water, as if inflated beach toys, and they move quickly. We watched for a good twenty minutes, at a safe distance, watched it swallow a large frog whole, and then an otter came along and tried to play with it. The otter wasn’t afraid in the least.

“There’s a fox,” Charles yelled, and sure enough there was a fox crossing our path just as we entered the maritime forest. We dismounted and watched the fox move through brambles and brush, and we could see it join another fox.

It is roughly five miles from Back Bay to our destination—False Cape State Park. Within these woods there are a number of large mammals afoot, including bobcats, coyotes and wild boars. And though we encountered none of these beasts, we did see one tiny fawn who had absolutely no fear of us.

The air through these woods has a tar and turpentine tincture to it produced by the loblollies and scrub pines that grow here. But there’s also a sweetness intermingled with this scent: It comes from the bayberries and the live oaks, all of which seem to be sculpted by the wind. Shortly after we entered False Cape, a light drizzle began to fall, so we turned around, and pedaled as hard as we could to get back to the car. When we entered the car we were soaked to the bone, and as we pulled onto Sandpiper Road and passed through Sandbridge, a searing sun parted the clouds and we sundried in our seats, and by the time we reached Richmond we were both bone dry. As we pulled up in front of our house, the heavens opened and rain fell in waterfall sheets. The moment we were out of the car, before we could make it to the front door, we were again soaked through and through.

First Landing State Park

212 miles roundtrip

Our final trip to Tidewater state parks seemed eternal. We arrived at First Landing State Park shortly after noon with the intention of fishing from the shore there in Lynnhaven Roads at the very mouth of Chesapeake Bay. We’d been here many a time before, and the water is calm and clear, with no real breakers, just a steady slosh of surf. You can wade almost a quarter mile out and still be in waist-deep water. It’s a great place to fish and to swim. A lot of other people that day had the same idea and it was packed, and we are sticklers for social distancing, so we turned around and drove over to 88th Street at the far north end of Virginia Beach. Here people were socially distanced in the extreme, and there were few of them. We inched our way into Fort Story, within view of the Cape Henry Lighthouse, and began fishing. There was a constant wind from the southeast, and even with six-ounce pyramid sinkers it was impossible to hold the bottom. But we did get strike after strike, and some fairly big ones, but we weren’t able to reel in a single fish.

We headed back over to First Landing and began bike-riding through the deep woods of the maritime forest there which has the same smell as its kindred woodland down in False Cape. There are same kind of pines and myrtles and live oaks, but there are also massive cypress forests, and many of the trees are festooned in Spanish moss, the furthest north this plant Indigenous people called “tree hair” is found.

All afternoon long, clouds had been moving in, ushered along by the wind that had made fishing so difficult. About three miles into our bike ride, we heard distant reports of thunder, so we headed back to the car. By the time we arrived, the rain was coming down steadily, and after securing the bikes we headed up Shore Drive, until the rain became so torrential we had to pull over into one the municipal parks in Ocean View. We walked along the beach there when the rain lifted, but there was more on the way, so we drove all the way up the strand and picked up 64 to the west. The moment we left the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel, the sky cleared. It was sunny, it was warm, and it seemed the day was just beginning again, though it was well after four.

We decided to take another bike ride, this time in Colonial Williamsburg. There were few people on Duke of Gloucester Street, two blocks of which had been converted into an outdoor dining area. We rode up one end of DOG Street to the other, and then over Prince George Street, and Francis Street. We stopped and visited a number of gardens, and pulled over to watch four sheep corralled behind an eighteenth century home that was still standing, and inhabited.

For a couple years now, Charles has vacillated between being a vegetarian and an omnivore. Most recently he was a pescatarian, but a few weeks ago he decided to go back to his roots as an omnivore. So to top off these final hours of the trip, we stopped at Pierce’s Barbecue and got a couple of pork sandwiches, no sides, no slaw, and ate in our car in the parking lot of an industrial building just up the road, a place called Vehix Discount Direct.

“That’s one of the best things I’ve ever eaten,” Charles said. He hadn’t had a barbecue in almost two years.

As I picked up 64, the sun was still bright and nightfall seemed as if it would never come. Outside of Providence Forge, I looked over at Charles and he wore a smile as broad as a full moon.

“What are you thinking, man?”

“It was just such a great day,” my son told me. “All these different parts to it.”

Though his smile didn’t vanish, it changed. It was easy see that in the bright light of a summer evening.

“I wish that you could stay alive till a hundred and fifty so we could stay together,” Charles said. “Because we like to travel and go on vacations and spend time together a lot.”