I visited the State Park on my way to a tree conference on Long Island because it was nearby and the name compelled me.
It was a weekday, and so quiet, unlike Jones Beach where I ordinarily go to swim. Sunken Meadow is also a park set on a beach, but not the Atlantic, the Sound. To me, a secret I’ve never come to before. I paced along the boardwalk.
Quiet. Empty aside from a few strollers engaged in low, private conversations, murmuring about things that matter. A beach-y forest bordered the boardwalk. I passed plenty of black pine.
Reached out and grazed the rough post oak leaves with my fingertips.
Groves of waxen bayberry.
Even the dead trees (especially the dead trees?) had character.
I spoke with a park ranger, asked him where were the wilder areas to go look at. He said if I took a trail off of the boardwalk farther down the strand I could wander in the salt marshes. But it was getting late for me to attend my conference.
I could see from the trailhead that it was beautiful, so I resolved to come back some time in the future, perhaps later in the summer.
The tree conference I came for, the New York State ReLeaf meeting at Hofstra University, was really great. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Sunken Meadow. I wanted to return to discover the secrets I hadn’t seen earlier. So I came back.
I remember that the ranger had asked, Do you mind going barefoot? Me? There’s nothing I’d rather do. So I take off my shoes and start off down the path toward the marsh. And the sand turns out to be a million degrees, scorching the bottoms of my feet. I scurry back to my car and put on my clogs and start out again.
Have you ever been someplace and looked around and thought, this is just what I wanted? This is just what I wanted to do today? Well, going to Sunken Meadow is just what I want to do today.
The ranger had said, You can go and wander among the marshes. He must’ve read my mind. Or my soul. Or something. Anyway, he read me.
First thing I see is some tiny little black fish swarming in a little puddle. Hermit crabs the size of a finger tip scuttle underneath the surface of the water.
I look up and see the marsh spread out before me.
I come upon an educational placard and learn about the place. Sixty years ago a culvert was put in that impeded the flow between salt and alkaline water in this estuary, resulting in kill off of native plants, which were replaced with the weed reeds phragmites, and reducing the fauna – the alewives and eels that were native here.
Then came Hurricane Sandy. Sandy was horrible every place but here, where the storm washed out the bridge and the culverts so that the place could be restored to its former glory.
A monarch flits by. I see a few other wanderers. Kids shrieking. Picking up crabs. That’s the biggest one I ever seen! I hear. And, Oh, a fish!
Architectural trees.
Black Oak.
Chestnut oak.
Juniper, perfectly ripe.
Trumpet vine.
Lots of footprints here, lots of wanderers that came before me.
A sign that tells me people like to harvest shellfish here.
And in fact there are many, many crabs of all sizes. One earnestly hauls something along
A guy on a bike? Where could he be going?
I hear a daughter talking to her father as they come down a steep sandy slope: Careful, Daddy! Heel first! Heel first! Daughters always know best.
I bump into another family wandering the shore. The little boy shows me the hermit crab he caught.
We wander apart. More scuttling crabs. Is this what I’m here for?
Take a few deep breaths. Take a few more. Look around. Forget about everything. Everything!
Admire the tiny things. The grasses that have come back after the hurricane.
A simple stick or two.
Berries. Black cherry?
Something I’ve always called Queen Anne’s lace. Probably has a fancier horticultural handle if youre in the know.
Even the invasive ailanthus, the scourge of tree people, common name Tree of Heaven, is fantastic here. Even heavenly.
Find a destination. How about that enormous bird platform down the way? That looks interesting.
First, I go beyond a juniper to relieve myself. If you ask me, women who refuse to pee outside, en plein air, are really missing something.
I walk toward the man-made bird perch. The nest’s enormous, at least six feet around, built of sticks.
An osprey nest. A parent and her baby. Perhaps a fledgling.
I hear the characteristic call of the osprey, a light whistle in short bursts. I respond in kind. They peer over the edge of the nest at me. I wonder, if I could stay here all day and look at them, would they take off, would they do anything different? They’re just perched there, waiting for the precise right time to hunt in the marsh for fish. They consume them live. I sneak a little closer. They peer over at me.
Lurk and putter along the marsh strand, meandering, exploring. No binoculars, no fancy camera, only me and my dinky iPhone. And my imagination. Is this fallen feather part of the osprey chick’s baby plumage?
This place is almost too beautiful.
I look back. I can no longer see the raptors.
Wasn’t I promised an eel? I haven’t seen one yet.
I think you probably have to park yourself here for a good long time to wait for that eel to show up. I trudge up the dunes, a mountain of grit in my shoes.
Quiet. quieter. The sand grows white. Powdery.
Solitary tree. Are you posing for me too?
Beach plum blossoms.
The only thing better than beach plum blossoms, the plums themselves.
Some other kind of berries. Another kind of plum? Mysteries of the wild.
Over the bluff, beachgoers, suddenly. Humans.
Still, everything I’ve seen here does seem wild and somehow miraculous. That this place was saved by a hurricane. That the raptors let me come close. That there are millions of hermit crabs scuttling beneath the water here.
Yes, I was promised an eel. Perhaps next time I visit Sunken Meadow. Soon.
Jean Zimmerman 