Return from the Wild

Painting by Chris Wesley

The first twenty miles of roads from Virginia Beach passed through forest and residential areas. 

False Cape state Park

False Cape state Park

Traffic diminished, then disappeared as a gravel road led into False Cape state Park, where cars cease to be allowed.  I pulled into a campsite behind the dunes, away from the strong cold wind at the beach. 

I would have to ride three miles on the beach the next morning before there would be any hope of finding a rideable trail, and I would have to do it at low tide.  The trouble was that high tide would come at 7:45am and daylight would start at 6am.  The only way to manage this, considering the many miles I’d have to ride, would be to start at night.  Fortunately, the moon would become my salvation—full and high at 3am.  After breaking camp in moonlight, I pushed the loaded bike over the dunes to the beach.  

Riding alone on the beach in moonlight is a magical experience—ethereal, one with waves, wind, and stars.  There was a strong south wind which made going hard, but sand was firm near the upper wash of the waves, visibility was good, and I rode in happiness.

Once I made it to the North Carolina border, I would surely have a road of some sort, because I had seen it in satellite view, serving several houses along the beach, and must therefore be a fairly good road.  I believed that this stretch might be the hardest part of the entire trip, and maybe the most enjoyable.  

I came to a fence at the state line that extended far out into the surf, and could not understand why it was there.  A small gap in the fence allowed me to pass into North Carolina.  I had accomplished it.

By now the tide had risen almost up to the loose sand where it is impossible to ride, and very hard even to walk the bike.  I trudged inland over the dunes, looking for the road I had seen in satellite view.  I saw a few houses in the moonlight, and a road surely served them.

On reaching the road, I found it just a track in the sand, no better for cycling than the beach.  Only four-wheel-drive vehicles could make it here.  I returned to the beach and trudged along it, hoping the inland road would improve farther south where it served more houses.  But it did not.  Now, at high tide, and quite tired from the hard work of pushing the bike through loose sand, I sat and watched the sun rise.  I would have to wait here several hours for the tide to fall. 

After about two hours, I saw something moving in from the south.  It was a vehicle driving in sand.  As it approached, I stood up and waved for it to stop.  As it did, I saw it was a four-wheel drive pickup truck.  Big letters on the door read, “Sheriff.”  A man with a badge and a gun got out. 

“Good morning,” I said.

“Morning, Mam, how can I help you?”

“Can you tell me the best way to Corolla?  It’s impossible to even walk here, much less ride.  The bike just sinks in,” I said sadly.

 “You have to stay on the beach the entire way to Corolla, it’s the only way you can make it.  And you’ll have to walk most of it at low tide.  You probably can’t ride any of it.  At high tide you can’t make it.”

“Low tide is six hours from now, maybe I could start in four hours.”

“ You might make those ten miles to Corolla before dark, or before the tide rises, but I doubt it.  You’ve also got a strong headwind.”

I had clearly gotten myself into more than I could handle, and my face must have shown it.

After a brief silence, he said, “Would you like a ride to Corolla?”

We loaded the bike into the deputy sheriff’s pickup.  I squeezed in beside his mounted computer in the front.  We got acquainted.  I thanked him profusely as we rode, believing he had saved not only the day but possibly the entire trip. 

He has lived near here all his life and knows most of the people.  He pointed to a house, told me who the owner was, and said it was up for rent by the week.

“Almost all the houses along here are rentals,” he said, “and some rent for ten thousand a week.”

“What draws people to where they can’t even bring their ordinary car?”

“The beach”

“Is there good surfing?”

“No”

We both shook our heads at the motivations of some tourists.

I asked him why could I not learn the difficulties of biking here?  “I would not have come if I’d known.”

“Some maps show a paved road all the way through,” he said.  “It’s all about getting outsiders here.”

“Are the Islands really migrating toward the mainland, like many websites say?”  I asked.

“In my lifetime, this beach has moved about a hundred yards inland.  In a few miles we’ll see the stumps of trees in the surf where a forest once stood.  I remember when those trees were on dry sand.”  And soon we saw the forest graveyard, strong evidence that the rental houses, now standing about a hundred yards inland will be a graveyard in the lifetimes of their owner’s children.  But I doubt if they see it that way.  Something will change for the better; history is not our guide.

We saw a few of the wild mustang ponies for which the Outer Banks are famous.  They descended from those brought here by Spanish explorers more than five hundred years ago. (picture horses)

 “I guess you don’t have much crime.”

“None.  We practice community oriented law enforcement.”

Deputy Sheriff Greg dropped me off on a paved road in Corolla, and I never told him that from here I still have twenty miles to ride against a strong headwind before reaching Kill Devil Hills, where I write this.  I could not have done it without him.

I checked into a motel tired, dirty, and hungry.  I slept well last night and today it is raining.  I am taking the day off, very thankful for a man who rescued me.