The Road to Buxton

The hardest thing of the day blew at me from the southeast—unrelenting and strong for the entire fifty-six miles.  I landed in Buxton yesterday evening tired, slept well, and write this the next day inside with a storm brewing outside.

For most of yesterday’s trip, I rode through desolate country with miles of unpeopled beach.  Maybe they couldn't find it, hiding as it was behind dunes on my left.  I considered riding on the beach to avoid traffic on the highway, but even at low tide the sand was soft.  I remember deserted beaches like this in California, long ago. 

Sand has been scooped from this road for many years and piled against the natural dunes, an operation akin to removing snow.

Ripples on the dunes speak of flowing water in a streambed.  But flowing wind did this, and it separates the grains by weight, like panning for gold.

Sand dunes form on the beach when something stops the flow of sand which rides the unrelenting wind.  These hummocks are the holdings of plants, tough plants with firm roots.  They are winning against the wind. 

Peeking around a populated hummock at the deserted beach.

The bay side of the island is completely different.  Here shallow marshland is home to birds and fishermen.  

A Canadian goose stops to rest and eat on the bay side, a respite in a long journey.  I just might be understanding how she feels.

Sunset in Buxton, my home for two days.  I will inspect the lighthouse and greet the alligators or whoever might accept my company in Buxton Woods tomorrow.