Of all seasons, I love autumn best. That air of impending melancholy combined with the defiant shout of fall colors and sweet smell of decay just sends me. Alas, my teaching job ensures that from September through December, I’ve little time to enjoy it. There’s a pause at Thanksgiving, but by that time the best of the season has passed.
Or has it?
Whereas at home in Maryland the palette in late November has been reduced to the muddy browns of oaks and mulberries, driving south we notice colorful foliage reappearing. What’s more, in the many parks and nature preserves near Virginia Beach, we find an interesting mix of both subtropical and temperate plants.
First Landing State Park has a number of visitors this fine day after Thanksgiving. Family groups, contented-looking retired couples, and joggers on the path nod to each other in implicit recognition: we’ve all come to this place to enjoy what’s left of the season before some inconsiderate wind delivers the coup de grace.
What’s most striking about First Landing is its rich variety of ecosystems: beach gives way to dunes, then marsh, swamp, and forest, all interconnected on 19 miles of well-marked trails. We’ve brought our bikes, and thus spend most of our time on the Cape Henry bike path, which runs for some five miles through upland forest. We pedal along slowly, the better to appreciate the play of light upon the yellow ashes, red maples, and burnt orange sassafras. Of all this autumnal ensemble, however, the standout performer is the melodiously named Liquidambar, or sweet gum tree.
Now, anyone who has sweet gum trees can tell you what an inconvenience they are. Covered with miniature spiny balls that become unsightly litter, not to mention a barefoot walker’s nightmare, the tree redeems itself in autumn when its broad, shiny star-shaped leaves suddenly catch fire. Here at First Landing, sweet gums abound, their scarlet leaves handsomely set off by a dark green backdrop of pines.
We cross a wooden bridge leading to the swamp, realm of the bald cypresses, peculiar conifers that drop their needles like deciduous trees. Covered in the ghostly silvery tresses of Spanish moss, the cypresses raise their ungainly "knees" from the still, tannin-stained waters of the swamp. The purpose of these structures once baffled botanists, who ultimately decided the knees act as buttresses, giving the cypresses better purchase in the wet soil.
And then, suddenly, we pedal from the gloom of the swamp into the broad vista of a tidal marsh. There is a white flash of some wading bird, an ibis perhaps, sailing to the protection of a line of tall loblolly pines. The wind bends the reeds to its steady will and ruffles the flat surface of the water.
Finally, we come to the beach itself, our bike tires slipping in the sand. There’s an enormous parking lot nearby, but not a single car in it. We imagine, with no little satisfaction, the absent crowds of beachgoers.