Moon Coastal Carolinas

by Jim Morekis

  Rather, their dark tea color comes from the tannic acid of decaying vegetation all along their banks, washed out by the slow, inexorable movement of the river toward the sea. While I don’t necessarily recommend drinking it, despite its dirty color blackwater is for the most part remarkably clean and hygienic.

  Carolina Bays

  An interesting regional feature of the Carolinas is the Carolina Bay, an elliptical depression rich with biodiversity, thousands of which are found all along the coast from Delaware to Florida. While at least 500,000 have been identified, new laser-based technology is enabling the discovery of thousands more, previously unnoticed.

  Though not all Carolina Bays are in the Carolinas, many are and that’s where they were first documented. They’re called “bays” not for the water within them—indeed, many hold little or no water at all—but for the proliferation of bay trees often found inside. Carolina Bays can be substantially older than the surrounding terrain, with many well over 25,000 years old. Native Americans referred to the distinctive wetland habitat within a Carolina Bay as a pocosin.

  Theories abound as to their origin. One has it that they’re the result of wave action from when the entire area was underwater in primordial times. The most popular, if unproven theory, is that they are the result of a massive meteor shower in prehistoric times. Certainly their similar orientation, roughly northwest-southeast, makes this intuitively possible as an impact pattern. Further bolstering this theory is the fact that most Carolina Bays are surrounded by sand rims, which tend to be thicker on the southeast edge.

  An old, once-discredited theory now gaining new credence is that Carolina Bays are the result of a disintegrating comet, which exploded upon entry into the earth’s atmosphere somewhere over the Great Lakes. Apparently if you extend the axes of all the Carolina Bays, that’s where they all converge. This theory takes on an ominous edge when one realizes that the same comet is also blamed for a mass extinction of prehistoric animals such as the mammoth.

  The Intracoastal Waterway

  You’ll often see its acronym ICW on signs—and sadly you’ll probably hear the locals mispronounce it “Intercoastal Waterway”—but the casual visitor might actually find the Intracoastal Waterway difficult to spot. Relying on a natural network of interconnected estuaries and channels, combined with manmade cuts, the ICW often blends in rather subtly with the already extensive network of creeks and rivers in the area.

  Mandated by Congress in 1919 and maintained by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, the Atlantic portion of the ICW runs from Key West to Boston and carries recreational and barge traffic away from the perils of offshore currents and weather. Even if they don’t use it specifically, kayakers and boaters often find themselves on it at some point during their nautical adventures.

  Estuaries

  Most biologists will tell you that the Coastal Plain is where things get interesting. The place where a river interfaces with the ocean is called an estuary, and it’s perhaps the most interesting place of all. Estuaries are heavily tidal in nature (indeed, the word derives from aestus, Latin for tide), and feature brackish water and heavy silt content.

  The Carolinas typically have about a six-to eight-foot tidal range, and the coastal ecosystem depends on this steady ebb and flow for life itself. At high tide, shellfish open and feed. At low tide, they literally clam up, keeping saltwater inside their shells until the next tide comes.

  Waterbirds and small mammals feed on shellfish and other animals at low tide, when their prey is exposed. High tide brings an influx of fish and nutrients from the sea, in turn drawing predators like dolphins, who often come into tidal creeks to feed.

  It’s the estuaries that form the most compelling and beautiful sanctuaries for the area’s incredibly rich diversity of animal species. Many estuaries are contiguous with those of other rivers.

  Salt Marsh

  All this water action in both directions—freshwater coming from inland, saltwater encroaching from the Atlantic—results in the phenomenon of the salt marsh, the single most recognizable and iconic geographic feature of the Carolina coast, also known simply as “wetlands.” (Freshwater marshes are more rare, Florida’s Everglades being perhaps the premier example.)

  Far more than just a transitional zone between land and water, marsh is also nature’s nursery. Plant and animal life in marshes tends to be not only diverse, but encompasses multitudes. Though you may not see its denizens easily, on close inspection you’ll find the marsh absolutely teeming with creatures. Visually, the main identifying feature of a salt marsh is its distinctive, reed-like marsh grasses, adapted to survive in brackish water. Like estuaries, marshes and all life in them are heavily influenced by the tides, which bring in nutrients.

  The marsh has also played a key role in human history as well, for it was here where the massive rice and indigo plantations grew their signature crops, aided by the natural ebb and flow of the tides. While most marsh you see will look quite undisturbed, very little of it could be called pristine.

  In the heyday of the rice plantations of the Carolinas, much of the entire coastal salt marsh was crisscrossed by the canal-and-dike system of the rice paddies. You can still see evidence almost everywhere in the area if you look hard enough (the best time to look is right after takeoff or before landing in an airplane, since many approaches to regional airports take you over wetlands). Anytime you see a low, straight ridge running through a marsh, that’s likely the eroded, overgrown remnant of an old rice paddy dike. Kayakers occasionally find old wooden water gates, or “trunks,” on their paddles.

  In the Lowcountry of South Carolina, you’ll often hear the term pluff mud. This refers to the area’s distinctive variety of soft, dark mud in the salt marsh, which often has an equally distinctive odor that locals love, but some visitors have a hard time getting used to. Extraordinarily rich in nutrients, pluff mud helped make rice a successful crop in the marshes of the Lowcountry.

  In addition to their huge role as wildlife incubators and sanctuaries, wetlands are also one of the most important natural protectors of the health of the coastal region. They serve as natural filters, cleansing runoff from the land of toxins and pollutants before it hits the ocean. They also help humans by serving as natural hurricane barriers, their porous nature helping to ease the brunt of the damaging storm surge.

  Beaches and Barrier Islands

  The beaches of the Carolinas are almost all situated on barrier islands, long islands parallel to the shoreline and separated from the mainland by a sheltered body of water. Because they’re formed by the deposit of sediment by offshore currents, they change shape over the years, with the general pattern of deposit going from north to south (i.e., the northern end will begin eroding first).

  Most of the barrier islands are geologically quite young, only being formed within the last 25,000 years or so. Natural erosion, by current and by storm, combined with the accelerating effects of dredging for local port activity has quickened the decline of many barrier islands. Many beaches in the area are subject to a mitigation of erosion called beach renourishment, which generally involves redistributing dredged material closely offshore so that it will wash up on and around the beach.

  As the name indicates, barrier islands are another of nature’s safeguards against hurricane damage. Historically, the barrier islands have borne the vast bulk of the damage done by hurricanes in the region. Like the marshes, barrier islands also help protect the mainland by absorbing the brunt of the storm’s wind and surging water.

  While the barrier islands of South Carolina are certainly much more heavily traveled, the most unique collection of them is off the North Carolina coast. Taking up the entire northern half of the Tarheel State’s coast, the Outer Banks is a nearly 200-mile-long string of very narrow barrier islands, jutting much farther into the Atlantic Ocean than their southern counterparts.

  As a result of this eastward positioning, not only do the Outer Banks have a much more lonely, windswept feel than mor
e southerly barrier islands, they’re also virtual hurricane magnets, with hundreds of the storms making contact with the Outer Banks since such records began.

  This extreme vulnerability means that, even more than most barrier islands, the geography of the Outer Banks changes with each year’s storm patterns. For example, Hatteras Island was literally cut in half by Hurricane Isabel in 2003. (The damage was later repaired by a U.S. Army Corps of Engineers’ project).

  The relative solitude of the Outer Banks has also contributed to its status as the “Graveyard of the Atlantic,” a place where at least 2,000 shipwrecks have occurred in its nearly 500 years of recorded history.

  Wiregrass and Longleaf Ecosystems

  In prehistoric times, most of Carolina Upper Coastal Plain was covered by what’s known as a wiregrass or longleaf pine ecosystem. Wiregrass (Arista stricta) is a foot-tall species of hardy grass which often coexists with forests of the longleaf pine (Pinus palustrist), a relative of the slash pine now used as a cash crop throughout the South. The longleaf pine is fire-dependent, meaning it only reproduces after wildfire—usually started by lightning—releases its seed cones.

  Wiregrass savanna and old-growth forests of longleaf pine once covered most of the Southeast to the tune of about 100 million acres. Within about 200 years, however, settlers had deforested the region to a shadow of its former self. Contrary to Hollywood portrayals, no one ever needed a machete to tear their way through an old-growth forest. Because the high, thick tree canopy allows little but wiregrass to grow on the forest floor, Native Americans and early settlers could simply walk through these primordial forests with ease.

  CLIMATE

  One word comes to mind when one thinks about Southern climate: hot. That’s the first word that occurs to Southerners as well, but virtually every survey of why residents are attracted to the area puts the climate at the top of the list. Go figure.

  How hot is hot? The average high for July, the region’s hottest month, in Charleston is about 89°F. While that’s nothing compared to Tucson or Death Valley, coupled with the region’s notoriously high humidity it can have an altogether miserable effect.

  Technically most of the Carolina coast has a humid subtropical climate. During summer the famous high-pressure system called the Bermuda High settles over the entire southeastern United States, its rotating winds pushing aside most weather coming from the west. This can bring drought, as well as a certain sameness that afflicts the area during summer. Heat aside, there’s no doubt that one of the most difficult things for an outsider to adjust to in the South is the humidity. The average annual humidity in Charleston is about 55 percent in the afternoons and a whopping 85 percent in the mornings. The most humid months are August and September.

  There is no real antidote to humidity—other than air conditioning, that is—though many film crews and other outside workers swear by the use of Sea Breeze astringent. If you and your traveling partner can deal with the strong minty odor, dampen a hand towel with the astringent, drape it across the back of your neck and go about your business. Don’t assume that because it’s humid you shouldn’t drink fluids. Just as in any hot climate, you should drink lots of water if you’re going to be out in the Southern heat.

  If you’re on the Carolina coast, you’ll no doubt grow to love the steady ocean breeze during the day. But at night you may notice the wind changing direction and coming from inland. That’s caused by the land cooling at night, and the wind rushing toward the warmer waters offshore. This shift in wind current is mostly responsible for that sometimes awe-inspiring, sometimes just plain scary phenomenon of a typical Southern thunderstorm. Seemingly within the space of a few minutes on a particularly hot and still summer day, the afternoon is taken over by a rapidly moving stacked storm cloud called a thunderhead, which soon bursts open and pours an unbelievable amount of rain on whatever is unlucky enough to be beneath it, along with frequent, huge lightning strikes. Then, almost as quickly as it came on, the storm subsides and the sun comes back out again as if nothing happened.

  August and September are the rainiest months in terms of rainfall, with averages well over six inches for each of those months. July is also quite wet, coming in at over five inches on average. Winters here are pretty mild, but can seem much colder than they actually are because of the dampness in the air. The coldest month is January, with about a 58°F high for the month and a 42°F average low.

  You’re highly unlikely to encounter snow in the area, and if you do it will likely only be skimpy flurries that a resident of the Great Lakes region wouldn’t even notice as snow. But don’t let this lull you into a false sense of security. If such a tiny flurry were to hit, be aware that most people down here have no clue how to drive in rough weather and will not be prepared for even such a small amount of snowfall. Visitors from snow country are often surprised by how completely a Southern city will shut down when that rare few inches of snow finally hits.

  Hurricanes

  The major weather phenomenon for residents and visitors alike is the mighty hurricane. These massive storms, with counterclockwise-rotating bands of clouds and winds pushing 200 miles per hour, are an ever-present danger to the southeast coast June-November of each year (the real danger period is around Labor Day).

  North Carolina’s Outer Banks in particular have seen an incredible number of damaging storms. I remember seeing a map showing all the routes of all the hurricanes in recorded history known to make landfall in the United States. About a third of them crossed over the same point: Cape Hatteras, North Carolina.

  As most everyone is aware now from the horrific, well-documented damage from such killer storms as Hugo, Andrew, and Katrina, hurricanes are not to be trifled with. Old-fashioned, drunken “hurricane parties” are a thing of the past for the most part, the images of cataclysmic destruction everyone has seen on TV having long since eliminated any lingering romanticism about riding out the storm.

  Local TV, websites, and print media can be counted on to give more than ample warning in the event a hurricane is approaching the area during your visit. Whatever you do, do not discount the warnings. It’s not worth it. If the locals are preparing to leave, you should too.

  Typically when a storm is likely to hit the area, there will first be a suggested evacuation. But if authorities determine there’s an overwhelming likelihood of imminent hurricane damage, they will issue a mandatory evacuation order. What this means in practice is that if you do choose to stay behind, you cannot count on any type of emergency services or help whatsoever.

  Generally speaking, the most lethal element of a hurricane is not the wind but the storm surge, the wall of ocean water that the winds drive before them onto the coast. During Hurricane Hugo, Charleston’s Battery was inundated with a storm surge of over 12 feet, with an amazing 20 feet reported farther north at Cape Romain.

  ENVIRONMENTAL ISSUES

  The Carolina coast is currently experiencing a double whammy, environmentally speaking: Not only are its distinctive wetlands extraordinarily sensitive to human interference, this is one of the most rapidly developing parts of the country. New and often-poorly planned subdivisions and resort communities are popping up all over the place. Vastly increased port activity, too, is taking a devastating toll on the salt marsh and surrounding barrier islands. Combine all that with the South’s often skeptical attitude towards environmental activism, and you have a recipe for potential ecological disaster.

  Thankfully, there are some bright spots. More and more communities are seeing the value of responsible planning and not green-lighting every new development sight unseen. Land trusts and other conservation organizations are growing in size, number, funding, and influence. The large number of marine biologists in these areas at various research and educational institutions means there’s a wealth of education and talent available in advising local governments and citizens on how best to conserve the area’s natural beauty.

  Marsh Dieback

  The dominant species of
marsh grass, Spartina alterniflora (pronounced Spar-TINE-uh) and Juncus roemerianus thrive in the typically brackish water of the coastal marsh estuaries, their structural presence helping to stem erosion of banks and dunes. While drought and blight have taken their toll on the grass, increased coastal development and continued channel deepening have also led to a steady creep of ocean saltwater farther and farther into remaining marsh stands.

  The Paper Industry

  Early in the 20th century, the Southeast’s abundance of cheap, undeveloped land and plentiful, free water led to the establishment of massive pine tree farms to feed coastal pulp and paper mills. Chances are if you used a paper grocery bag recently, it was made in a paper mill in the South.

  But in addition to making a whole lot of paper bags and providing lots of employment for residents through the decades, the paper industry also gave the area lots of air and water pollution, stressed local water supplies (it takes a lot of water to make paper from trees), and took away natural species diversity from the area by devoting so much acreage to a single crop, pine trees.

  Currently the domestic paper industry is reeling from competition from cheaper Asian lumber stocks and paper mills. As a result, an interesting—and not altogether welcome—phenomenon has been the wholesale entering of Southeastern paper companies into the real estate business. Discovering they can make a whole lot more money selling or developing tree farms for residential lots than making paper bags, pulp and paper companies are helping to drive overdevelopment in the region by encouraging development on their land rather than infill development closer to urban areas. So in the long run, the demise of the paper industry in the South may not prove to be the net advantage to the environment that was anticipated.