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Originally I wanted to see how a rainstorm could change up the environment of the park, perhaps follow the stream to deduce just where all the runoff leads. That was the original plan any way, but as I parked the car and prepared to walk the same familiar trails, I realize there was one last area I had yet to explore. It was a small area many wouldn’t give much thought at first, but my overwhelming sense of discovery made it ideal for a final post. It was the small trail that leads from the park’s entrance to the Butterfly Meadow and I can honestly say for an area so small, it packed quite a lot of wonders.

As I started walking, the first thing I noticed reminded me of a common passage I’d looked over int he management plan. Since a lot of old trees have been falling over, new ones naturally need to be planted and a large amount, possibly donations from the Hebrew Academy, encompassed the left side of the trail. With the recent rainfall all we can hope for is that they’re getting the proper amount they need to make up for the trees of old. I realized that despite hearing about it in the plan, up until now I hadn’t noticed a lot of new trees. It was nice to finally see a decent chunk out and about. From there, I saw some red berries that looked like they were almost ripe enough to eat, emphasis on almost. This small trail was simply breath taking in the rain, with some spider-webs strung up on a tree with little droplets caught inside if you looked hard enough.

 It really emphasized this idea that beauty can be found in the smallest and most unlikely of places. I’d say that’s a pretty great lesson to learn when your young. Learn to examine your surroundings, find things you may have glanced over without much thought before. In the end, just when I thought I had seen everything, I was wrong. I’ve learned that no matter how many times you visit the same place, if you look hard enough and think about it logically, you’ll always find something new to discover. 

I’d like to end this with more of a tribute than a mere reflection of events, if you will. As I walked to the entrance of the park and the big wooden sign that read “Welcome to Price Park” greeted me once again, I noticed a metal sign to the left of it. It was a simple sign with a simple goal, but I believe it is essential to hear as it perfectly summarizes the goal of Price Park and its parents. It read “Piedmont Land Conservancy permanently protects important lands to conserve our region’s rivers and streams, natural and scenic areas, wildlife habitat, and farm land that make the Piedmont a healthy and vibrant place to live, work and visit for present and future generations”. To me, this perfectly captures the essence of the park. It’s a big place with loads to discover and much more that’s worth preserving and protecting. If not for us then for our children and theirs.

As the tree-line recedes, the skyline opens into its full blazing glory. The massive quartzite shelf where Hanging Rock receives its name becomes a looking glass into the beating heart of the Sauratown Mountains. From paved forest road, I leap onto a well-worn gravel trail. Roots had been pushed back to allow the circuitous path to wind its way up towards the peak. Clouds with the consistency of wool roll pass my head, revealing a lucid blue sky capable of soaking you up as if it were a straw. Miniscule red maple leaves (Acer rubrum, L.) were peaking out from branches like prairie dogs, as if curious about the coming of Spring.

With the varying weather conditions of this season, I don’t blame them. The first week of April was marked with a brief snowfall, and now two weeks later the temperatures are climbing high into the 70s. Choosing the right moment to emerge will likely become more difficult, and potentially all the more dangerous. An early spring frost could decimate blooming deciduous tree species like the red maple, setting back centuries of evolutionary adaptations. We will adapt, I suppose, but how can we do so when everything seems so variable?

 I perch myself near a small Virginia pine (Pinus virginiana, Mill.) on the edge of Hanging Rock, the void just beyond. Luminous sunlight casts a speculative glow across the quartzite surface, sending shadows shooting across the many twists and turns of the rockface.

I see my own shadow, fifteen meters or so to my right, projected against the surface of a vertical shelf. I get the silly idea to wave to it, knowing full well its obligation to follow my lead. I wonder what I would think if it decided to resist, to fold its arms and turn its back to me. Too often I take its presence for granted, an extension of my being made possible by a burning star 93 million miles away from me. I am tethered to my shadow, obligated to it, and as such, I feel as if it is my duty to acknowledge it every now and then. All of us need acknowledgment, recognition of our breath and our smiles. Although neither are present in my shadow, I know that they are there because I am emitting them. I sing praises of myself, lifting them high above the pinnacle of Hanging Rock, into the vaporous crystal sea above.

I am nothing but a passenger, buckled into the accelerating vehicle of wilderness careening down this ecological highway. I will keep my eyes glued to the road, anticipating the sights just around the bend. With Hanging Rock behind wheel, I realize that the destination is only the beginning. We have miles to go together, and all the time in the world.

“I crashed into the sea, then somehow I survived. I don’t know what to believe, but I know I’m alive”

One day, I took a short walk along the Underground Railroad Educational Trail, but that won’t be what I discuss in this post. In this case, the journey didn’t truly start until it was technically at an end. As I exited the trail using the main asphalt road that cut through the woods, I was met with a massive Eastern red cedar tree. Although this tree was not nearly as tall as some of the plants inside the woods, its presence was still commanding, and its size indicated that it had been around for a while. This tree sat at the junction of the woods with the manmade lake, a protector for both areas. This time, the cedar tree (that actually happens to be a member of the juniper family) invited me to join it for a picnic at the lake, and meet more species to hear their stories.

As I settled down in the artificial “beach” area complete with swings, a bonfire pit, and seating, I spotted the same yellow-bellied slider not too far away. This turtle (who I named Tortuga) was sprinting back across the grass into the home it made for itself in the College Lake. Its brown shell had yellow stripes, a work of art I only had brief moments to marvel at. This wary species slips away into the water at any sign of disturbance, a superpower many long to have. Seeing this turtle exit its habitat to simply disappear from plain sight made me wonder how many other animals were present and concealed by their homes. I met a few other lake-dwellers in my short stay, such as two friendly Muscovy ducks (I named my new feathered friends George and Martha). I had previous encounters with them during lake bonfires past, when I labeled them as “turkey ducks” in my mind. The patch of red on their faces was accompanied by black and white feathers that were not characteristically duck-like features. While a lot of animals tend to flee when humans come too close, these Muscovy ducks did not even seem fazed. In fact, they continued approaching me, even following me for a brief period of time. The confidence of these ducks mirrors the reassuring qualities harbored by the place as a whole. I audibly sighed, looking out over the modestly sized lake, which shimmered back as a response. This felt like a sign from the spirits of the land urging me to stay a while, breathe, and take in the view.

Just because nature isn’t directly conversing with us constantly doesn’t mean that it has nothing to say. We often dismiss the sheer serenity derived from pausing the chaos in our lives to take what really matters into perspective, and having the chance to simply be at the lake and be one with my surroundings was refreshing.

The sea changes before the sky. White caps explode throughout the water, leaving the ocean a churning mess of gray and brown. Birds have long since departed. The current is willpower embodied. Next, the air comes to life, like a breath held and all at once released with a seemingly infinite surge of power; the winds come from all directions, some hot, others cold, all entangled in a swarm of sand blasting this way and that. At last, the clouds begin to roll in. Their bulging bodies swollen with rain, they hang heavy and ripe as they encase the sky.

Fat drops pummel the windows in splatters and streams as I make my way outside. Pellets of rain sting my skin and make a sound like static, that soon evolves into white noise as one mass of water merges with another. The distinction between ocean and sky is warped as I ease myself into the waves. I am tugged, elbowed, and punched by the sea, but it is a welcomed relief from the storm infused rain that seems to try with all its might to shred and bruise my skin.

Water on water on water on water, the crashing, kicking, stomping screams “CHSSSSHHH!!SSCCCHHH!CCHHCHHSSSHHHH!!!” I plunge myself into the growing crescent of a passing wave—quiet washes over me. The contrast is so severe, at first, I hear nothing. Gradually, the muted rumble of waves and soft pitter-pat of rain reaches my ear; beneath them both, the tinkling of shattered shells and smooth stones dancing together on the ocean floor. I remain. Light. Peaceful. Until, the grip of necessity clasps my lungs and I am forced to emerge. 

The clamor surfaces along with my head, this time accompanied my a long groan that turns to a rolling roar as I listen. Submitting to the rule of thumb—if you can hear thunder, you can be struck by lightning—I stumble out of the raging sea, pushed along by a scattering of waves. My swim may be short lived, but I prefer that to the conception of death. 

Trudging through the storm, I hear the ocean throw itself against sandbags stacked eight feet high, angered by its confinement and eager to break free. When my neighborhood was erected in the early 80’s, no such barricades were required to keep homes safe from the water. They stood a reasonably safe distance of 50 yards from the sea, with precautionary dunes that grew with every passing year. Even I can recall in my younger years when the dunes rose so high I was unable to see the beach from my second story window. But in the past five years, erosion has grown increasingly worse, aided by the hasty dredging of marine vessels and the fact that sand was taken from in front of our home in order to fill sandbags that would be placed further south. 

Of course, with a house on the island, no one is truly safe, no matter how far the ocean may seem. Even if it isn’t the waves that rip through your home, a storm’s reach is lengthened by vicious winds and downpours. Many say we were foolish to have bought land here; they do not know what it was before, nor do they understand how quickly nature can change.

As soon as the citrus hit my mouth, my mood shifted. Miles of winding downhill trails had left my knees battered and sore. Sitting on a rock overlooking the Tory’s Den gorge, I stare longingly into the bed of eastern pines below, hoping there’s someone out there to give me a lift back home. I peel the tangerine slowly, slipping my nail under the course exterior to reveal the bursting fruit within. Tracing my fingers along the edge, I draw them back as I would a pipette and feast my eyes on the six rounded pieces that would save my day. This tangerine, I thought, would barely keep my hunger at bay, so how could a hundred or more Tories sustain themselves when they called this cave their home. Although the landscape has clearly been disturbed, I can see minimal traces of deer or rabbit, which certainly wouldn’t have been good news for the huddling Tories. The gifts of food are irreplaceable, especially being able to provide enough for yourself over the course of a journey. Only a select few of us know what hunger is, and the reasons why we avoid it so adamantly.

Shortly after I began nibbling on a Cliff-Bar, I could hear a series of footfalls approaching. Each seemed to bound lightly off of the treated wood stairs marking the descent to the cave. From around the wall sprang a dog with brown and black fur, clearly a terrier mix. His tongue droops low from the corner of his mouth as he meanders closer. He sits at my right side, cocks his head slightly to the left, and give me the most irresistible puppy-dog eyes I have ever seen. I notice he has a collar, which thankfully relieves all my nightmares of getting bitten by a stray five miles from any kind of civilization. I start to hear more footsteps from behind the dog, and distant shouting: “Houston!” Figuring this was the dog’s name, I stuck out my hand open palmed for Houston to sniff. Clearly intrigued, he allows me to grace my fingers along the crown of his head, soaking in his soft fur as light as a comforter.

Houston’s owner rounded the curve a minute later, clearly pleased of his pup’s safety. He introduces himself as Lee, and we begin to talk about the strenuous hiking conditions that brought us here. Neither of us had expected to spend the better half of the day wandering this path, nor the series of signs that progressively increased the distance to the destination. Famished and tired, we decide to hike the remainder of the trail back together. It was clear that both of us prefer to hike alone, or more specifically, in the presence of very few others. Up until this point, I have been separated from any sustained human contact within the park. Passing people in the parking lot is one thing but engaging in lengthy conversation was entirely another. Walking with Lee, I reflected on my previous wanderings through this space. I have been alone, undisturbed, and completely free to move through this park with ease and security. Not once did I fear for my life or become skeptical about the ways in which my being would be interpreted.

As a white man, I have thrived in natural places. This has been the unfortunate norm for thousands of years, since the early push of Manifest Destiny and the rugged outdoorsmen conquering natural forces. After reading J. Drew Lanham’s memoir “The Home Place”, I poignantly realized that my own movements have rippling consequences. For a variety of reasons, ranging from the color of your skin to your place of origin, many groups are unable to access nature in the same way Lee and I could. The act of walking alone through a ribbon of pines can evoke dread out of so many but bring absolute joy to me. Wanderers like us owe a great debt to those who have not traveled these paths, placed their feet on these stones, or stared out at the range of vistas lining the Sauratowns. Hanging Rock State Park must be cherished by all, and yet so many are prevented from seeing it due to transportation costs, accessibility of trails, and public perceptions of their presence in this space.

No longer can we hold back the waters. The dam is about to burst, the water lapping at its top begging to be cast forward. By simply conversing with Lee, I realized my own complicity in keeping the waters contained. Once I am able to sacrifice myself for the inclusion of others, the floodgates will tear open and never be closed again. Much the Tories nestled in the den, Hanging Rock can become a home for everyone, a space that we can all make our own. This, perhaps, is the secret of life we’ve all been searching for.

“Truths once known never come unknown – I learned that lesson lives ago”

I land on a wooded path, miles away from home. I chase the sunlight mile after mile, through the wind-swept pines and the darkening oaks. Not a soul in sight except the one within me. The patches of blooming trout lilies are long behind me, what lies ahead remains a mystery. Tory’s Den is beyond my wanderings, a place of unknown qualities and hidden secrets. As I approach the trailhead from Moore’s Knob, something draws me closer. Perhaps it is the promise of the unfamiliar, or the devout dedication of the wanderer to push pass their boundaries. I am drawn to the trail as an insect is to light, hopefully without the same outcome.

Tory’s Den is the outermost destination within the Hanging Rock trail system. Given the appeal of the partially paved titular destination, Tory’s Den is likely unpopulated by most park visitors, especially during the week. As expected, the trail remained my own for quite some time. I passed along serpentine switchbacks until I crested a peak topped with groves of mountain laurel and Virginia pines. From there the trail descended as sharply as a kitchen knife, forcing me to push weight onto my heels in order to stop myself from tumbling forward. It was here I began to doubt if I could complete this trek. I notice the sun hanging lower in the west, still plenty of light left but definitely leaning heavy towards the evening sky. My food and water would last many miles more, but would my mind? Would the worry of my return prevent my enjoyment of the journey? I can sing these songs as long as I please, but nothing will drive me forward except my own two feet.

Unlike the ‘walls’, ‘knobs’, or ‘rocks’ that categorize nearly all major attractions at Hanging Rock, Tory’s Den is the only one of its kind. The cave is nestled in a shallow outcropping near the park’s northern border, approximately 35 feet deep and 20 feet high. Quartzite has been worn away in jagged shelfs that could be briefly scaled if need be. As I quickly discovered, the cave is currently home to gigantic mosquitos and numerous black moths. But that’s not who originally lived here. During the American Revolution, Stokes County was located near the western front of the thirteen colonies. British and American forces fought no major battles here, but neighbors often clashed over which side deserved their allegiance. One such skirmish occurred between the Whigs, English colonists who wanted independence from Great Britain, and the Tories, colonists who remained loyal to the British Crown. At the start of the war, the Whigs seized land and property in Stokes County held by the Tories and forced them into the wilderness. Outmanned and outgunned, about 100 Tories settled in this cave near the future Hanging Rock State Park.

In 1778, a group of Tories raided Whig Colonel John Martin’s ‘rock house’ and supposedly kidnapped his daughter for ransom. By dawn, Martin had rallied a group of Whigs and attacked the ‘Den.’ Taking the Tories by surprise, Martin took most of them prisoner in retribution for taking his daughter. Once the war ended in 1783, Congress passed a law that would return any unsold Tory lands to their original owners only if they would sign their allegiance to the flag of the United States. Since that fateful day, the cave has been known as “Tory’s Den.” With a resonating waterfall a few paces to the west, the cave provides adequate shelter for any creature passing its way.

The strenuous journey has left me weary and famished, and much like the Tories, I will too call this place home for a fragmented moment in time. Just until my water and food run low. Here, it just the rocks, and the trees, and my lonesome dreams that will fill this cave up once again. Huddled low, I stare out into the boundless forest dreaming of tomorrow and the eternal promise it holds.

“I feel I should know this place, as the road winds on into wide open space”

I rose silently from the fray of flowers, casting my upwards towards the thicket of vapor-strung Virginia pines (Pinus virginiana, Mill.). Thin, scaly plates of cinnamon colored bark crisscrossed the towering trunks of these pines. Evergreen needles clung to slender branches, shaking loose the lingering stillness of winter in preparation for new warmth. A few weeks from now, these conifers will produce a scourge of cylindrical yellow flowers with curved prickles protruding from the top. As the spring winds sweep in from the west, coarse powdery pollen will erupt from the protrusions and fill the sky in a yellow haze, much to the dismay of many sensitive day hikers. Hopefully they’ll bring enough tissues to notice the small ovoid cones that soon follow. Maybe they will taste the air rich with sap wrapping everything up in a bucolic bliss.

A few paces forward, I found myself face to face with an eastern white pine (Pinus strobus, L.). A perfect opportunity to finally be able to distinguish the two prominent conifers in this region. Around the base of the tree was a bed of amber needles about 3-5 inches in length, about 1.5 inches longer than those of the Virginia pines. Each bundle of needles, known as a fascicle, on the white pine had five slender flexible needles, as opposed to the two divergent needles observed on Virginia pines. The bark of white pine is significantly scalier and more rounded than its compatriot, composed of long ridges and black furrows. Pausing to this detail, I recognized that I would never again confuse the two. Their bark is so remarkably different as well as the patterns of their needles. Yes, they are both pines, but their intricacies and variety are vastly different. I guess we could say the same thing about humans. While we are all Homo sapiens, we distinguish ourselves based on cultural, ethnic, and racial backgrounds that compose our identity. Only by peering behind the obvious can we begin to recognize and appreciate our own variety within these natural spaces.

As if appreciative of my recognition, both the White and Virginia pines sang to me as I climbed towards Moore’s Knob. Gusts of crisp spring air sent groans down their trunks like they had just been hit by foul balls at a baseball game. I observed no changes in their abundance as I scrambled over quartzite shelves, dodged low-hanging mountain laurel branches, or wound my way around muddy ruts in the trail. Tufted titmice (Baeolophus bicolor) and Carolina wrens (Thryothorus ludovicianus) emitting soft calls from somewhere in the canopy of evergreen needles. The long, lonesome drum of the pileated woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus) made the forest hold its breath and rejoice in the silence that followed.

Moore’s Knob commanded this silence better than any space I have ever wandered through. As the pines withdrew, the dynamic quartzite shelf rose up over all nearby mountain peaks. From atop the observation tower, I could see for what felt forever. The glistening peak of Hanging Rock shone out like a lighthouse on the shore, beckoning all to come forward to reach safe ground. Off to my right, Pilot Mountain swelled in the twilight and towered remarkably over the minuscule cityscape of Winston-Salem far below. All was revealed in its majesty and glory.

Something is truly magical about the setting sun. As the heat of the day dissipates into cool night air, lingering concerns and anxieties appear to do the same. It is as if the earth is bathing itself in a radiant glow, scrubbing away the blemishes of today for the smoothness of tomorrow. I am in a lullaby, sung to sleep by Spring herself.

“Fall asleep and forget all your troubles. Dream of laughter and old friends and lovers”

What you’re looking for won’t be found easily. In the blink of an eye, a quick glance upward, or even the extra focus needed to step over that root, they will be gone. Footsteps pass them by daily, pausing not even for a moment to examine their hidden qualities. Transitory beauty remains rooted in fertile soil, lifting their pedals high for the eye to behold. By a small patch of green by bubbling brook, Spring has dawned her familiar wardrobe once again. Layering herself with sweaters of green and yellow, she has begun the process of pulling upward the promise of new beginnings. Stooping low, I paused to congratulate her for another successful start to the season.

My eyes wandered to a small patch of radiant light blue flora. Folded emerald moss served as a bed for the flowers to rest upon, only now their petals were stretching upward to meet the day. Bluets, or Quaker ladies (Houstonia caerulea, L.) are a perennial species native to eastern Canada and the eastern United States. The terminal flowers invite you in with mauve-tipped pedals, moving downward into a crystal-clear blue base, and wrapping you up with a fluorescent center of yellow. Quaker ladies grow best in acidic soils in relatively shaded forests, often reaching eight inches high in best conditions and capable of covering large expanses. At Hanging Rock, they are often observed towering over moss-covered patches of the understory such as these.

Off to their left, a solitary downy yellow violet claimed its space in the sunlight. Downy yellow violets (Viola pubescens, Ait.) are another perennial species found all across the continental United States. The downy yellow violet is softly hairy, growing anywhere from 9-12 inches tall. Casting a brilliant glow across the forest floor, the yellow rimmed petals are veined with purple like the capillaries of human blood. Although the flowers are certainly edible, I could not fathom removing that beauty from the landscape unless under dire circumstances.

Closer to the creek, and covered slightly in sand, Galax cast a darkening green glow against the transparent surface of the creek. Also known as wandplant or beetleweed, Galax (G. urceolata, Poir.) is native to the southeastern United States, ranging from Massachusetts to northern Alabama. They prefer the elevation provided by the Appalachian Mountains, often observed in shaded areas in an evergreen embrace to the forest floor. Each leaf is a rounded cardioid heart) shape roughly 2.5-7.5 cm in diameter, held on long petioles. In a thicket of them, anyone can feel the love. Unlike the bluet or the violet, Galax expose their vividly white flowers in late spring. The long cylindrical flower stalk will rise up like water vapor and line its sides with the flowers as if becoming a beacon for some sort of satellite signal. I stop to ponder who might be at the receiving end.

Searching for a Galax flower would have proven futile; however, some species require that level of dedication to find Spring’s graceful touch. Trout lilies (Erythronium americanum, Sm.) are a colony-forming ephemeral flower dwelling in woodland habitats all across North America. The gray-green leaves mottled with brown and gray litter the forest floor almost as prominently as the decomposing canopy from Fall. Due to the mottled patterning of brown and gray, each leaf supposedly resembes the coloration of brook trout (Salvelinus fontinalis), another native species to Hanging Rock. After some searching, I discovered the recurved yellow nodding flower. The bronzy exterior will eventually pull away to reveal the iridescent interior with four to five extending maroon stamens. Needless to say, the discovery of this flower sent a stream of joy cascading down the waterfall of my soul.

All of this life existed in one small patch. Should I have focused on the problems I left behind at home, or even dwelled too much in my head, I would never have discovered Spring’s brilliance in this space. Up beyond the clouds, down below the trees, the world is radiating with color and beauty, proceeding along its course without our attention. Let’s look for a change. Who knows what we will see.

“Her colors change to mark the passing of the days. No Earthly sight can match the beauty she displays”

I came across a dead man’s hand. Not of the flesh and bone type, not decayed or degraded, not even one at the center of any major investigation. This was one of potentially more concern should it remain untreated or uncontrolled. This was also not just one man’s hand, but many: paws, hooves, and pads. Limbs and stalks, pedals and leaves, soil and rock. This was the remnant of heat, the scorching lick of flame that broiled the earth like an overdone steak.

The understory was ravaged, or so I thought initially. Along the eastern bank of the Hanging Rock lake, ten or more acres of new growth forest were burned. Patches of crimson brown leaves transitioned into blackened, smoldering remains. The compounded heat crept into my eyes and burned my lungs. Rhododendron leaves (Rhododendron catawbiense, L.), once green and vibrant, drooped low with amber hues. A fallen eastern white pine (Pinus strobus, L.) still clung to a bouquet of dead needles clearly licked by the passing flames. It appeared as if only the grove of white oak (Quercus alba, L.) spared the intensity of the burn. Given the survival of these new growth trees, I knew this burn was prescribed just as medicine is from the behind the counter. And yet, I could not help but feel saddened by the loss of the understory, the sickly bushes and flowers unable to reap the sunlight from a crystal-clear April sky.

Prescribed burns are a regular occurrence at Hanging Rock State Park. Towards the end of the winter season, fire service managers typically conduct burna on about 250 acres within the Park and in the Flat Shoals Mountain area. Burns such as these manage understory growth to quell the rage of any potential wildfires. Fire has always served as a keystone process in the natural world, from providing warmth to shivering beings to triggering species succession and regrowth. As human beings have steadily changed the world into their image, fire has become distorted into a malicious beast hellbent on wreaking havoc on wood or plastic infrastructure. Through controlled burns, the Park serves to restore nutrients to the soil and discourage the growth of stress-resistant colonizing plant species. Prescribed-burn managers at Hanging Rock develop an annual plan that includes smoke-management details, fire-control measures, acceptable fuel-moisture and weather parameters, and the necessary equipment and personnel required to safely conduct the burns.

The forest will only benefit from the flame, a necessary trial by fire. What appeared dead upon first sight turned out to be brilliantly alive, anticipating the return of spring and the promise of new life. I inhale the flames once again and allow them to fill my soul in the manner in which they filled the understory. I hope that they can exhume the weeds growing inside and begin a process of healing. Nature is certainly full of her dangers, but by managing her properly, we human animals are capable of bringing out the best versions of us both.

“Though I was was worn and weary, I thought I’d bury him
and lay his soul to rest”

The beach can be treacherous, not only for the temperamental nature of the ocean, but for the earth as well. Left to bake under a sweltering summer sun, the sand becomes scalding, ready to burn any unsuspecting feat not sheathed in a shoe. But even worse is where I’ve found myself now…

The jagged remains of scorched mussel shells protrude from a spongey deposit of ocean bred peat that spans for several yards over the base of the inlet. The charcoal colored earth has the shape of something oozing and the smell of something dead. Alert as I am when stepping onto the slick surface, needles of shell still prick at my feet; the smallest shards are impossible to escape, but the larger ones, at least, can be narrowly avoided. I tiptoe around them with the upmost care, stopping only briefly to admire their pearly interiors that glisten among the muck.

Dull ground at last meets my skin as I come to a shallow carpeting of water. Only several inches deep, the ground is easily perceived. It is similar to that which came before, but rather than mussel fragments, this earth is riddled with an onslaught of circle-like splotches. A closer look reveals them to be shells—shells which, elsewhere, would be colored shades of red, orange, white, and cream, but here conform to the same murky gray that is everything in sight.

For a time, the shells do nothing. Or, rather, they appear to do nothing. I crouch down to analyze one nearest me. After a moment, it works. I stand back up to stare down the whole lot, until they are no longer so still as the water they inhabit. Their movement is painfully slow, easy to overlook or pass off as the result of some steady current that does not exist. But once you’re able to understand one as a mobile being, bit by bit they all come to life. I scan the water for a particularly large specimen when my eyes land on (what I imagine to be, beneath the grime) the shell of a banded tulip snail, since departed. Reaching towards it, my hands touch a soft and slimy surface. I feel a rapid movement shoot through the shell as I turn it over and bring it close to my face. 

Three legs and one claw of a green banded hermit crab remain visible outside its home. The tip of my finger nudges a single limb and they all retract with a “shwp” sound and one swift movement. Unlike the tulip snail, this crab does not possess operculum on the base of its foot, which would provide a sort of door to its dwelling. Instead, it must rely its ability to condense into virtual nonexistence while retracted in its shell. 

I consider the hermit crab’s reliance on another species, the fact that it could not have evolved as it has, if not for the existence of sea snails and their homes. Though we consider ourselves independent and separate from the natural world that surrounds us, humans are much the same way. To exist is to depend upon the Earth from which our species was born; it is more than our home, it is our means of existence. 

Source:

http://www.mitchellspublications.com/guides/shells/articles/0072/