A HISTORIAN'S 



COAST 



Millponds, like all wetlands, are an 

 example of what ecologists refer to as an 

 ecotone, a transition zone between two 

 diverse ecological communities. Ecotones 

 support life native to each of the two 

 communities (woods and river, for 

 instance), as well as plants and animals 

 endemic only to the ecotone. The height- 

 ened diversity and density of life in these 

 transition zones — known as 

 the "edge effect" — is what 

 makes millponds so remarkably 

 rich in life. 



That's also true for beaver 

 ponds. Beavers are a keystone 

 species, with their dams 

 creating entire ecosystems 

 that provide habitat and food 

 for a wide range of birds, 

 fish, amphibians and other 

 animals. Their ponds were 

 once a ubiquitous part of the 

 coastal landscape, filling tens 

 of thousands of acres and 

 providing a remarkable 

 ecotone for all kinds of life. 

 Exterminated by the colonial 

 fur trade and farmers irate at 

 flooded fields by 1800, beavers have only 

 recently started making a comeback in 

 many parts of Eastern North Carolina. I 

 never saw them when I was a boy, but I'll 

 never forget the first beaver pond I saw, 

 off Devil's Gut between Williamston and 

 Jamesville. Now I find there's nothing 

 nicer than hearing a beaver's tail slap the 

 water when I'm spending a night in a 

 swamp. 



Sometimes when I'm staying 

 overnight in a coastal swamp, I get a 

 glimpse of an even more distant past. It's 

 often not easy to find a dry campsite in a 

 swamp forest. A few times I've had to 

 paddle well into the night before finding a 

 place to rest my head. More than once, on 

 waking the next morning, I've discovered 

 clusters of arrowheads and shards of 

 pottery around my camp, letting me know 

 that I was hardly the first person who 

 found shelter on that knoll or hammock. 



The coastal Algonquians — or their 

 ancestors — clearly used these same places 

 for fishing camps long before the 16th 

 century. A little hammock along Bennett's 

 Creek in Chowan County is one place that 

 comes right to mind. 



For all my historical musings, my 

 special fondness for coastal swamps has 

 nothing to do with the past. Maybe it's in 



Richard Cecelski, left, Amber and David Cecelski cruise the Black River. 



my blood. Though I didn't spend much 

 time as a youngster in the Lakes Pocosin, I 

 did grow up on the edge of that swampy 

 wilderness, which is part of the Croatan 

 National Forest east of New Bern. 

 Certainly we all got bitten by enough 

 mosquitoes that we ought to have some of 

 that pocosin in our blood. Maybe it's 

 because I've had so many good times 

 poking around these blackwater rivers and 

 swamps with Richard. Then, too, I know I 

 find a solace and tranquillity in them that 

 often eludes me amidst the usual chaos of 

 my life. 



Above all, though, I am haunted by 

 the fragility of these freshwater wetlands 

 — our most endangered and under- 

 appreciated coastal habitats. Everybody 

 admires the beauty of ocean beaches and 

 salt marshes, and I think most people 

 appreciate their importance for tourism and 

 the seafood industry. But far fewer people 



have had the chance to fall in love with the 

 natural beauty and ecological uniqueness 

 of these coastal wetlands — the cypress 

 swamps, blackwater creeks, pocosins and 

 Carolina bays. 



Once covering more than 3 million 

 acres, these coastal wetlands had been 

 reduced to less than 500,000 acres by 

 1973. Vast wetlands like the Green 

 Swamp, once one of the 

 largest swamplands in North 

 America have vanished. 

 We've lost thousands more 

 acres of wetlands in the last 

 couple of decades, mainly due 

 to timber companies. If these 

 unsung wildernesses are going 

 to be saved, it will have to 

 happen soon. 



I know that Coastwatch's 

 readers will be among the first 

 to stand up for these coastal 

 wetlands. I'll miss writing for 

 you all, and I'll especially miss 

 the cards and letters (and 

 telephone calls to my mother), 

 letting me know what you 

 liked and didn't like about this 

 or that essay. I appreciated them all and 

 learned something from most of them. 



I also enjoyed meeting many of you 

 as I traveled around the coast. I couldn't be 

 more grateful for the hospitality. You gave 

 me directions to hard-to-find spots. You 

 fed me suppers of fish stew and fritters. 

 Above all, I appreciate those of you who 

 quietly took me aside and shared an 

 ancestor's diary or the location of old ruins 

 that revealed new parts of our coastal past. 



It's great writing for readers like you. 

 And if you haven't met me yet, I hope 

 we'll meet soon. I'm the one in the small 

 boat paddling into the swamp and, as 

 always, into the past. □ 



David Cecelski is a historian at the 

 University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill's 

 Southern Oral History Program and has 

 been a regular columnist for Coastwatch. 



30 WINTER 1999 



