Overview: Lake Waccamaw State Park lies in Columbus County, about 160 miles from the Triangle, and showcases one of North Carolina’s most unusual natural features: a pH-neutral bay lake, named for the abundance of bay trees (including sweet bay and red bay). No one knows for certain how bay lakes formed—hypotheses range from meteor impacts to wind/wave processes to underground springs. The park offers nearly 9 miles of hiking trails, and the vast 8,936-acre lake invites canoeing and quiet exploration.
Directions: Use the directions and map provided by the North Carolina state park system.
Observations & Ponderings: Standing at the edge of an immense, tea-stained bay lake on the coastal plain, it’s hard not to imagine the first people who moved through this landscape—the Waccamaw-Siouan Indians who canoed these waters for more than a thousand years. How dense were the cypress stands then? Were alligators an occasional sight…or an everyday presence? Were the big, half-dollar land snails even more vivid?
Hypnotized by the lapping waves, I linger at the shore before turning into the shrubby bay forest. Each step brings a dry crackle underfoot—sound enough to make me worry I’ll spook the northern parulas buzzing overhead. They don’t seem to mind. Even the bright green Carolina anoles—clinging to the smooth bark of a sweetbay magnolia—barely pause as I pass.
The Lakeshore Trail winds through a desiccated forest and eventually pulls closer to the water, where I end up walking almost five miles along the lake’s edge. Rose spiderwort (Tradescantia rosea)—soft, blushing blooms beside the narrow footpath—feels like a good omen. Minutes later, a rustle in the grass catches my attention, and I glimpse a long black tail: snake. I move forward as quietly as I can. Yes—the black racer has stopped and is staring me down with those oddly sentient dark eyes. I shoot photos as fast as I can, knowing it will vanish as quickly as it appeared. And it does.
Now my senses are sharpened—snake vision fully activated. I scan ahead, side to side, searching for the next curve of motion. Soon I spot a rubbery black crescent near the water’s edge. At first it seems too still—maybe shredded tire? No. Another black racer, warming in dappled sunlight. More photos, more quick gratitude.
Then, just a few feet ahead, my eyes lock onto a coppery, semi-coiled form in dry grass. I slow down, hunching slightly, taking a photo every couple steps. The pattern is mesmerizing—salmon pink mottled with bronze. I focus on the copper eye, the black slit pupil. The copperhead is savagely beautiful. I’m tempted to step closer. I close my eyes for a second, then take two steps back and keep walking.
The hunt becomes addictive. The trail widens, layered with crisp brown leaves. A bright sinusoidal shape snaps into focus. Another copperhead? This snake is longer and slimmer. I hurry forward—corn snake. It pulls into an exaggerated S, lifting its forebody and flashing a perfect checkerboard belly. Click, click, click—photos that barely look real once I review them.
By the time I reach the dam and flooded Waccamaw Creek, then return to my little blue Jeep, I’ve counted twelve snakes across four species: northern black racer, southern copperhead, red-bellied watersnake, and corn snake. I leave grateful—and greedy for more—wondering what the next trail will reveal.
Sense of Place 