We stand on a boardwalk that extends over a large, glassy lake, encircled by bulky cypresses whose stark horizontal branches are softened by curtains of Spanish moss. Through the morning mist, I can almost discern an ancient Algonquian fisherman canoeing in the shallows. I can nearly hear the low voice of this mirage calling to his wife on the shore—until seagulls begin squawking overhead, arresting my self-indulgent reverie at Pettigrew State Park.
My husband and I first explored this captivating park in the spring of 2006. Located in North Carolina’s pancake-flat outer Coastal Plain, about seven miles south of Creswell, Pettigrew State Park encompasses more than 5,000 acres of wild lands surrounding mysterious Lake Phelps—North Carolina’s second-largest natural lake—and bordering the tea-colored Scuppernong River. Roughly nine miles of hiking trails take weekend explorers past bald cypresses ten feet thick, comparably rare Atlantic white cedars, and gorgeous seasonal wildflower displays.
Those same trails introduced Mark and me to both the brutality and the delicacy of the natural world. The park also yielded numerous herps (reptiles and amphibians) and birds—species we dutifully added to our “life lists” (a semi-narcissistic record of everything one has ever seen, used to impress few and bore many). But I digress. On to the brutality.
About fifteen minutes after arriving, Mark and I stopped near the edge of a swampy thicket thick with evergreen shrubs and mid-story trees. Binoculars pressed tight to our faces, we watched a yellow-billed cuckoo perched ten feet up. Also known as the “Rain Crow” for its tendency to call before storms, the yellow-billed cuckoo is generally shy and elusive. These jay-sized, brown-backed, white-breasted birds of wet woodlands are distinguished by the yellow lower mandible, a gargled ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-kowp-kowp-kowp masquerading as a song, and the clear, cooing call that gives the species its name.
With its flimsy nests—more like tea plates than bowls—and delicate blue eggs, the yellow-billed cuckoo seems harmless enough, even a little pathetic. So much so that few people seem to mind when it occasionally appropriates another species’ abandoned home. But its secretive habits and sloppy architecture can hide a decidedly predatory streak. As we stood mesmerized by the motionless bird, we caught a spark in its eye. Suddenly it hopped forward, snapped downward with lightning speed, and came up with a large, lime-green treefrog. With unabashed relish, the cuckoo swallowed its amphibian meal.
Still a little stunned, we continued down the trail. We nearly stumbled over a big eastern box turtle in the middle of the path, and we later spotted a long, sinuous red-bellied watersnake basking in dappled sunlight. Then the mood shifted and the park offered up its gentler side.
At eye level in the lush understory of the lakeside woods, two large butterflies danced before us—striped like zebras in black and white, but with pale bands that seemed almost luminous. The hindwings flashed hints of crimson and azure and tapered into long tails. We were watching the mating dance of zebra swallowtails, a species of the eastern United States that breeds in moist low woodlands like those at Pettigrew.
Male zebra swallowtails often patrol near larval host plants—young pawpaws, the food plant their caterpillars depend on. After mating, the female lays tiny, rounded eggs on pawpaw leaves or trunks. The eggs—soft, foam-green—are laid singly and spaced far apart for a grimly practical reason: zebra swallowtail caterpillars will eat their siblings (or any nearby neighbor) if they’re too close. After feeding on pawpaw leaves, the caterpillar eventually forms a hard-shelled chrysalis that resembles a curled, dried leaf. In fall or the following spring, another enchanting zebra swallowtail emerges from that unassuming case, and the cycle begins again.
For Mark and me, the looping flight of those swallowtails—their frolicking spirals and erratic wingbeats—lulled us back into reverie, and left us content with the capriciousness of nature, human and otherwise.
Sense of Place 