|
Cycling the New Jersey
Coast
The Coastal Heritage Trail
traces the Garden State's Atlantic coast. A friend and I set
off on bikes to discover its secrets.
by Bob Neubauer
 Salem, N.J.--The man
on the riding mower glanced up at us as we pedaled past him,
then raised his hand in a silent greeting. In the pasture
beyond, a pair of horses also seemed to take an interest in
our arrival, lifting their heads from the grass to stare at
us, and swishing their long tails.
Only the cows showed no particular enthusiasm. When they
looked our way at all, it was with dull, glazed eyes, as if
we were too insignificant to merit acknowledgement from
creatures of their social status. Truth be told, they didn't
excite us much either.
We followed the road into a shadowy patch of woods, then
sped quickly downhill before shooting across a bridge over a
quiet, pine-fringed lake and returning to green, open
pastures. In the air, the telltale scent of manure mingled
with the damp, salty smell of the ocean, reminding us that
we were just a stone's throw from the Delaware Bay and, just
beyond, the Atlantic Ocean
This bucolic panorama was not exactly what I had
anticipated when I began contemplating a weekend bicycle
journey along the newly opened New Jersey Coastal Heritage
Trail. "Coastal" to me meant lighthouses and fishing
boats--not cows.
Still, I was pleased with what I found. The mostly flat
South Jersey countryside proved perfect for cycling, and the
verdant farmland, interspersed with small, pre-Revolutionary
War towns, provided a peaceful, scenic atmosphere in which
to explore New Jersey's coastal legacy.
Developed by the National Park Service and the State of
New Jersey, the 275-mile Coastal Heritage Trail traces the
Garden State's Atlantic coast south from Perth Amboy to Cape
May, and then northwest along the Delaware Bay to Deepwater,
near Wilmington. The trail itself consists of a collection
of historic and otherwise significant points of interest
linked by a network of roads.
Though signs direct cars to these sites from main
highways like route 49 and the Garden State Parkway, there
is no strict route to follow, and back roads can be used--as
we happily discovered--to get from one point to the next.
With my friend Andy Tejral, a veteran coast-to-coast
cyclist who had once worked with me in a New York sound
studio, I set out on a cloudy spring morning recently,
hoping to cover about half of the trail over two days.
We dropped a car at Port Norris, where the Maurice River
slips into the Delaware Bay, and drove northwest with our
bikes to Fort Mott State Park. Here the Heritage Trail
organizers had set up a welcome center with brochures
describing trail sites, photographic exhibits detailing the
area's maritime history, and a video highlighting the
wildlife and people along the trail.
We perused the exhibits, then explored the nearby ruins
of Fort Mott, completed in 1896 in anticipation of the
Spanish-American War. The fort's unique disappearing gun
carriages were cleverly designed to drop below the parapet
immediately after the guns were fired, to be loaded in
safety. This sneaky tactic, combined with camouflage on the
outer wall, would have left enemy ships baffled about who
was firing at them--had any of them been considerate enough
to blunder into the trap. As it was, the guns were only
fired in practice.
We walked through the damp tunnels inside the fort, then
mounted wooden steps to the top of the concrete wall to look
across the freshly mown grass at the Delaware River. Below,
picnickers dined beneath a pavilion, while kite fliers took
advantage of the day's gentle breeze.
Mounting our bikes, we rode a short distance to Finns
Point National Cemetery, a peaceful enclave carved out of
the surrounding marsh and encircled by a stone wall. Tall
reeds, alive with chattering birds, towered above the
cemetery on all sides, lending to an overall feeling of
seclusion
The 4.5-acre cemetery is the final resting place of 2,436
Confederate soldiers--all prisoners who died at Fort
Delaware during the Civil War--as well as 135 Union soldiers
and 13 German World War II prisoners, among others. The
Confederate graves are marked by a towering obelisk and
several weathered plaques bearing each soldier's name and
home state. Though it's sad that these Southern men were
buried so far from their homes, it's somehow comforting to
note that the cemetery lies in a part of New Jersey that is
actually below the Mason Dixon Line. (Serial killer Andrew
Cunanan would later kill the groundskeeper here and drive
his pickup truck to Miami.)
Shortly after noon, Andy and I finally pedaled away from
the park and toward Salem. We had barely started, though,
when we encountered the curious sight of a lighthouse
sitting about a mile from the nearest water. We later
discovered that the 115-foot-tall Finns Point Rear Range
Light, erected in 1876, had once worked in conjunction with
another, now-dismantled lighthouse; a ship's captain would
sight along the two lights, keeping one positioned atop the
other, to ensure that he stayed in the channel.
The sun began to break through the clouds as we pedaled
past the salt marshes and winding waterways along route 49.
We headed down the main street of Salem, passing the famous
500-year-old Salem Oak and gazing up at the lofty 19th
century steeples of the First Baptist and First Presbyterian
Churches.
Once we left town, however, store fronts quickly gave way
to barns, and green fields opened up, specked with quietly
grazing horses and cows. Butterflies flitted through the
tall, wind-tossed grass. A weeping willow dropped its
stringy tendrils down to brush the tops of the yellow
wildflowers sprouting alongside the road.
|
We paused for lunch by the Hancock House State
Historic Site, the next point of interest on the
trail. Here, on March 21, 1778, British-led troops
massacred dozens of sleeping patriots who had
supplied provisions to George Washington's army at
Valley Forge. An engraved monument commemorates the
fallen heroes.
|
Andy Tejral and I stop for
lunch at the Hancock House.
|
The two-story, brick Hancock House, bordered by a white
picket fence, now serves as a museum, though it was locked
and silent during our visit. On the far wall, the initials
of William and Sarah Hancock and the year 1734 stand out in
gray bricks against a background of brown.
We slowly worked our way into Cumberland County, crossing
rivers and greeting the fishermen--and women--perched on
their bridges. Small general stores cropped up at
crossroads, beckoning us inside.
At an intersection labeled Gum Tree Corner on my map, I
struck up a conversation with Dale Ferguson, the owner of
the sole house on the site. He pointed out the renowned gum
tree and thanked the area's voracious insect population for
his solitude. "Mosquitoes are your best friends if you don't
want neighbors," he laughed.
Dale pointed us along a pleasant, wooded route that
carried us downhill and alongside a quiet lake. Soon we
entered Greenwich, a village of restored frame homes dating
from the 1700s. The town made history in 1774 when a group
of men staged their own version of the Boston Tea
Party--complete with Indian garb--by stealing and burning a
shipment of British tea to protest unfair taxation. A
granite marker commemorates the event.
From here we hastened into Bridgeton, the county seat,
crossed the Cohansey River and pedaled toward Fairton. The
day was waning, and we had more mileage ahead of us than we
cared to ponder.
Eager to hit every Coastal Heritage Trail site, I made a
bad judgment call about seven miles later when I decided to
make a side trip to the state marina in Fortescue, a small
fishing hamlet sitting alone at the end of a four-mile road.
The wind blew against us the entire way, and when we got
there, winded and weary, we discovered nothing but a
deserted marina and blocks of empty summer homes.
Allen Will, proprietor of Al's Bait & Tackle, told us
the scene picked up quite a bit when summer filled the
marina with fishing boats. "The town is fish dependent," he
explained. This insight did little to cheer us as we
retraced our four-mile route, then struggled against a head
wind for 10 miles to reach my car in Port Norris.
We had parked near the Delaware Bay Schooner Project, an
ambitious effort to restore a 66-year-old oyster schooner,
while educating the public about the days when this area was
a prospering oyster harvesting community.
Climbing the stairs to the deck of the grounded, 85-foot
A.J Meerwald, we examined its rotting timbers and peeling
paint. Carpenter Mark Johnston described the painstaking
process of replacing the decaying planks piece by piece.
"This is preserving a piece of our culture," he said of
the project. "A hundred years ago there were hundreds of
boats in this river. There was a railroad car that came in
here every day and packed oysters. Now all this is gone."
After riding more than 60 miles, we were too tired to
justify a trip to East Point Lighthouse, across the Maurice
River. We made the long drive back to Fort Mott for Andy's
truck, and there discovered we'd made a fatal mistake
earlier by parking in the lot. The park gates had closed at
4:00, leaving Andy's truck locked inside.
Panicking, we drove to another gate marked "Official Use
Only" and found it unlocked. Quickly we rescued the truck
and raced away before we could be questioned.
That night we slept in the rather bland (but cheap)
Eldorado Motel on route 47, in North Dennis, bypassing the
more expensive bed and breakfast up the road.
 The Lure of the Lighthouses
The morning dawned cloudy. After dining on omelets and
pancakes at Marge's Diner, in Clermont, we parked a car in
Sea Isle City and headed for Cape May.
Our first stop there was the 157-foot-tall Cape May Point
Lighthouse. Amazingly, the Coast Guard still uses the
135-year-old structure as an active navigational aid.
Predictably, the structure was closed for repairs during
our visit. We had to settle for "climbing" to the top
vicariously through a videotape. The panoramic view out over
the town looked marvelous. The lighthouse, we were assured,
would reopen by Memorial Day.
After checking out the aquarium exhibits and fossils in
the visitors center, Andy and I drove into town. By now it
had started to drizzle, dampening our enthusiasm for touring
the quaint shops and Victorian homes that give Cape May its
allure.
A minor mutiny developed at this point between Andy and
me. I wanted to ignore the rain and start cycling; he,
having more common sense, did not. So we split up, agreeing
to meet in Wildwood in a few hours.
As I headed out of town on Pittsburgh Avenue, I chanced
upon a somber bayside memorial honoring the many dozens of
fishermen lost at sea since 1897. Their names were carved
into a wall, while nearby stood statues of a woman and two
children, clutching each other and staring sadly out to sea.
Despite my rain poncho, I got quickly drenched as I
pedaled along the coast toward Wildwood. Once I arrived,
though, a strange thing happened: The sun came out.
I stared out at the ocean for a while, watching the
clouds move out to sea, then rode along the empty streets,
eerily quiet without the summer's crowds to fill them. When
I reached Hereford Inlet in North Wildwood, I almost missed
the next Heritage Trail site--the red-roofed Hereford Inlet
Lighthouse--because it looked more like a landscaped
Victorian home.
|
Inside, a small, free museum showcased old
photos of the area, antique furniture and the
original whale oil lighthouse lamp. Lighthouse
keeper Ed Hewitt--whose great uncle Freeling Hewitt
tended the lighthouse from 1878 until 1918--said he
had devoted many years to restoring the 50-foot
structure to its original look. It was built, he
said, in 1874 by Lt. Col. W.F. Reynolds, who was
later killed in the battle of Gettysburg.
Interestingly, the winning general at Gettysburg,
George Meade, built the lighthouse at Cape May,
Hewitt said. (Hewitt was fired later that year.)
|
Hereford Inlet
Lighthouse in North Wildwood
|
I climbed the winding steps to the top of the tower,
stopping at each level to admire the photos and nautical
displays that Hewitt had carefully set up. The light at the
top, automated now, flashes all through the night to warn
boats away from the inlet's dangerous shoals and sandbars.
Andy caught up to me here, but decided to head home to
Clifton to prepare for a trip to Alaska rather than
accompany me farther. We shook hands, then I saddled up for
the ride to my car in Sea Isle City.
With the skies now blue and the wind at my back, the rest
of my journey unfolded like a dream. I floated across a toll
bridge (free to bikes) out of Wildwood and immediately found
myself in the middle of a vast salt marsh, teeming with
birds. I stopped to chat with birders Roger and Diane
Harrison, who let me peer through their binoculars at the
blue herons and orange-beaked American oyster catchers that
frequented the wetlands.
The wind propelled me onward, through Stone Harbor and
Avalon, and onto the bridge spanning Townsends Inlet. Here I
paused to gaze into the water and listen as it lapped the
bridge's supports. A low-flying seagull skimmed the surface,
then headed skyward.
I had seen barely half of the Coastal Heritage Trail, but
it had shown me a lot. And with many miles still to explore,
I sensed a future bike trip in the cards.
Taking a deep breath of the fresh, salty air, I coasted
down the other side of the bridge and headed toward Sea Isle
City.
This story
appeared in the Philadelphia Inquirer and in the book "Weekend
Journeys."
E-mail Bob
Links to other
bike touring tales
Home Page
|