The Once and Future Pinelands

Magic awaits down every lane, grove, seep, bog and graveyard.

By: Carolyn Foote Edelmann

Staff photos by Carolynn Foote Edelmann

There may be no there there, but there’s still plenty to see. Above: A flooded bog south of Chatsworth with white water lilies. Reflected in the water is the Cranberry Bog Water Control building.

   The Pinelands region is celebrated in John McPhee’s 1978 classic, The Pine Barrens. Recently named One Book New Jersey for 2004 by the New Jersey Library Association, it will be read and discussed across the state through April. Many credit McPhee’s slender volume with preventing a major jetport’s insertion into woods that shelter a pristine 17-trillion-gallon aquifer, according to the New Jersey Pinelands Commission.
   Here are some interesting facts about the national reserve that falls in Atlantic, Burlington, Camden, Cape May, Cumberland, Gloucester and Ocean counties:
Seventeenth-century sea captains set out with Pine Barrens water in cedar casks. Its tannin-enhanced freshness remained throughout three-year whaling voyages.

Stone house near Scott’s Landing.

Hand-gathered Pinelands cranberries in similar casks prevented scurvy, even more effectively than limes.
Since 1980, more than 200,000 acres have been permanently protected through acquisitions, easements or other means.
The Pinelands is home to 28 species of threatened and endangered birds, and five reptile, five amphibian, one mammal (bobcat) and four invertebrate species.
   For those interested in learning more about the area, Burlington County College, in the heart of the Pines, will offer information on everything from rare plants to ghost stories and Pinelands foods March 6.

At Scott’s Landing Marsh in the Pine Barrens, two men cut up shark for a boy to use as crab bait.

   Frankly, I’m in love with every lane and grove, seep and bog and graveyard. "Swamp pink," "Pine Barrens tree frog" and "sugar sand" have become words to conjure with. Magic awaits down pine-straight Routes 532, 563, 539, 542, even overutilized Route 9.
   Readers may wonder how much remains as it was in those 26-year-old pages; how much has been subsumed by "progress"? The Pines remains as different from the U.S. 1 Corridor as Cornwall, Brittany and the Blue Ridge Mountains. Beauty and isolation are major factors in its memorability. But, as in McPhee’s book, it’s the people who render the Pinelands luminous.
   To relish Pine Barrens legends and lore, myths, politics and gossip, hang out at Buzby’s General Store in Chatsworth and listen up. Nothing much goes on in this region that Marilyn Schmidt, dynamic proprietress, does not hear. The former scientist could be the Muse of the Barrens, for all she knows and catalyzes, all the Pinelands books she writes, publishes and sells. Pick up her regional map and set out.

A not-so-shy fox.

   Should you stay to chat, characters from all over the globe may well cross Buzby’s threshold. (Even before the store was named to New Jersey’s Register of Historic Places, Ms. Schmidt was lionized by the London Times.) Some visitors are locals, so watch your tongue. Do not bandy about that star-crossed phrase, "Piney."
   Sociologist Elizabeth Kite, in an early 20th-century treatise, studied these people, bringing Pineys to world attention — not all complimentary. Some insist that Ms. Kite poured dishonor upon this proud people. In my frequent Pinelands adventures, I encounter the best that the word character implies: cantankerous and individualistic, quirky and matchless. These locals are heartening and unforgettable. Resilience is their middle name.
   To enter the Pines is to experience time warp. Along curved stretches of the empty Mullica, weathered white wooden bridges lift to permit sailboat passage. Family farms offer crops for the picking or leave tangy apples outside in bags: $3 for a winter’s worth of applesauce, slotted metal box for your bills. The Forks region now shelters a famous restaurant. This meeting place of two rivers was sacred to Indians, later becoming essential to brigands, smugglers and bootleggers. Fellow diners at Leeds Point’s Oyster Creek Inn taunt, "Aren’t you afraid to meet the Jersey Devil?" (They never believe my answer.)
   Pinelands people live by tides and seasons, not the Dow Jones Stock Index. Their earth connection is revealed in that measured lope, deep grins as they kneel, bogside, to share piquant examples of this season’s crop. (Raw cranberries taste like Granny Smith apples when you close your eyes.) Only migratory Lenni Lenapes were more attuned and inured to nature’s gifts and curses.
   Some "Iron in the Pines" has infused Piney spines ever since pre-Revolutionary times. Stout rowers, Mullica men evaded authority both Colonial and royal. Some historians insist we would not be free, were it not for Pineys. They noiselessly rowed cannonballs and wagon wheels forged of local bog iron over to Gen. Washington. These critical supplies buttressed the battles of Trenton and Princeton, the colonies’ first hard-won and most unlikely victories. Baymen of this region regularly scuttled British ships, outfoxing generals. They bravely bore the burning of their homes, weaving off through the Pines, after unheralded (and sadly lost) battles such as Chestnut Neck.
   You wouldn’t be surprised to see people in 18th-century costumes materialize out of the Pines, like ballplayers in Field of Dreams. Hard to believe that our cheek-by-jowl state shelters authenticity to this degree in the virtual-dominated 21st century. Yes, you can experience the contrived past, graciously, at the restored villages of Batsto and Allaire. Buildings and crafts from other times await. Rigors and roars of forges, furnaces and mills come to life in season, where iron that enriched this region and our Revolution was offered to the fire.
   On the most dangerous driving days of our civilized year, you’ll be alone on swift, silent reaches. Evergreen needles throw back light of strobe-intensity. Blueberry shrubs dazzle, tiny leaves a myriad of green mirrors. Black-jack oaks wave cinnamon hands. Water dark as Starbucks specials ripples between curvaceous banks, seeping into luminescent lakes: Oswego, Absegami.
   These serene, noiseless highways taught me The Pinelands’ major lesson: The journey is the destination. Another prime aspect of Pineland excursions is to realize, "There is no there there." This pregnant emptiness is the lure for my Pine quests. On foot, from Batsto and/or Route 563 South, the straight and noiseless Batona Trail beckons to forever. And nothing surpasses canoeing and kayaking those peat-dark waters. Bel Haven and other fine purveyors of watercraft stud the modern straight and generally empty pineroads.
   Slipping into peat water anywhere, you’ll watch your toes, ankles, calves and thighs turn orange, copper, ink; then temporarily disappear. Tannins that soften and dye this water (but not your skin) not only preserve freshness, but are the secret behind legendary Jersey Lightning (applejack). No Jacuzzi nor hot tub will satisfy again after you experience the champagne/silk of Pinelands waters.
   Whether on wheels (Pine roads have generous bike lanes), in kayaks and canoes, in hiking boots, or striking out across an impeccable lake, you’ll have forgotten care. Others trek Himalayas, take up yoga, engage a Zen master. All you have to do is drive about 75 miles from Princeton, stopping first at Buzby’s for that essential map. In winter, Ms. Schmidt delights guests with blooming daffodils (she’s a certified Master Gardener), local cider, chocolate-covered blueberries. In autumn, she masterminds Chatsworth’s Cranberry Festival. Take to the Pineroads. Treat yourself to the least barren place you have ever been.
The 15th Annual Pinelands Short Course takes place at Burlington County College, Route 530, Pemberton, March 6, 9 a.m.-3:30 p.m. For information, call (609) 894-9311, ext. 7415. Pinelands Web sites: www.nj.gov/pinelands, www.pinelands.com, www.pineypower.com. For information about John McPhee’s The Pine Barrens and One Book New Jersey, see www.onebooknewjersey.org