AUGUST 2011
island, just past the Maryland state park boundaries and into the Assateague Island National Seashore. Beyond that stretch- es more than 30 miles of unbro- ken beach, dunes, scrub, and marsh. No roads, hotels, restau- rants or bathhouses: Just a wild coast, home to everything from the endangered (piping plovers and Delmarva fox squirrels) to the exotic (wild ponies and Asian Sika deer.) There was only one thing to
do—get out of the car. We stood quietly in the breezy night, our view of the beach blocked by the dark dunes looming next to us.
asked.
“What’s that sound?” John What sound? There was no
one around and complete si- lence, except for one thing. “That’s the ocean,” I replied.
Surf defines the barrier is-
lands. Less than three miles at its widest point, Assateague is a moving spit of sand, con- stantly changing in response to waves, wind, and storms. After the 1933 storm separated As- sateague from Ocean City, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers decided that the new inlet was handy, and constructed jetties to deter the natural reforma- tion of a land bridge between them. Prevented from deposit- ing where it normally would, incoming sand traveled south- ward in the surf and built up a hook at the southern end of the island. Without its re- plenishing sand in the north, Assateague’s northern beach front has quickly receded land- ward. A time-lapse film would show Assateague creeping to- wards Virginia, as waves erode the north and supplement the south. But even without hu- man help, Assateague would be moving. Storm surges routinely rush through shallow overwash areas to the island’s bayside, bringing beach sand with them. What the beaches lose, the bayside marshes gain, and As- sateague continues a westward migration begun years ago. Despite this inherent insta-
bility, people routinely have underestimated the forces that drive Assateague and have tried to tame it. Most of the is- land was designated a National Seashore by the National Park Service in 1965, after the so- called Ash Wednesday storm of 1962 wiped out the road and most houses in a planned sub- division. At its southern end in Virginia, the island is man- aged as the Chincoteague Na- tional Wildlife Refuge. Millions of visitors enjoy both of these areas each year as relatively wild beaches. But it almost wasn’t so. Despite the island’s poundings in ’33 and ’62, local Congressmen insisted that the federal law creating the Na- tional Seashore include plans for constructing a road its en- tire length, plus motels, restau- rants, snack bars, recreational facilities and parking lots for almost 14,000 cars. Enter Judith Colt Johnson.
Her vacation to Assateague Is- land in 1969 with her young son Reid changed her life, and the island’s trajectory. While visiting from the Baltimore
suburbs, Johnson learned about the plans for development and found herself in the Park Super- intendent’s office asking ques- tions. “It was the first or second time we were there we learned about the pending development planned and felt this was nuts …” said Reid C. Johnson, now a professor of biological chemis- try at UCLA. Captivated by the wild island, Judy Johnson made it her mission to protect it. Johnson seemed an unlike-
ly activist. Born in 1916, she worked as a secretary to sup- port her invalid mother soon after high school and never attended college. She later be- came acting manager of the Philadelphia Symphony and then manager of the Baltimore Symphony in the mid-1950s, when few women filled those roles. Her son Reid has a pho- tograph of her in a board room from this time. “I think she was the only woman, and she was leading this Board meeting . . . She was a strong person, a dominant personality.” Her re- solve proved to be a formidable force in the years to come. With
Photos courtesy of National Park Service
no previous experience as an activist, she created the Com- mittee to Preserve Assateague in the basement of her subur- ban home, quickly enlisting local supporters and national environmental groups to the cause – long before the inter- net and social media made such networking instantaneous. She started the Committee “just with a simple typewriter, a por- table typewriter,” according to her son. “Just banging out let- ters, gathering people that she could and having meetings in her house.” Ajax Eastman, a Board mem-
ber of the Maryland Conserva- tion Council who worked along- side Johnson for years, consid- ers her a mentor. In her crowd- ed home office in Baltimore, Eastman has piles of folders full of Johnson’s accomplishments in the 25 years she fought for the island. She describes John- son as a master organizer and a relentless advocate. “Tena- cious is the word,” says East- man. “She wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Johnson had other tactics as well. Eastman credits
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her with “changing people’s minds about the value of pres- ervation“ and motivating them with her tireless passion. Thanks to Johnson’s passion
and persistence, Congress re- pealed the development plan in 1976. But it quickly became ap- parent that the price of wilder- ness is eternal vigilance. “Issue after issue came up that need- ed somebody to say ‘no wait a minute’ and kill this,” said her son. For the next two decades Johnson continued her crusade to preserve Assateague. She thwarted a proposed sewage pipeline sought by Ocean City officials. She took on the pow- erful all-terrain vehicle lobby to protect nesting grounds for the piping plover—a shy shore- bird endangered in parts of its range. And she successfully challenged the Chincoteague National Wildlife Refuge man- ager when he proposed plac- ing a large visitor’s center with parking lots on the island. After her death in 2007, Reid John- son visited Assateague Island again for the first time in years. “When I went down the last
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