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AUGUST 2011


time—this was the south end—I walked all around there, saying, ‘you know, this is exactly the way I remember it when I first went there.’ It hasn’t changed . . . it’s pretty much been kept the way it was … and that’s a good thing.” Today climate change with


its accompanying rise in sea level might be the greatest force of change. The U.S. Geo- logical Survey has ranked 60 percent of Assateague Island as highly or very highly vul- nerable to sea level rise. En- croaching ocean water will likely accelerate erosion and infiltrate wetlands over the years, molding Assateague in new ways. But with no condos and few cars, the island is still dominated by natural coastal habitats – the familiar beach and dunes, but also bayberry thickets, loblolly pine forests, and cordgrass salt marshes – giving Assateague’s flora and fauna a bit more leeway to shift positions over time in response to changing conditions. It’s un- clear how its most famous in- habitants, the wild ponies high- lighted in Marguerite Henry’s novel Misty of Chincoteague, will


fare. Either the noble descen- dants of Spanish shipwreck survivors or just remnants of early settlers’ herds, the ponies have managed to weather the island’s often harsh conditions for decades, and have a scruffy versatility that may allow them to thrive for many more. Back in 1985, pondering our


own fate, John and I decided to take advantage of the dunes that chilly October night, and plopped our sleeping bags in a depression among the mounds. No storm in sight, we fell asleep with the surf safely on the oth- er side of a protective wall of sand. We woke up shivering a few hours later as the wind rose with the sun, and pulled our cold bagels and cream cheese out of the car for breakfast. No coffee, or anything else hot for that matter, given our lack of a proper campsite. But with the dawn came light, and we could not only hear the surf but see the waves curl offshore, build- ing into a foamy white frenzy and crashing in front of us. Safe in the warmth of my big wool sweater, I fended off the chill and the pony begging for ba- gels, and settled in to absorb


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the natural show around me. But even more than the


wildlife and waves, I found my- self watching the boy from the Great Lakes diving happily into his new discovery despite the chill, and jumping joyfully in the breaking waves for hours. Like beach roads and dream houses, the cold October air was no match for the power of Assateague’s surf. Once again, it had captivated another soul and would forever shape it.


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