New Jersey is rich with hidden wonders. Historic, cultural and natural treasures seclude themselves from traffic racing along the turnpike or the parkway. I take the local roads. I let myself get lost. I may be on numbered roads but they don\'t show on my Triple A map. Today would be a trip to roads that were not only absent from the map, but were roads that were absent of paving.
Recently I saw a program on NJ Public TV about the pygmy pines, one of the most intriguing natural wonders in the state, a natural wonder that no one has ever heard of. Online research gave a little information and an email to the website suggested a route. This was certainly something I wanted to experience. I put the boys in the car, I only have three today, my daughter has Finley, and we\'re on our way.
As usual, the first stage of today\'s road venture with my dogs means a good hour or more through the local atmosphere. From home to the Ben Franklin Bridge I can drive on autopilot, but the stop and go along route 70\'s seemingly endless rows of strip malls and shopping centers and car dealers requires mental distraction. At the first light I put the car in park and slip in an audio book, Michael Pollen\'s \"Second Nature: A Gardener\'s Education.\" I enjoy Pollen immensely. I find him not only something of a kindred spirit but an inspiration. As Pollen is telling about how his father, much to the annoyance of the neighbors, never cut his lawn, route 70 begins to green. Trees begin to replace parking lots. I almost miss the first turn.
I Where route 541 crosses 70 I turn right onto Main Street. We\'re in Medford. As with almost every small town in New Jersey, Medford\'s streets are lined with colorful wood frame Victorians. American flags wave hello to the cars passing beneath them. Folks sit outside at several small cafes. I park the car and take the boys out for a little stroll on the shady side of the street. Here and there are little shops with what I call \"quaintities.\" As much as I would like to sit outside with the dogs, I am eager to find my way to the pines. So, we\'re back in the car. As we pass deeper into the green areas of what will eventually be the pinelands, Michael Pollen is musing how mankind intrudes upon nature; how if nature had its way, all our endeavors would soon be smothered in vines and weeds and sycamore roots would upheave all our constructions.
When I arrive at 532, I turn left. Corn and soybean fields lead from the roadside to the vanishing point of a small red barn or farm house. Angel winged irrigators fan their watery feathers over the lines of crops. Turkey buzzards circle slowly in a cloudless sky. I find myself mesmerized to distraction. I have to keep my eyes on the road. Along the way, Tabernacle is a crossroads town. There are two churches on opposite sides of the road: one is having a summer fair. On another corner is a farmers\' market. Just across the way is a hot dog stand. The farms become forest. Kids Rangers Jersey The trees are tall pines. Beneath them is an undergrowth of low fern. A lake stretches out along the road. I\'m coming up to the next turn, the most important turn, route 72.
As I slow and stop at the intersection I suddenly realize that despite being cut through the densest pine forest, 72 is not a back country road. Cars whiz by. Convoys of trucks thunder past. Fortunately there are periodic breaks in the traffic. I turn onto 72. Where, I wonder, is the entrance into the Pygmy Pine Forest that is supposed to be along this route. I see no signs. Then to the right is a Forest Ranger station. I pull in. A ranger comes to meet me. I ask where the forest is. \"You\'re in it,\" he answers. \"Isn\'t there a park area or entrance?\" I ask. \"No,\" the answer is flat. \"Can I visit it? Can I see them?\" I wonder. \"Well,\" he says, \"Go back out the way you came in and you\'ll see an area where the trees are cut back a bit. There\'s a kind of drive. Take that drive.\" I thank the ranger and hop back in the car. I pull back towards the road and wait for a break in the onslaught of bellowing trucks. Within a few hundred feet I see the space between the trees and the Kids Rangers Jersey sandy road. But I don\'t see just one. There are two of them, one on each side. Follow the Yellow Brick Road!
The easy solution: follow one and then the Kids Rangers Jersey other. I start with the one on my side of the road. The path is on natural sand. I\'m in a Pathfinder so I feel fairly comfortable, although I will say that I did not have to use four wheel drive. We bump and weave up and down. In a few minutes we are in the middle of nowhere. I stop and step out. There is not another soul in sight. There\'s not even a bird to be seen. An occasional dragon fly hovers by. There is not a sound: total silence. The sun heats the sand and scrub brush and pine and makes them send up that certain musky scent that only those who knew the old Jersey sand dunes will recall. This is a perfect place to let the boys run. They sense something different. They smell it too. With yelps of delight they jump from their seat to the sand. They wait and then with a signal from me they are off. Like Peppy Le Pew they literally sault into the air as they scurry around this completely new experience. They stop for a moment to consider the long barren drive ahead of them. With a \"go\" from me, they make a wild dash up and down the bumpy path. A firm \"ho!\" turns them in their tracks and they wait for me to catch up. Together we walk the deserted path. They scamper from side to side, crossing in front of me, noses to the sand, to gather all they can. The trees the line our way are certainly small pines but I don\'t know that I would call them \"pygmy.\" These are not quite the trees that I had heard about. Still, this place is quite beautiful. I water the boys and we all pile back in the car. The path takes us back to route 72 but a bit past the Ranger Station.
As usual I wait for a break in the line. I turn out and to the right. I\'m going a bit on the slow side for this road since I want to be sure to find the path on the other side of the road. Within seconds a panzer of a truck is on my tail. I move to the side of the road and let him and the parade behind him pass. When the road is clear I resume my pace. Then I see the path I just completed and the path on the other side. The road is clear and I can make the turn. This path starts out much as its mirror path. Then, suddenly, the path comes to a rise. Here they are. Around me as far as I can see in three directions, the pygmy pines. The view is gripping.
Oddly enough, the first thing I think of is the floor of a coral reef. The trees, no more than six feet and most at around four or five, twist and writhe like sea plants contorted by the tides. Around the base of the trees are dense growths that I do not recognize: perhaps some kind of scrub oak. There are small foot paths here and there. Aside from the footpaths, the pines seem impenetrable. I have to wonder if even the Native Americans ventured through this area; certainly, the first European settlers did not. This is an area that has always exclusively belonged to nature. In its very smallness and tightness it has fended off the cultivation to which the great forests have succumbed.
It\'s time for home. I back the car around to rejoin the road. Reluctantly we get back in the car. I turn left and follow 72 to 539 North. This will take us past the edge of Fort Dix, now called Fort Dix, Lakehurst. There\'s a Wawa along the way. I stop for gas and for two hot dogs. I eat mine hot with mustard and relish. For the boys I remove the roll, break up the hot dog, put the pieces back in the plastic container and fill the container with ice to cool the hot dog down. Once the boys have eaten, they fall asleep. We\'ll be home for dinner.
