Confronted by the Jersey Devil at Leeds Point

Following a moderately successful birding day on the trails at Forsythe National Wildlife Refuge this past weekend, we decided to check out some of the nearby side roads. Most people who visit Brig only go to the main portion where the visitor center and wildlife drive are... and that's fine. We wanted to see a little more.

Gotta love a healthy wetlands.

Leeds Point Road forks off of Route 9 north of Smithville and leads to other parts of the refuge, including the Scott's Landing Boat Launch. The focus there changes from wildlife viewing to duck hunting, and a rather ingenious Eagle Scout project uses a series of signs that look like birds to illustrate the permitted shooting range. Given that we're well out of hunting season, we could enjoy the sights of healthy spartina waving in the breeze without being concerned with random shots.

Binoculars always in hand, Ivan wanted to explore the stand of trees near the parking area, so in we went. We quickly felt enveloped by pitch pines, reminding us that we were, after all, in the outer reaches of the Pinelands. While blotches of sunlight shone down through hurricane-created holes in the canopy, the gnarled trees made the place feel unnatural and weird. I couldn't wait to get out.

I really don't like to make generalizations or contribute to shaggy dog stories, but we were in Leeds Point, which added a slightly mysterious undertone to the small forest. Not far from the waters of the Atlantic, the hamlet may or may not be the legendary birthplace of the Jersey Devil. Depending on which source you consult, he might have been born farther inland at Estellville, or perhaps amid a swamp along the Mullica River, which, come to think of it, is pretty much where Leeds Point is. The horned-and-winged one never seemed like much of a Shore guy, though there's a tavern called JD's in Smithville that serves a very tasty Jersey Devil burger.

Satisfied that the stand of trees wasn't very birdy at the time, we found our way back inland and turned right onto Oyster Creek Road. Just a few yards down from the intersection, we came upon this sign:

Well, gee. We didn't know whether to be amused or concerned: amused for the obvious reason, concerned that we might not be welcome visitors, no matter our innocent intent. Were the locals fed up with rowdy explorers looking to raise the devil? Or were they pranking their neighbors on the next road? If they truly had negative intent, it's not likely someone would have put so much effort into an artistically-rendered three-dimensional sign. Instead, they'd have just spraypainted "Get out!" on a plank of plywood and nailed it haphazardly to a tree.

We continued driving down the road, next coming upon a creatively-executed sign advising motorists to watch for and respect motorcycle riders. Fair enough. Bikers would have enough of a challenge with the road, given the uneven, pockmarked macadam.

What we found at the end of the road was a mix of weatherbeaten Down Jersey fishing shacks and small bungalows that weren't quite as worn. Folks may live in one or two of them, but for the most part they look like shelters for weekenders who want to get a few hours sleep before jumping in their outboard-powered rowboats in the predawn hours. All they really need is space for a couple of air mattresses, indoor plumbing and a fridge for bait and beer.

Next to what looked like an old boat yard was the Oyster Creek Inn, which had attracted a sizable holiday weekend crowd. I could have sworn I'd found this place once on my own, during the depths of winter, but it was a lot livelier on a sunny spring weekend. The marsh, just north of the tract we'd seen at Scott's Landing, looked fresh and healthy. If the Jersey Devil had been born here, he'd be hard pressed to be evil. That is, until the greenheads come out in the humid languor of July.

The Jersey Devil and the Pot House: glassmaking at Estellville

Fresh from our find at Weymouth, Ivan and I headed a slight bit eastward on the Black Horse Pike. I'd heard about another ancient Pinelands factory nestled within an Atlantic County park. We were so close by, we had some time before we were expected elsewhere, why not go for it?

The former Estellville glassworks operated from 1825 to 1877 and was reportedly among the first to produce both window glass and bottles. About three and a half miles south of Mays Landing proper, it's now surrounded by an expansive parkland of playgrounds, picnic areas and untouched woods. The factory site itself is about halfway along the circular park road, well marked out with wayside signs. Though the buildings have deteriorated to about the same level of falling-apartness as the site we'd just visited, helpful numbered maps direct visitors to various features of importance in glassmaking.

Like the Weymouth Furnace, the glassworks was made up of several buildings, but in this case, each represented a stage of the manufacturing process. We first went to the pot house where workers made the vessels in which sand, potash and limestone would be mixed and melted to make glass. According to the wayside, replacement pots were needed often, as they'd become damaged by the high heat of the melting process.

Several steps away, a three-room building once held the furnace where the raw glass was made. It was also where glassblowers would shape the molten material into cylinders that would be flattened in another building and eventually cut into windowpanes. Here's the wild thing: the blowers would often strap themselves to the wall as a counterbalance against the 80 pounds or so of molten glass they'd pick up from the vat with their blowpipes. Those who chose not to take the safety step might -- and sometimes did -- find themselves falling into the pit to meet an unfortunate and painful end.  

Between the furnace building and the flattening building, I noticed several small objects glistening in the sun. They turned out to be weathered pieces of glass, possibly from the factory itself, as none of it seemed thick enough to have been broken bottle shards from a more recent visitor.

The park signs and online guide led me to believe that foundations of workers' houses could be found in the far reaches of the tract, so Ivan and I followed a path into the nearby woods. As we walked, I remembered something I'd read in the handy WPA Guide to New Jersey, which only mentioned the glass factory as a side note. The writers were more interested in highlighting Estellville as the birthplace of the Leeds Devil, more commonly known these days as the Jersey Devil.

Before we go much further, I want to make a statement: we here at Hidden NJ try to avoid the usual Jersey legends and apocryphal stories in favor of the more obscure yet plausible. I'm rather proud that we've published for nearly a year and a half without making hay of Mother Leeds' thirteenth child, but when you stumble upon the purported birthplace of the ol' JD, you have to say something. Plus, he's got wings, so I figured I could include him as a birding feature.

I mulled the possibilities as we walked farther down the path than my research had indicated the workers' homes would have been. The path was well maintained and lined in places by flowering bushes, but who knew if we were walking into territory where a cloven-hooved flying beast would rather be to himself? Focused on finding some of the birds whose songs he'd been hearing, Ivan ignored my suggestions that maybe I'd misread the map and we should instead be looking for the buildings elsewhere.

We decided to turn around after we reached a small deck overlooking a creek and pilings that once apparently supported a bridge. Walking back to the glassworks, we did find an elusive flying creature, but it turned out to be a yellow billed cuckoo rather than ol' JD.

Given the park's size and diversity of habitat, we'll likely be headed back to Estellville sometime soon for birding at a more productive time of day. I guess that means we'll also have another chance to check in on the state's scariest and most active citizen, the immortal Mr. Leeds.