Is there a doctor in the dugout? The baseball prowess of Doc Cramer.

Drive Route 72 through Manahawkin, and you're likely to ask the same question Ivan and I did: who's Doc Cramer? His name appears on directional signs, and if you wander off the highway a touch, you'll find Doc Cramer Fields, a municipal sports complex.

The first time we noticed the sign, it was dusk and we were on our way to the Road to Nowhere to find owls. Our imaginations went to the days when Ocean County was sparsely populated and, perhaps, home to a kindly general practitioner who might have been popular enough to warrant having a street named for him. You know: ol' Doc Cramer, who delivered most of the kids in town and tended to Mrs. Smith's lumbago. My mind transformed him into Burt Lancaster playing Dr. Archibald "Moonlight" Graham in Field of Dreams: a man who gave up dreams of baseball stardom to go to medical school and care for an entire small town.

Sometimes those odd mental linkages have merit. When we got back to Hidden New Jersey headquarters, I discovered that Doc Cramer was, in fact, a baseball player, and quite a good one, too. Born in Beach Haven in July 1905, Roger Cramer was never a doctor or a medical student, despite earning excellent grades in high school. Rather, he kind of did the Moonlight Graham routine in reverse. As a boy, he often accompanied local doctor Joshua Hilliard on house calls around Manahawkin, picking up his lifelong nickname along the way.

Though he'd been playing ball since the age of eight and starred on his high school team, Cramer's entry into professional ball was late by most standards. He was 24 and playing on a local semi-pro team when Philadelphia Athletics backup catcher Cy Perkins saw him. At Perkins' suggestion, Cramer tried out for the A's the next day and was sent to their D-league minors team.

After some seasoning, Cramer joined the A's as a utility outfielder in 1930, getting even more playing time in the following years and playing in the 1931 World Series. He became known for his prowess at the plate, going six for six in a nine-inning game and setting a franchise record that still stands today for season hits by a left-hander. Despite his solid hitting, his contract was sold to the Boston Red Sox as A's team owner Connie Mack faced Depression-era financial woes.

Cramer's success continued during his six year stint in Boston, as he hit over .300 every season from 1937 to 1940, tying the league lead in hits in that final year. He played one season on the Washington Senators and spent another seven years in Detroit before concluding his 19 year career. In total, he played on three All-Star teams, appeared in two World Series and retired with a .296 batting average, among his other achievements.

While Cramer's statistics could arguably put him into the Hall of Fame, he's yet to be enshrined in Cooperstown. Some say that his case is weakened by the fact he played during World War II, when Major League rosters were depleted of their talent. Ironically, as a coach for the Chicago White Sox, he was instrumental in developing future Hall of Famer Nellie Fox, whose career numbers are remarkably like Cramer's own.

Cramer played long before athletes were paid large salaries -- most if not all had to keep off-season jobs to make a decent living. Workman's tools replaced the bat and glove in the fall and winter months as he built houses as a union carpenter. According to the Society for American Baseball Research, he made more money swinging a hammer than he ever did on the ballfield.

Staying true to the Jersey Shore, Cramer lived in Manahawkin for much of his life and returned to the house he built there when he retired from baseball for good in 1953. According to family and friends, he still responded to fan mail from admirers and often hosted his old baseball teammates, even getting to Philadelphia from time to time for a Phillies game.

Cramer died in 1990 after a brief battle with cancer. He's buried at Greenwood Cemetery in Cedar Run, and honored, of course, by the street and ballpark that carry his name.

The Jersey Shore's first resort: Short Beach on Tucker's Island

As a kid, I was always looking for parallels: if there were North, South and East Brunswicks, where was West Brunswick? Same for the Oranges: South, East and West were there, so where was North Orange?

And if my curiosity had ventured a little further south, I might have observed that there was a Long Beach Island, so a Short Beach had to around somewhere.

Short Beach, circa 1839, courtesy Library of Congress.

Well, yeah, it was. Once. And it was a vacation destination before LBI ever was. Way before. As in, George Washington could have slept there, had he ventured to the very southernmost tip of Long Beach Island. Not that the Father of our Country ever spent the night there, but had he wanted to, there would have been a bunk waiting for him.

Today, though, that bunk and the island it would have stood on are gone, wiped from the map almost 90 years ago.

This very first resort on the New Jersey shore dates back to sometime around 1740, when a man named Ephraim Morse settled on Short Beach, bringing cattle to graze on the island's abundant salt hay. He appears to have made some extra money selling provisions to mariners who sheltered in the nearby bay during storms, and the summers eventually brought visitors who camped on the beaches to enjoy the shore breezes. Turbulent conditions eventually forced Morse and his wife from the island, after they lost their five children and house to a relentless winter storm.

Reuben Tucker's luck would be a bit different. After buying the land from Morse in 1765, he built his home and lodge on the highest point of the island, about five hundred feet from the shore. Attracted by a terrain of salt hay and maritime forest, Philadelphia-area game bird hunters and fishermen were more than happy to ventured through the Pinelands via stagecoach to get to the island for a sportsman's holiday, sailing the final leg of the trip from what became the town of Tuckerton. The inn grew in popularity as word of Tucker's hospitality grew, drawing Philadelphia Quakers who held camp meetings on the property for several summers after the Revolution.

Tucker's inn continued to draw visitors well into the 1800s, despite the continuing erosion that cut off a third of Short Beach to create Little Beach. With none of the riprap, jetties or dense development that somewhat anchor the barrier islands today, storms and the tides continued to shift the sands dramatically.

When the inn burned down in 1845, the Tucker's Island (or Egg Harbor) Lighthouse was built on the same site, starting what became a somewhat complicated relationship between the island, the U.S. Lighthouse Board and mariners attempting to navigate the area's inlets. The location seemed to be among the few places on the small island that seemed safe for construction, but the light itself was dim, and conditions within the inlet generally discouraged seafarers from approaching at night. When the towering Absecon Lighthouse was lit in 1857, Tucker's Island Light was extinguished.

The decision was fated to be temporary, with the lighthouse put back into service ten years later. Despite the shifting sands, the Lighthouse Board built a new keeper's house in 1879, topped by a lantern light. By that time, several homes and inns had been constructed on the island, as well, along with a school and a lifesaving station.

Still, the fates seemed not to have made their minds up about Tucker's Island or the lighthouse. Sands continued to shift, reuniting the tiny island with Long Beach Island and then forcing them to part again for good in 1920. Eventually the shifts began to take their toll on what man had built, and structures began to wash away with the sand beneath them, leaving the lighthouse as one of the few buildings left behind.

Finally, what seemed probable became inevitable. The Lighthouse Service ordered the decommissioning of the light in September 1927, and a few weeks later, the waves toppled it into the sea. If you visit the Tuckerton Seaport and Baymen's Museum's faithful recreation of the light, you can see dramatic photos taken as the building toppled off the last remains of its foundation, falling almost intact into the water.

Though Reuben Tucker's Inn and the lighthouse are just memories now, the story of Tucker's Island most likely isn't over. The ocean, as we've seen in recent years, tends to have its own plans for New Jersey's barrier islands, and rumor has it that Tucker's Island is once again emerging among the shifting sands. Given what we've learned about building on sandbars, though, I'd venture to guess that we won't be seeing much new construction when it appears.

Walk like a New Egyptian

Put enough mileage on your car, and you're likely to find some unexpected animals in New Jersey farm fields. I've learned to go with it: if northern lapwings have found their way from Europe all the way to Central Jersey, and they happen to be hanging out with a couple of sandhill cranes, who am I to say they shouldn't settle down among a pasture of grazing longhorn cattle in New Egypt?

Longhorn cattle? Here? If you adhere to the truism that everyone has a relative in Jersey, why should they be any different? For whatever reason, a farmer on Brynmore Road decided to bring a little bit of Texas back East, and there we go.

Ivan and I first found them in January, when the lapwings were first reported. True to the accounts on the American Bird Association bulletin board, the avian visitors were lingering on the ground looking like plovers with crests, navigating through the firm mud churned by the longhorns. The cranes, a bit easier to spot from a distance, were farther backfield, not getting as much attention from the scrum of birders congregated at the edge of the narrow two-lane road. The cattle themselves looked a bit wary; we gave them wide berth, even with a wire fence separating us. I couldn't help but think that a rare discourteous birder could find himself on the business end of those horns pretty quickly if he were foolish enough to hop the fence for a closer look at the rare visitors to New Jersey.

In any case, Ivan and I got our life lapwings, plus a curious new place to check out. We'd passed through what looked like downtown New Egypt on our way in and made a mental note to return when we had more time to explore. An impressive-looking former bank building labeled "Welcome Center" in big letters is a focal point in the small business area, so I figured some of the locals would be ready and waiting for us when we got back.

New Egypt - or Plumsted Township - has the distinction of being in the geographic center of New Jersey, but if you're trying to find it, it feels a little more like the middle of nowhere. County roads bring you there from the Parkway or 195, and if you're not sure how long it should take, well, it feels like a long drive. You're rewarded with rather pleasant scenery - farm fields and some woods along the way, punctuated by housing developments here and there.

Longhorn salad bar, from the safety of the car.

Before I checked out downtown, though, there was the matter of the longhorns. I returned to find them at the salad bar. Who knew bovines were into mixed greens? One was even bellying up to the bar, resting his front legs upon the flatbed holding the food, looking much like a tired laborer hunched over his beer at the corner tavern after a long shift.

Back in town, I was disappointed to find that the Welcome Center was closed, with no hours posted for when it would be staffed. The town was not giving up its secrets so quickly, so I had to do a bit of research after returning to Hidden New Jersey headquarters.

First, there's the matter of the town's rather curious name. I saw no deserts or pyramids on my visit, so why Egypt? Legend has it that the community was once called Timmons (or Kimmons) Mills, until General George Washington made a fateful quip. He'd sent soldiers to search for supplies for his hungry army, and one returned with food, Washington quipped, "Here is Joseph, returned from Egypt with wheat." When the revered father of our country affixes a label to your town, it tends to stick.

Another story has a similar theme, with different details. A man named Kimmons would store corn during high-yield harvests, and when lean years came, people would go to his farm to buy grain and corn. Referring to the Bible as Washington was said to have, people would say they were going to Egypt when they went to Kimmons' mill for grain. The "New" was added, as the 1930s WPA Guide to New Jersey stated, "to differentiate it from other Egypts." Other Egypts? In New Jersey?

The name was changed to Oakford in 1869 at the behest of a real estate developer who said he'd pave the roads with brick if the town agreed to make the change. Apparently the locals had a change of heart when the railroad refused to change the name on its timetables: they reverted back to New Egypt a few weeks later.

Besides the uniqueness of its name, New Egypt established its place in history for agriculture. It's said that the town was where the berries for the world's first cranberry sauce were grown, though I didn't see any bogs when I was there. The community was also once host to the world's largest egg hatchery.

Outside of farming, New Egypt was a resort area for a time in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, made more accessible by the arrival of railroad service. More than two dozen inns and boardinghouses sprung up to accommodate those who came to enjoy the countryside, including the Duchess of Windsor. Visitors could swim or boat on Oakford Lake, hike in the nearby woods, or take in a leisurely picnic, just to name a few of the activities available to them. Predictably, many businesses also took root downtown, meeting just about any need a visitor might have.

These days, things seem a lot quieter. There's no longer a train bringing visitors -- that ended with the advent of the automobile, shore attractions and other distractions. If anyone's visiting New Egypt, it's either for the flea market or the speedway, or perhaps to pick their own vegetables at one of the local farms. Maybe it's better that way: the community retains a rural, small town feel that's a true respite from the overcrowding that's endemic to more highly-developed parts of the state.

It's nice to know that at its heart, New Jersey can still maintain a quiet, peaceful core.

On a road to nowhere in Manahawkin

We had a long day of ups and downs in the greater Cape May area on Saturday, looking for additions to our respective year lists and visiting the reported spots to see the more remarkable rarities that had been reported to be in the area.

As a quick update:

• A report of a king eider hen near a jetty in Cape May Point delivered a common eider for us. (That beach spot also yielded the rare bare-rumped jaybird, but that's another story.)
• A very yellow western tanager revealed himself after a very brief wait on a busy street corner in Cape May Court House.
• And... after what would have been deemed a wild goose chase in other circumstances, we caught a glimpse of a crested caracara (you might remember how rare these are in New Jersey, after our story of seeing one in West Windsor last year.)

All of the roaming around left us kind of spent and ready to call it a day, but Ivan suggested one more stop as we headed back up the Parkway. Dusk wasn't far off, making it a perfect time to stop in Manahawkin to visit the short-eared owls on the marsh.

A confession: whenever Ivan mentions owling, I do a mental eyeroll, especially in pine forests where they might be tucked in broad daylight. Don't get me wrong. I love owls. In fact, our first joint birding experience was a January visit to Wallkill WMA to visit the short-eared owls. He got one in the viewing scope within a few minutes, and it accommodatingly turned to face us just as I was getting my look. Since then, it's been a lot harder to tease them out, but in Ivan's defense, owls of any ilk do their best not to be seen. Finding them takes a certain amount of luck, regardless of how advanced your birding skills are.

This time around, when I started my usual jovial owl rant, Ivan simply said, "You'll like this place. It's the road to nowhere." Say no more. Let's check it out.

We got to Route 72 as twilight was descending. A few turns brought us away from the state highway hubbub and into marsh territory. One more right turn and we were on Stafford Avenue, a lightly-traveled road occasionally marked with a pothole. "This is better than I remembered it," Ivan told me, explaining that the road is rarely maintained and can get heavily rutted and uneven a mile or so in, when it turns to hard-packed sand and dirt.

The road goes first through a forest, adding a little spookiness to the trip, but then the horizon widens to accommodate marshgrass, with no trees to obstruct the view for acres. Harriers ordinarily would have been scouting for their last meals of the day, but we saw nothing in flight. Still, the terrain was incredibly cool, as was the feeling that absolutely nobody was within shouting distance. The only real sign of human progress was the utility poles on the side of the road, though four or five of them were tilted dangerously enough to take the whole system down into the brackish water with a good gust.

The bridge to nowhere. 

Then we got to the really cool part. The road ramped up a little before being blocked by a graffiti-laden Jersey barrier. Whoa. The car had barely stopped before I jumped out and walked up to the barrier to find remnants of an old wood bridge, its near end gone, making it impossible to walk across. It doesn't matter, anyway, as there's no road on the other side.

"Behold!" Ivan exclaimed as he stepped out of the car. "Nowhere!" He had that right. Marsh stretched out almost as far as the eye could see, and it was so quiet, well, so quiet that any of the usual analogies about quiet were useless. That, my friends, is Manahawkin Wildlife Management Area at dusk in January.

How was I not aware of this place? I pride myself on knowing these spots, and from what I can recall, our better-known friends who cover the odder parts of the state haven't featured this Road to Nowhere. It seems that perhaps it's a secret kept by sportsmen (the state DEP maps list the area as the Manahawkin Hunting and Fishing Grounds) and birders, with the occasional spray paint-wielding local teen for good measure. I could see where the hunters and fishing enthusiasts would value the area; the marsh was sparsely crossed by old mosquito-control channels they could use to get to a blind or favorite spot.

Gazing across the marsh from one of its few (maybe only) high spots, I was again reminded of the Meadowlands -- the rickety old abandoned bridges you can see as your train rumbles along to Newark or New York, the ditches dug in the futile hopes of keeping the skeeters at bay, the wisdom of letting a certain amount of marsh just be and be natural.

As for the owls, well, they were keeping to themselves during our visit. We saw none at all before daylight finally surrendered to darkness, though Ivan thought he might have heard a short-ear bark in the distance (some say they sound like terriers). Perhaps next time.

Yes, we have no Dracula birds... but how about a pelican?

It seems that if you want to find harlequin ducks in New Jersey, you have to work for them.

Traditionally, it's a visit to Barnegat Light -- head to the jetty in the state park and walk southward along the riprap that extends beyond the cement walk. It's like a giant video game, forcing you to step carefully from boulder to boulder without falling into the crevices between. I'm a bit more cautious than Ivan when doing this, which you can see from this photo (he's that spot on the distant right, carrying a scope on tripod).

Word is that the riprap-loving harlequins prefer to stay toward the south end of the jetty, requiring the arduous, cautious hike, but I'm not totally buying it. I first saw them several years ago (pre-Ivan) right at the bend in the cement walk, not all that far from the lighthouse. I remember thinking how beautiful and different they were from the standard mallard (not that I don't love the look of mallards...), and that akin to wood ducks, they look like something from a very easy paint-by-number kit.

A male harlequin duck. See what I mean?

Regardless, the harlequins haven't been in 'my' spot any of the times Ivan and I have gone to see them, so it's meant a trip down the jetty. Well, I go for a bit and then hop down to the sand on the land side, heading back up when something interesting comes along.

This time the trip looked promising: we'd already seen a nice group of oystercatchers along a distant sandbar, with a bonus seal thrown in for good measure. With any luck we'd also locate great cormorants, which have been frustratingly absent from our trips so far in 2013. Only the hike down the cement walk, over/through the railing and atop the riprap would settle it.

And.... yes. The harlequins were as reliable as ever, swimming busily along the jetty, some actually leaving the water to perch on the rocks. A few loons swam about, as did one constantly-diving razorbill, probably the closest avian visitor New Jersey has to the penguin. But... the cormorants were totally absent. What gives? Perhaps with their Dracula-like wing drying posture, they're in witness protection? At the very least, they're playing a pretty frustrating game of hide-and-seek with us.

Still, when nature denies, she inevitably provides a pretty cool substitute. As we continued our scan, a brown pelican glided north over the inlet at about eye level, unmistakable in size and silhouette. A pelican? Now? In New Jersey? Given everything we've seen visit the state over the past year, a late-staying pelican seems like par for the course. One more bird for my state list, and a very early addition for 2013.

Oh, the humanity! Wandering around Lakehurst.

First it was the railroad hub for the Pinelands.

Then it became a popular resort.

Then it was the site of the nation's first international airport and the place where the growth of the passenger airship industry came to a fiery halt.

And now its population has soared, thanks to the host of retirement communities built there over the past 30 years.

Yup, I'm talking about Lakehurst, Ocean County. On one of our rare non-bird-related jaunts, Ivan and I made our way down the Parkway to Route 70, drawn by the lure of another type of flying object. We hadn't registered in advance for a tour at the Naval Air Engineering Station, but I was confident we'd uncover something worthwhile. Any small town that gained international notoriety for a disaster had to have plenty of interesting stuff. Plus, it's in the Pinelands, where the unusual is commonplace for explorers.

Leaving the highway and heading to the compact downtown, we saw that the locals take pride in their connection to the history of the airship. Whether you call them blimps or dirigibles or something else, they're represented in a lot of signage and outdoor artwork around town. Awnings on borough hall proclaim Lakehurst to be the Airship Capital of the World (take that, Friedrichshafen!), and even the local laundromat sports a large painting of a Buddhist-themed airship. Om, the humanity?

That's the south side of the highway. The Naval Air Engineering Station is down a road to the north, obscured by the region's signature pines. Signs warn passers-by about security measures and low-flying aircraft, reminding us that even though it's a historic landmark, the airfield is still an active military base. It's difficult to get a clean photo of the massive airship hangar from the road or a nearby housing development, though the building towers above the scrub pines in the foreground. Disappointing, yes, but we had other destinations to check out.

First, however, it was time for lunch. Regular readers know that I'm a diner burger aficionado, and it was time to see where the local contender stood in the pantheon. We'd passed the Lakehurst Diner on the way in, and we had to know: do they have a Hindenburger Deluxe on the menu? Sadly, management had seemingly overlooked this golden opportunity for a local special (well-done cheeseburger with sauerkraut, anyone?), though they offered a "Blimp" steak sandwich. I guess you have to take what you can get.

Following a tasty cheeseburger meal, we returned to the other side of the highway for the highlight of our visit, the Lakehurst Historical Society in tiny Old St. John's Church. It's the only town museum I know that's surrounded by a graveyard, having served as the community's Catholic sanctuary until the congregation outgrew it. Starting in the 1980s, an influx of retirees from Northern New Jersey started coming to the worship regularly, forcing the parish to move first to a community center and then to a newly-constructed church not far away.

Outside, the museum/church is a tidy, picturesque white wooden chapel. Inside, it's an interesting panoply of historic artifacts, juxtaposed with classic Catholic symbols. The Stations of the Cross are still on the walls, hanging above old railroad tools and World War II-era ration stamp books, and there's a painting of Jesus looking over a collection of vintage clothing. The community's first jail cell stands in a corner not far from the entrance to the sanctuary. That would make a novel confessional, don't you think?

We expected to see a few Hindenberg artifacts and maybe something or other on the Jersey Devil, but it turns out that Lakehurst has other notable yet lesser-known claims to distinction. An entire display case is dedicated to the Pine Tree Inn, an expansive Victorian resort that operated from 1898 to 1937. Well-to-do visitors from New York and Philadelphia flocked there from 1898 to 1937 to escape the city and enjoy the quiet beauty of the Pinelands. For much of the hotel's last decade of operation, many of its guests probably got to Lakehurst via the Blue Comet, the Jersey Central Railroad's answer to the Twentieth Century Limited (more on that in an upcoming post). The Historical Society has plenty of information and objects to tell the story of both, and more!

From the earliest days of the area's bog iron and charcoal industries that supplied the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War, to present day, if you're curious about something in Lakehurst, somebody at the Historical Society can probably tell you about it. Just be sure to stop by on Wednesday or Sunday afternoons, when they're open.

Now, to get that airship hangar tour set up....

Tories: the first beach bullies on LBI

As if our Brigantine adventure last Saturday wasn't enough, we stopped at Barnegat Light to see the numerous waterfowl that usually winter there. We were pretty well assured of seeing longtails, harlequins and loons if we were willing to brave the icy gusts buffeting Long Beach Island.

We dropped the car at the lot near the lighthouse, and I caught sight of a historical marker I hadn't noticed before.

The October 1782 date had me a little confused about whether this attack was, in fact, related to the  Revolutionary War. The British Commons had formally voted to end the war six months earlier, and while the Treaty of Paris wouldn't be signed until September 1783, the British surrender at Yorktown in October 1781 had effectively ended hostilities.

So what's this Long Beach massacre about? A few possibilities came to mind:

• Somebody didn't get the memo that the war was over.
• Animosity between the sides was still quite high, and someone was looking for a fight.
• Someone forgot his beach tag.

From what I can tell, the conflict wasn't related to the war at all. Captain Steelman and his crew were sailing near LBI on the privateer galley Alligator when they noticed a grounded vessel. Further investigation revealed that while nobody was aboard, the ship still held tea and other valuable cargo, so Steelman and a detachment of men went to the mainland to recruit others to help them unload it. Some stayed at the scene after assessing the situation, while others chose not to participate. Among those who left, it's surmised, was a local Tory sympathizer.

The Americans worked through the day, and while many of them returned to their own homes for the evening, Steelman and some of his crew stayed on the shore overnight, possibly drinking. What they didn't know was that the sympathizer had reported the grounded ship to John Bacon, one of the most feared and hated men in the Pinelands region.

Who's John Bacon and what makes him so influential? From what I read, he put the "tory" in "notorious." He'd gotten his criminal start under the auspices of the Board of Associated Loyalists that was chartered by Colonial Governor William Franklin before the war. The Tory-aligned Board authorized Bacon to raid British military targets in New Jersey, supporting the cause of the Crown while freeing up troops to directly engage the Americans. Apparently he enjoyed the fruits of his work so much that he continued practicing it after the war concluded.

As Steelman's group was retiring for the night, Bacon and his group were laying in wait on the bay side of the island. Early in the morning they made their attack. The knife-wielding Tories set upon the sleeping men one by one, awakening the others in the process. The Americans attempted to fight off the attackers but were at a serious disadvantage, even with help from their crewmates, who came to shore after hearing the melee from their ship. Before leaving, the Tories had succeeded in killing Steelman and most of the salvage party, whose bodies were largely abandoned on shore as the Alligator departed.

So... the next time you're on the northern end of LBI, consider that you may be laying your beach blanket on a centuries-old crime scene. I haven't heard any ghost stories attached to the incident (perhaps because phantoms can't afford a beach tag), but if a drunk apparation offers you some 230-year old iced tea, take my advice. Turn him down.

Ducks, Barnegat Lighthouse and the Civil War

"What are three things that have never been in my kitchen?" (Apologies to Alex Trebek and legions of Cheers fans. Sorry, couldn't help it.)

The cold weather brings duck season with it. No, I don't mean the Looney Tunes/Merrie Melodies kind of duck season, wabbit season, Elmer season. I mean the "Wow, did you ever know that so many kinds of ducks come to New Jersey?"

I first discovered this on a solo winter trip to Long Beach Island several years ago. Walking on the jetty by the lighthouse, I noticed some beautiful black, white, gray and rust-colored ducks congregating in the waters next to the rocks. Their colors seemed to be applied in blocks, much as one might work a paint-by-numbers portrait. I didn't know at the time, but harlequin ducks can often be found there in the winter, right along the rip-rap that protects the lighthouse property from eroding into the bay. They're a nice diversion from the mallards we're all familiar with.

Ivan and I visited Barnegat Light State Park last January to see these and other ducks, but before we got to the jetty, he wanted to stop and pay his respects to George Meade. Huh?

Turns out that the designer of the Barnegat Lighthouse is none other than the man who led the Army of the Potomac to victory at Gettysburg and several other Civil War campaigns. Meade was both an army officer and civil engineer who specialized in coastal construction. It was logical, then, that he was the one who designed the successor to the original 40-foot Barnegat light, which had been shoddily built in 1835.

Meade's replacement stands a majestic 172 feet, second in height to only Cape Hatteras light on the entire east coast. He used an innovative cylinder-inside-cone design that provides moisture-blocking insulation between the tower's inner and outer walls. While the construction has held strong since the light was first illuminated in 1859, the biggest threat to the tower is erosion to the north end of Long Beach Island, where it stands. That's why the rip rap is there, creating a harlequin-friendly environment not far away.

Meade also designed Cape May and Absecon Lights, both of which tower around the 170 foot mark. Depending on who you talk to, you'll hear differing opinions on which is tallest, or which should be considered most challenging in number of interior steps, but all have largely withstood the test of time. To my knowledge, Barnegat is the only light that commemorates Meade with a bust or plaque. Personally, I think the best homage to him is to climb to the top of his creation, look out to sea and imagine all of the mariners whom it guided safely to port.