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Ode to the salt marsh                              
Harry Thurston’s new book paints a

glorious view of river and marsh

By Andi Rierden

I often wonder what are the best ways to encourage people to appreciate salt marshes. A Web site? A public service announcement? A school curriculum? All of the above? Whatever the avenue, it remains a worthwhile, albeit formidable task. While they may not possess the obvious awe-inspiring features of a mountain vista or rocky shore, salt marshes are, after all, considered to be one of the most productive habitats on Earth. Flushed twice a day by the tides, they filter out pollutants and buffer the effect of storms and floods on coastal communities. And the salt marsh system—spartina grass, microbe-rich peat, crabs, mussels, minnow-sized mummichogs, insects, among other elements, is rich with life. Despite the growing recognition since the 1980s of their importance—as demonstrated in the hundreds of restoration projects taking place in the Gulf of Maine—for much of the general population, salt marshes continue to be viewed as a blot on the landscape.

Thurston, a poet, biologist and naturalist is the author of the much-acclaimed Tidal Life: A Natural History of the Bay of Fundy, first published in 1990. Around that same time, he and his wife bought a house along the tidal Tidnish River near Amherst, Nova Scotia. On the other side of the river lies a remnant of the Tantramar Marsh, the huge maritime prairie that forms the isthmus of Chignecto separating New Brunswick from Nova Scotia. He has spent a good chunk of those years recording the comings and goings of the marsh inhabitants, both animal and plant.

In twelve simply organized chapters, January through December, Thurston gives readers a month-by-month account of what he sees from his study window or while hiking or cross-country skiing. His eye for detail, seeded as a child by his mother while growing up on a farm along the Cheboque marshlands in the southern part of the province, is sharp and perceptive. At 54, Thurston’s lifelong observations of his home region as displayed in the book’s autobiographical subtext, combined with his philosophical musings and a talent for storytelling give A Place between The Tides added authority.

“For me, the marsh watcher, January is a kind of boreal blankness,” he begins. “Crows, gulls, eagles and foxes come and go intermittently, bringing brief drama to the often lifeless tableaux of the marsh…What I see of winter life is only the tip of the proverbial iceberg…This paucity of life is an illusion.”

We follow the red-tailed hawk on its daily hunt for food learning that the bird’s lens and retina are relatively far apart, allowing for a long focal distance that produces large, fine-grained images. We meet a family of red foxes Thurston follows for several generations.

Finally, the ice disappears and all life breaks loose, feathered and furbearing animals reappear as do the equally important bottom-dwelling invertebrates called detritus eaters. The ice that had ridden up on the marsh, has sheared off plant tops, ãlike natural grist stones grinding bases of marsh grasses into meal.ä The dead plant material, or detritus, becomes food for the invertebrates. And if they canât break down the course material, bacteria and fungi do it for them. The bottom dwellers then ingest the bacteria and fungi, becoming part of the cyclical waltz in this complex food web. Thurston reflects on diatoms, salt pannes, black ducks and the local nickname for mergansers, fish ducks, because they eat trout. This in turn stirs up the ire of local fishermen. He compares salt marsh grasses to the water babies in Charles Kingsleyâs classic Victorian childrenâs book who inhabit two realms, one in water, one in air. When he finds a salt marsh snail, Melampus, he remarks ãWhat an elegant little creature it is, tinier than a newbornâs fingernail and, in its spiralingÊÊÊ architecture, as beautiful as an Etruscan vase.ä The seasons move on, birds migrate and the year-rounders settle in. By November, the prevailing wind shifts from the southwest to the northeast, signaling that winter is near at hand. ãFinally, it seems, the heron takes the hint, and I last see it, near dusk, flying poker straight through driving snow toward the coast, its blue-gray body seeming to meld into the elements. It can only mean one thing: one morning soon, I will wake and the river will be frozen fast.ä

Throughout he connects stories of side trips to Quebec where he camped with a family of Cree goose hunters, and to Ellesmere Island in the northern Arctic where he meets a paleobotanist studying the preserved remains of a 50-million-year-old tropical forest.

By March, “No event is more keenly anticipated along the river than ice-out, and this is true for wildlife as it is for us winter-bound river people.” Here we meet Harry Davidson and his son Sherman who kept records from 1953 to 1981 of when the ice moved out to sea in order to predict when to move the marsh hay from the barn across the river. Thurston keeps his own ice-out records only to note that “this transition to open water,” is not a linear process, “Spring in Maritime Canada is a painfully fickle season of brief promise and lengthy reversals, a meteorological two-step: one step forward, two steps back; two forward, one back.”

Thurston’s tribute to the salt marsh, its mysteries and its ability to renew itself remain his central theme as a writer and advocate. His insights give clear testimony to the workings and wonders of this often overused and misunderstood ecosystem. His book is a valuable contribution to the quest to bring awareness to this place where the land meets the sea, a place of surprising vitality.

 © 2004 The Gulf of Maine Times