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An aerial view of Back Bay National Wildlife Refuge reveals tidal marsh and pristine beach.

photo from Virginia Tourism Corp.

It was early in the morning, and the air was still. Startled by my approach, a snowy egret flapped its lazy wings, then dropped to a new feeding spot. A yellow butterfly frolicked beside me for a moment, then a blue-tailed dragonfly took over the escort. The refuge teemed with wildlife that day. Birds were everywhere -- perching in the trees, wading through the marsh, drifting in the sky. At the end of the trail, I encountered a family of otters, a mother and her babies, as they paddled through a canal. They eyed me warily, snorted, dove into the water and disappeared. Foxes, raccoons, muskrats and mustangs all make the refuge their home. But the animals I'd come to see -- the wild pigs -- were nowhere to be found.

The refuge sits at the southern edge of Sandbridge, a beach community that has turned its back on commercial development. There's only one road into the area, and the shopping "district" is limited to one or two blocks. You'll find few of the distractions of a Nags Head or Myrtle Beach -- just the ocean to the east, a vast tidal marsh to the west, and mile after mile of rustic cottages strung along the shore.

I've sojourned in Sandbridge with my family at least a few days every summer since childhood. To me, there's nothing more sublime than spending a weekend swinging in a hammock or reading a novel on the porch deck. So indolent am I that I'd never bothered to visit the Back Bay refuge. So, there's a bunch of birds there, I thought. Big deal. Just leave me with Tom Clancy and a Bloody Mary. But my family members did frequent the refuge. And last summer, they returned with reports of wild pig sightings. Pigs! At last: A reason to bestir myself.

As I discovered, the refuge's primary mission is to preserve habitat for migrating waterfowl. You won't find many ducks and geese, however, unless you come in October. During the summer, the star attraction is the Atlantic loggerhead turtle. Virginia Beach sets the northernmost limit of the turtle's range. Each year, a handful of the reptiles waddle onto the beach at night, dig nests in the sand, lay their eggs, then depart. Sadly, the creature's numbers have dwindled perilously as the region has developed. Last year, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service officials spotted only two nests, down from six the year before.

Wildlife staffers at the visitor's museum are friendly and informative. During the summer, they offer daily slide-show lectures. They're delighted to talk about items in the tiny museum or about the animals living in the refuge. Ecotourists might be interested in a series of events surrounding the loggerhead turtles. Every summer, biologists patrol the beach, looking for turtle tracks leading to the nests. To protect the eggs from predators, they retrieve the eggs from their nests -- generally 60 to 150 eggs per nest -- and incubate them until they hatch. Then, with great ceremony and a crowd of onlookers, they release the quarter-sized babies onto the sand and watch them crawl into the surf.

Turtles may be the crowd pleasers, but I was tracking bigger game -- wild pigs. With the last name of Bacon, I find myself drawn to these noble creatures. Unlike slovenly domestic pigs, enervated by captivity, wild hogs are lean, quick-witted and adaptable. Local biologists speculate that the Back Bay porkers escaped their bondage about a century ago. Forming hardy little bands, they learned to live on frogs, snakes, grubs and roots, according to Gary Williamson, chief ranger of False Cape State Park.

Wildlife managers give the hogs their grudging admiration. The pigs are "real survivors," says Williamson. "They're rugged ... and worthy of respect," says John Gallegos, the senior wildlife biologist at the refuge. But biologists regard the pigs, along with the wild ponies that also frequent the area, as invading pests. Not only do ponies poop on the parking lot and tip over trash cans, they tear up fragile dune grass and feed heavily on plants preferred by waterfowl. Pigs are warier of humans -- pig poop in public places does not seem to be a problem -- but they do root around the plants, promoting erosion and disrupting the birds' food supply.

In cooperation with Sandbridge residents, the wildlife managers capture ponies that wander into residential areas and ship them to North Carolina, where humans are less prevalent. By contrast, a horrifying fate awaits the swine: Every October, it's open season. Hunters can "take as many of them as they can," Gallegos says. No limit.

The wily hogs are impossible to trap, however, and darned difficult to kill. "They [the hunters] are lucky to get one," Gallegos hastened to assure me.

Admittedly, pigs are not a native species, but they deserve consideration, I suggested. Elsa the lion, who returned to the wild after being raised in captivity, made a big hit in "Born Free." Someone could develop a fine master's thesis researching how domestic farm pigs adapted to life in a wild, pig-hostile environment -- and with no help from humans. Yes, acknowledged Gallegos, a study of feral pigs might make a worthwhile project. But other than me, he noted, no one has expressed an interest in the topic.

Pigs aren't everybody's cup of tea. I know many people -- even other members of the Bacon family -- who enjoy the serenity of the refuge without giving a thought to the pigs. That's OK. Sandbridge and Back Bay have plenty to offer someone looking for a quiet ride, a pleasant hike, or a picnic amid natural beauty and bountiful wildlife.

© April 1999, Media General Business Publications Inc.,
publisher of Virginia Business Magazine