FRANCIS MARION FIELD TRIP
By Adam Wolf
Beep beep. All aboard!
After finishing one of the Conservancy’s recommended beach reads, Looking for Longleaf, I felt compelled to visit the nearest longleaf pine habitat: Francis Marion National Forest. It’s hard to believe that before settlement, longleaf savannas once stretched unbroken from Virginia to Texas. Our sea islands would have looked completely different. Early depictions of Savannah, Georgia, for instance, show a small village backed by an endless longleaf forest.
Today, due to centuries of logging and the turpentine industry, only 5% of that original ecosystem remains. Despite this loss, these forests are vital for many endangered and threatened species—and they depend on regular fire to survive. While the gopher tortoise and red-cockaded woodpecker often take the spotlight in discussions of forest conservation, I had come in search of a quieter resident: the Bachman’s sparrow.
Named after a Charleston clergyman by John James Audubon, the Bachman’s sparrow has lost over 50% of its population in the past 50 years. Secretive and often overlooked, I didn’t expect to find one—but I had to try.
At first glance, the longleaf forest seemed unremarkable. Uniform trees, no understory—it doesn’t immediately compete with the grandeur of the Rockies or the misty ridges of Appalachia. And another sparrow? Don’t they all look the same?
But as soon as I stepped out of the car, I realized how wrong I was. The first thing I noticed is the silence. Pine straw and grasses absorb sound in a way that feels almost reverent. That stillness made it easy to catch the distant call of a Bachman’s sparrow. With low expectations, I scanned the open woodland until I spotted a patch of low vegetation—and there they were, darting in and out. One bird perched in full view just long enough for me to take a photo. It felt like a gift.
It may sound strange, but it was deeply moving. No, it wasn’t the 1700s—there were no towering old-growth trees or clouds of bobwhite quail—but the spirit of that landscape lingered. I felt the absence of longleaf and the Bachman’s sparrow on our Sea Islands, where I live and work every day. And in that absence, a quiet ache.
Sitting there, watching sparrows call and red-cockaded woodpeckers flutter through the pines, I came away with a deeper appreciation for what still remains. It’s easy to say things will never be the same. It’s harder—and more important—to fight for what can still be saved.
