Straight to the Gut
Across The Gut, heading to Great Island in Wellfleet, Cape Cod.
By Richard Silberman
Wellfleet, Massachusetts, USA
One afternoon in August, I set out to hike The Gut and hang out on the beach on Great Island in Wellfleet, Cape Cod, where my family was spending a few weeks. Great Island is a short drive from Wellfleet center. It’s a fairly isolated part of Cape Cod National Seashore, with Wellfleet Harbor (and the town of Wellfleet, in the distance) to one side and vast stretches of beach and Cape Cod Bay on the other. It’s one of the best spots around to spend some alone time and get close to nature—my goal for a few hours.
One of the first things you need to know about Great Island is that it is not, in fact, an island. Not anymore. It was, a couple centuries ago, but sediment accumulated over time into a strip of land that connected the island to the mainland. This narrow band of sand, grass and dunes—known as the “Gut”—separates a tidal salt marsh from Cape Cod Bay. It’s a special place.
Dunes, beach, and Cape Cod Bay as the tide goes out. All to myself!
The trail to Great Island starts with a short walk downhill through pitch pine and scrub oak and then becomes a flat, sandy path that follows the shore of the marsh, curves left, and goes straight across The Gut—about a half mile.
I walked barefoot in the sand as I traversed The Gut. The sky was overcast. The day hot. I only encountered three people on the trail, heading the opposite direction. I was alone out here: just me, the dunes, and some shorebirds peeping somewhere in the grass.
As I crossed The Gut, I was acutely aware of the forces of nature around me. At high tide, this trail is sometimes submerged and inaccessible. On this particular afternoon, the tide was going out and pretty low already.
The remains of a crab near my spot on the beach. Perhaps this was a seagull’s snack?
Thirty minutes into my hike, I climbed over a dune to reach the wide expanse of bay and beach. I was on Great Island, just beyond The Gut. I chose my spot, plopped on the sand. My plan for the next few hours was simple: sit and do nothing, look and observe, breathe in the air, take in this beautiful place. My daughter was working at Hatch’s, the produce market in town. My wife hung back at the house. This moment was mine.
The beach was deserted. The sun occasionally broke through and cast a brilliant light across the choppy gray water.
I went for a swim. The bay is warmer than the ocean. It was delightful. I floated awhile, one with the waves and whitecaps.
As the water recedes, rocks are revealed: a fabulous array of colors, shapes, sizes, patterns, and textures.
Back on the beach, I explored my surroundings. As time passed, I could really see the tide pulling out, the water recede, more beach exposed. The receding tide left a rhythmic pattern of ripples in the sand and revealed a fantastic array of rocks, from wafer thin slivers of stone (great for skipping) to hefty hunks.
I became fascinated with the alien-like seaweed left behind by the tide. Beautiful and otherworldly tendrils plastered in the sand. I leaned in close to examine these strange strands from the sea.
Though I could have walked and walked along miles of beach this afternoon on Great Island, I stayed put in my spot. I watched the waves. I collected rocks. I needed nothing more than this.
When I left the beach, it was late afternoon. As I neared the end of my hike, a man who had just started his walk across The Gut stopped me. He wore a big wooden cross around his neck and had a cross tattoo on his arm. He looked to be in his thirties.
“Excuse me. Do you know when the tide comes in?” he asked. “Will this trail be underwater later on?”
I told him the tide was still going out and that he had many hours to safely walk here. I had no idea when the next high tide was or how high it would be, but unless he planned to return late at night, he would be fine.
The man said he was concerned about high water because he saw dolphin or seal carcasses on the beach on his hike over here. I didn’t know what he was talking about. I had not seen any such thing, but he likely started his hike from a different point. “You’ll be fine,” I assured him, and he went on his way.
Five minutes later, when I reached the turn-off to return to the wooded trail and parking lot, I decided to go a little further along the marsh. Within minutes, I spotted two decomposing seals that had been washed high up on the shore. This is what the man was referring to. The sight startled me. I found it haunting and deeply moving.
Seaweed specimens—delivered by the tide.
The rocks on this bay beach are incredible. I took some home.
As I finished my outing—just under three hours—I felt a deep connection to nature and life. How could I not? How could I observe the tide, float alone in the bay, and marvel at sea and seaweed, sunlight and sky, in silence and solitude—and then see dead mammals on the beach—and not contemplate the cycle of life, the forces of nature, the beauty of it all—and my place in it? I presume that’s what the man I encountered on my way back was seeking as well.
This is what Wellfleet does to me. All the time. The fun with family and friends is extraordinary; many of the best memories of my life. But the solitude, silence, and spiritual connection is equally important: times like today, on The Gut and Great Island. Swimming alone across a deep, freshwater kettle pond, early in the morning, hawks flying overhead. An ocean swim. A walk in the woods. Watching the sun rise over the Atlantic, and set over Cape Cod Bay. Kayaking through marshes where great blue herons roost and take flight before me.
And, oh, that night sky! The moon was new, the sky black, at the start of our trip. The stars were brilliant and seemed so close, I truly felt like I could grab the Big Dipper—it hung so huge right overhead—and pour myself a cup of the cosmos.
I am never more in touch with the natural world than I am in Wellfleet.
The trail beckons. Always.
Richard Silberman is the founder of Upper Round Road. He has been visiting Wellfleet with his family every summer for 18 years. He would love to live there one day.
* All photographs by Richard Silberman
Published October 23, 2024