From the Blue Ridge to the Bay

They say that when you have a second child, the size of your heart doubles. Triples if there’s a third. Well, a little over a year ago I moved from the Baltimore-Annapolis area, where I was raised, to Charlottesville, VA, at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and I’m happy to report that there’s room in my heart for both locales.

The headwaters of the Rapidan River are seen near Skyline Drive in Shenandoah National Park. (Photo by Will Parson/Chesapeake Bay Program with aerial support by Southwings)

In fact, I like to think of the two regions as a kindred pair, stretching east across the Virginia Piedmont, past Richmond, and into the very mouth of the Chesapeake Bay like one sinuous organism spanning space, time, and dialects.

Of course, this is a convenient way for me to think. As a communications specialist working for a Chesapeake Bay nonprofit, I love it when people across the Bay watershed consider themselves as being connected to their downstream neighbors. Part of my job is to convince people across the region why it’s a good thing that their state and federal tax dollars are being spent on the estuary, which is an economic boon to the entire nation. I also try to show them how environmental improvements are being made in their own communities, resulting in everyday benefits like cleaner drinking water, fewer floods, improved tourism and more.

Paddlers navigate rapids on the James River in downtown Richmond, Va. The river’s headwaters start all the way in the Appalachian Mountains. (Photo by Will Parson/Chesapeake Bay Program)

For decades, the Chesapeake Bay restoration effort has been predicated on the idea that the watershed is interconnected. When nutrient-rich pesticides wash off a farm in Pennsylvania, or a streambank collapses in Virginia, or a sewer pipe bursts in Delaware, it inevitably causes harm to the Bay. Blue crabs and oysters in the Bay itself and its tidal rivers suffer from nutrient and sediment pollution, but so does the freshwater aquatic life swimming through the Bay’s tributaries.

In 1983, leaders from Maryland, Virginia, Pennsylvania, Washington, D.C., and the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency all signed a one-page commitment to clean up the Bay and its watershed. This core commitment still holds today, with the most recent version of the Chesapeake Bay Watershed Agreement now including the other Bay watershed states: New York, West Virginia and Delaware. This agreement includes goals related to blue crabs and oysters, but also broader concerns like brook trout, waterfowl, stream connectivity, and public access.

Throughout the year, I get to meet residents and community leaders who have been recipients of the funding made available to achieve the goals of the Watershed Agreement. This might include a farmer in Lancaster County, PA, who had acres of trees planted along their stream or a county parks official in Delaware who oversaw a local stream restoration project. If I’m lucky, I might meet a group of volunteers kayaking down the Shenandoah River to learn more about native species.

And yet, during all of these trips, the people I speak with are always far more concerned about their local lands and waters than they are about the Chesapeake Bay. And why shouldn’t they be? The Chesapeake Bay watershed is so culturally and geographically diverse that someone living in the rolling farmlands of Central Pennsylvania or wetlands of the Nanticoke River will always cherish what’s closest to them more than what’s out of sight.

I’ve been watching the show Pluribus recently. The premise is that a virus infects almost the entire human population, causing a mind-meld phenomenon where everyone shares the same consciousness (except for our immune protagonist and a handful of others). In this strange new world, no human is an individual and everyone works together toward the common good (at least for now, I’m only a few episodes in). The show is a good reminder that while we all want unity, perhaps these days more than ever, individuality is a big part of what it means to be human.

So really it’s best to think of the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Chesapeake Bay as distinct, yet equally amazing places. But here’s the kicker — these distinct yet equally amazing places are pretty darn close together!

In September 2024, Jake visited a farm in the Shenandoah Valley where the owner practices rotational grazing to reduce sediment runoff.

On the same day I could reasonably take a morning hike through the Shenandoah National Park, go home and shower, and then drive a little over two hours southeast for a crab feast on the York River. Alternatively, if I take a slightly less southerly route, I could reach Fones Cliffs on the Rappahannock River well before sunset for some bald eagle spotting. If I was really mountain crazed, then I could head three hours west to Seneca Rocks in West Virginia, which is still in the Bay watershed!

Clearly, there are so many amazing places to visit between the Blue Ridge Mountains and Chesapeake Bay. And for me, the region’s beauty and diversity underscores the importance of accelerating environmental conservation on a local and regional scale.

I consider myself very fortunate to have lived so close to the Chesapeake Bay, and now, on the doorstep of the Blue Ridge Mountains. But, as with kids, just don’t ask me to choose!