Travel & Leisure

DESTINATION: SYLVAN HEIGHTS BIRD PARK

LOCATION: SCOTLAND NECK, N.C. DISTANCE: 58 MILES

TIME: 1 HOUR 6 MINUTES

ADDRESS: 500 SYLVAN HEIGHTS PARKWAY

EXPERIENCE THE BEAUTY OF NATURE AT Sylvan Heights Bird Park

WRITTEN BY CHELSEA HOFMANN | PHOTOS CONTRIBUTED BY SYLVAN HEIGHT BIRD PARK

Located just over an hour from Downtown Washington in the town of Scotland Neck, the Sylvan Heights Bird Park is a sanctuary to over 2,000 different species of waterfowl, parrots, toucans, flamingos, and other exotic birds.

Opened in 2006, Sylvan Heights Bird Park is the result of a life dedicated to the preservation of endangered Waterfowl. Founders Mike and Ali Lubbock maintain the park, in addition to the Avian Breeding Center where endangered species from across the globe are bred to continue genetic diversity. The park hosts over 55,000 guests annually and is open year round. The birds are out on exhibit whenever permitted and their looks change with the season.

“Late fall and winter through mid-spring is the best time to see them in fresh, colorful breeding plumage, ‘’ said Katie Lubbock, communications director. “For those coming to see or photograph waterfowl specifically, we usually recommend visiting during the cooler months.”

With approximately one mile of trails and aviaries, staff recommend that visitors plan to spend two or more hours

at the park during your visit. With exhibits like The Landing Zone, where you can hand feed various species of exotic birds, and Wings of the Tropics, one of the many walkthrough aviaries, some guests have been known to stay from open to close.

Sylvan Heights Bird Park is enforcing facial coverings and social distancing in accordance with North Carolina’s state guidelines against COVID-19. Most of the outdoor exhibits are open to the public, while some indoor exhibits like The Visitor’s Center are closed or opened with limited capacities.

“We do have an hourly limit on admissions, but so far we have not had to turn visitors away because we’ve reached that capacity. We are fortunate to have plenty of outdoor space for easy social distancing,” said Lubbock. “For our enclosed exhibits, such as The Landing Zone, the maximum capacity in the exhibit at any one time is 10 people, and that limit is enforced by park staff. Visitors should plan on a short wait outside the exhibit to allow other families to enjoy it safely.”

The park is open every week from Tuesday through Sunday with some holiday exceptions. The park’s hours fluctuate based on the season. Tickets range from $9 to $12, with children under the age of two offered free admission.

For more information, please check their website www.shwpark.com or call 252.826.3186. ⋇

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CALI-BAGGER The joys of my first redneck fail

CARLEIGH FLYNN | ILLUSTRATION BY BRIAN FULLER WRITTEN BY

Only in the South can you lose your trailer on a rural road and immediately find a fellow who spent 20 years in the liquor-distribution business and who had learned to wield a handcart the way a surgeon uses a scalpel.

Iclosed the back of the U-Haul trailer, dusted off my clothes and stared out at the Pamlico. I was now moved in and full-time and ready for the adventures ahead – fishing, exploring, meeting new people, experiencing my first redneck fail.

We all know about these. You can find them on YouTube or social media. They usually involve a combination of knuckleheads and backyard barbecues, knuckleheads kissing poisonous snakes, or knuckleheads and fireworks.

I’d had or seen my share in California. My brother got his Toyota stuck in a creek crossing near our cabin one New Year’s eve day. Archimedes said “Give me a lever and a place to stand and I’ll move the world,” but he never had to do it waist deep in a winter stream. Neighbors who trickled out of the woods to help with their four-wheel drives were delightfully amused.

Farther up that same creek, I once spring-cleaned our 500-gallon water tank, which sits on a bank above an ample, yearround creek. Tipping it over to empty the last of the winter silt, I thought “if this shifts just a little bit, I’m going to lose it.” Just then, it shifted just a bit. I watched it rumble, roll and crash down through the alders into the creek bed below. I hiked back to seek my brother’s assistance, and he laughed all the way back with me.

But the South is where the real legends seem to be found – at least on YouTube – and so I wondered: When will my turn come? It arrived more quickly than I could have imagined.

I hitched the trailer back up, snapped the chains into place, and then ran through the high-tech digital trailering checklist in my six-month-old Chevy Silverado. (I swear, the only thing that truck can’t do is fly). Satisfied, I drove off to return the trailer.

What an afternoon: 70 degrees and a sky for artists, the scent of warm fall in the air. I drove with the windows down and happiness in my heart. Roaring along in the country I came upon a railroad crossing, one of those with the bump in the grade.

Suddenly, there came a tremendous bang followed by what sounded like a thousand screeching hyenas. An older couple standing in their drive next to the road whooped and hollered and pointed frantically behind me. “Trailer!” the woman screamed.

I pulled over and took a look. The trailer coupler and tongue lay snug on the ground still chained to the back of the truck. How the heck did that happen? It hit me: The one thing I’d forgotten – and that the digital checklist didn’t include – was to screw down the mechanism on the coupler to secure it to the ball.

Even empty, the trailer and the big crate it carried were too heavy to lift for me. It would take at least two guys to lift it just enough to flip the trailer’s built-in jack into place. How long would it take roadside assistance to show up? My whole schedule was suddenly thrown to chaos.

I looked across the road. The older couple had returned to puttering around their truck. I walked over and the woman sized me up. One eye wandered, which gave me the uneasy feeling that I’d stumbled into something that would end up on TV one day well after authorities ended their search for me.

“Your trailer came off,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m wondering whether I can get a hand popping it back on from this strapping fellow right here.”

The words hadn’t faded, and the man started off toward the road, wheeling a handcart in front of him that seemed to appear from out of nowhere. What’s going on? Was he returning the cart to a neighbor? Was I supposed to follow him? Did he even hear me?

A moment later we were next to the trailer. “Put your shoulder there and push,” he said. In a flash, he wedged the handcart’s foot under the trailer tongue. He tipped and I shouldered and we eased the trailer tongue back toward the tow ball. In a flash, he repositioned the hard cart and popped up the trailer to a point where I could flip down the trailer jack. Problem solved in just minutes.

Only in the South can you lose your trailer on a rural road and immediately find a fellow who spent 20 years in the liquor-distribution business and who had learned to wield a handcart the way a surgeon uses a scalpel.

“I also trailered motorcycles all over the South for years. I’ve seen my share of these,” the Good Samaritan winked.

He refused money of course and I went on my way, counting my blessings and hoping to pay it forward someday.

An hour later, after dropping off the trailer, I found myself at Lowe’s. Two guys approached me in the parking lot.

“Sorry to bother you, sir, but our truck won’t start,” they said. My heart jumped and I almost laughed out loud.

I fished out my jumper cables, hooked them up, and their dead engine sputtered to full-throated life. I refused their money of course, and they drove off just as happy as I did. Ah the universe. ⋇