I’ve written about it before; one of my favorite pastimes: riding my bike through Cape May under the cover of darkness. Thursday nights at the Chalfonte Hotel used to be the best-kept secret, but they went mainstream during the COVID-19 pandemic. Still, even when it’s packed to the gills, it remains one of the hottest recurring live music events in Cape May.

The Howard Street Ramble plays outside on the porch from 6 to 9pm-ish, and then after the main crowd disperses, a smaller group moves inside to the King Eddie Bar for a late set that can—and often does—go to near midnight. It’s epic fun, and the spontaneous sounds that arise from a mix of wonderful regulars and an ever-changing roster of visiting musicians are beautiful to witness. There’s usually no set list, just a natural dialogue between friends, new and old.

These weekly rambles are something I look forward to each year. Though I never make it to all of them, I try hard to go as often as I can. As the night winds down, I slip out the side door and look forward to the finale of the evening with a similar giddy anticipation: the ride home on my bike.

Between 11pm and midnight is my usual departure, and by then most of Cape May is deserted, save for the occasional car or pedestrian still strolling the mall or stumbling out of the Ugly Mug (no shade, you’re on vacation!). Even in the heat of a hot August night, the air is cooler as I cruise away from town into quieter, darker neighborhoods.

Almost instantly, the sounds of town give way to frogs and katydids. As I cross Cape Island Creek and enter West Cape May, if the tide’s high, I might hear the cackle of a Clapper Rail from the marsh—or sometimes one migrating overhead. On a stretch of road I know like the back of my hand, I sometimes switch off my headlight just to bask in the starry sky.

The forced air conditioning of a moving bike can make any sticky evening feel like fall or spring and keep even the most adventurous mosquito from making contact. In West Cape May, I’ll hear a Barred Owl, usually from Rea’s Farm or out towards Sunset Boulevard. There are several pairs in the area, often counter-calling back and forth. A Great Horned Owl may chime in too, and on still nights I’ve counted six owls of both species within earshot. West Cape May is an owl-y hood, no doubt.

If I’m not ready to turn in, I’ll extend my ride beyond home, down Stevens Street and on to Seagrove Avenue, where I might hear a Chuck-will’s-widow calling. These birds will nest at the Meadows and along either side of Sunset. They have a voice like no other, whipping their namesake over and over into the night.

A lap around Lily Lake at Cape May Point might turn up a “Grok” from a Green Heron, or the buzz and peep of tree frogs—Southern Gray, Green, and even Gulf Coast Leopard Frogs. They’re all here, giving me a surround-sound serenade in the dark.

If I’m lucky, as I return to Seagrove and head for the campground, I might hear the irregular song of a Yellow-breasted Chat, one of the few songbirds that sing at night. Could it be the one from the Boardwalk Trail at The Meadows? Maybe. Or maybe it’s a neighbor. The sound is chaotic, but it makes me smile every time.

Cruising down 2nd Avenue, a Virginia Rail lets out an explosive call from the marsh that nearly sends me off my bike. Is that the encore? Perhaps on most nights. But as I roll past my rented house and head for our camper at the West Cape May campground, the borough fire alarm suddenly goes off.

I see the light flick on in our bedroom; Inga’s up, jumping into volunteer mode—and I slip inside to get ready for bed. I kiss her as she heads out. Then I wait at the door, listening.

As soon as the siren stops, like clockwork, the coyotes start yipping and howling, joined quickly by the Barred Owls’ monkey-call chorus. The lights flicker across the campground, and the town stirs. But nature never stopped moving.

Another Thursday night into Friday morning, full of music. Cape May style.