On our trip to Bald Head Island, we spent most of the day doing exactly what you’re supposed to do on a barrier island — wandering through the little shops, eating deep-fried seafood, and relaxing. There was already a chill in the air. Swimming wasn’t an option, but that didn’t matter. I wasn’t interested in swimming anyway. The only thing I was determined to do was climb Old Baldy.
If you’ve never seen it, Old Baldy rises like a sentinel above the dunes — North Carolina’s oldest standing lighthouse, guarding the mouth of the Cape Fear River.
It’s not the tallest or the prettiest, but it screams early North Carolina. Its weathered stucco and uneven coloring tell a story — not of perfection, but of endurance.
Long before beach houses and golf carts, this stretch of coast was one of the most dangerous in America. Ships hauling tar, pitch, and turpentine from Wilmington had to navigate the Frying Pan Shoals — a shifting maze of sandbars and currents that wrecked hundreds of vessels.
Sailors called it “The Graveyard of the Atlantic,” and they weren’t exaggerating. After a hurricane in 1761 reshaped the coastline, it became clear the area needed a beacon.
The first lighthouse went up in the 1790s, but the sea had other plans.
Erosion undermined the foundation, and by 1813 it had to be torn down. A few years later, builders salvaged what they could — bricks, lantern, anything usable — and started again a bit farther inland.
The result was Old Baldy: an octagonal tower built from a patchwork of old and new materials, standing 110 feet tall, with walls nearly five feet thick at the base.
When it first lit up in 1817, its glow reached about 12 miles out to sea — a humble but vital guide for mariners battling the Cape Fear’s unpredictable tides.
Over the years, Old Baldy saw it all. It stood through wars, hurricanes, and long stretches of abandonment. During the Civil War, Confederate soldiers darkened its light to keep Union ships guessing, and later, Union forces took over the island altogether.
The lighthouse survived cannon fire, neglect, and more than a century of coastal change. By the time the newer Cape Fear Light was built in 1903, Old Baldy had already earned her name — her once-smooth white stucco now worn and mottled, her usefulness replaced but her presence irreplaceable.
She went dark for good in 1935. Most lighthouses would’ve crumbled or been replaced, but not this one. The locals wouldn’t let her fade away.
In the 1980s, when Bald Head Island began its transformation into the quiet, car-free community it is today, residents formed the Old Baldy Foundation to restore and preserve her. They didn’t try to make her perfect again — they let her wear her history proudly, every patch and scar part of her charm.
When we visited, we climbed all 108 of her wooden steps — narrow, creaking, and full of stories — until we reached the very top. We climbed the ladder and squeezed ourselves through the tiny entrance.
At the top, plexiglass barriers keep the wind from hitting your face, but you can still feel the height — that quiet awe that settles in when you realize how much history has unfolded below.
From the gallery, you can see it all: the curve of the Cape Fear River, the endless Atlantic, and the green canopy of Bald Head Island stretching beneath you. For a moment, it feels like you’ve stepped back in time — standing right where keepers once watched for ships in trouble.
Today, Old Baldy stands as both a landmark and a teacher. You can climb her steps, tour the museum next door, and learn about the pirates, shipwrecks, and lighthouse keepers who once called this stretch of coast home.
We climbed back down and sat at the picnic tables standing at her base. Looking up, I couldn’t help but think: she’s not shiny or new. But she is a survivor.
And that’s something I can relate to.
