Reflections on the First Week
of Winter – Beavers Move In
Beaver Cut Sapling
For years, my husband Spence and I tripped over an occasional beaver cut sapling stump on the flood plain and searched in vain for beaver lodges. Had the beavers snacked while passing through?
On December first, Flickie, our neighbor Charles Flickenger, didn’t snack or pass through. He sat on the grassy knoll’s moss covered stump. In hunter orange and with a rifle across his lap, he gazed over Deer Creek and into the woods to watch for deer moving away from his hunting buddies walking through the woods.
Spence spotted Flickie’s truck parked near our garage so walked down the hill to greet him.
Flickie pointed upstream. “I see beavers have been up by Hutch’s.”
Spence gazed at the beaver cut saplings on Hutch’s bank. “Yeah, but I can’t find the lodge.”
Flickie shrugged. “They’re bank beavers.”
Back at our log house, Spence pulled off his hiking boots, reported his conversation with Flickie, and said, “I’ve got a research project for you. What are bank beavers?”
I tapped computer keys.
On December first, Flickie, our neighbor Charles Flickenger, didn’t snack or pass through. He sat on the grassy knoll’s moss covered stump. In hunter orange and with a rifle across his lap, he gazed over Deer Creek and into the woods to watch for deer moving away from his hunting buddies walking through the woods.
Spence spotted Flickie’s truck parked near our garage so walked down the hill to greet him.
Flickie pointed upstream. “I see beavers have been up by Hutch’s.”
Spence gazed at the beaver cut saplings on Hutch’s bank. “Yeah, but I can’t find the lodge.”
Flickie shrugged. “They’re bank beavers.”
Back at our log house, Spence pulled off his hiking boots, reported his conversation with Flickie, and said, “I’ve got a research project for you. What are bank beavers?”
I tapped computer keys.
- If the water’s slow, beavers build lodges in the middle of a stream or pond.
- If the water’s swift and deep enough, beavers dig dens in banks.
Throughout December, Spence pulled off his boots and shook his head. “Beavers cut more saplings, but I can’t find any bank dens upstream.”
Wednesday, because my curiosity about where the beavers slept peaked, I dressed for a beaver investigation walk. All I needed was the pair of knee high wading boots I hadn’t used since I fell into the creek ten years ago. “Where are my yellow waders?”
Spence moved papers into a stack beside him on the sofa. “Your boots are in the cold cellar by the basement door.”
A lemon yellow boot and a corn yellow boot sprawled on the floor between the grill and a basket of sawdust. Color didn’t matter if my feet stayed dry. While I shook each boot to dislodge sawdust and visiting spiders, the curves of the toes discouraged me. I dropped the boots and climbed the stairs. “They’re both left feet.”
He laughed. “You won’t need them—”
I frowned.
“—but you can wear mine. They’re on the porch.” He slipped into his hiking boots.
I fetched the yellow waders from under his summer porch desk and pulled an old gray sneaker out from the top of the boot. A mouse nest filled the foot of the boot. Leaning over the porch rail, I shook out the nest. A dark blob that could have been a dead mouse–I didn’t investigate–fell with leaves, shredded paper, fluffs of insulation, and wood shavings. I emptied a few pieces of paper and leaves from the second boot then dusted the shoes and boots inside and out.
Boots on, camera hung around my neck and clutched in my left hand, I galumphed across the porch, down the steps and through the woods with Spence.
Thin ice covered the still water behind the old dam where we’d watched a beaver in June. (See “Our Forty-ninth with a Dam Beaver” June 4, 2017 blog.) The dam rose a foot and a half above the surface of the downstream water. “The beavers rebuilt the section that the flood washed away this summer.”
Spence put his hands on his hips and stared at the dam. “Or a subsequent flood deposited gravel and debris.” He ran his fingers across beaver tooth marks on the top of a fresh sapling stump. “If there’s a bank den here, it has to be on Hutch’s property.”
I glanced through the woods at our grouchy neighbor’s house. “I don’t want to walk along his bank.”
“We can cross here and walk up the island.” He splashed through the trickle flowing below the dam.
I followed.
Ducking under briars, we walked along the low, muddy edge of the Deer Creek island.
Spence pointed across the creek to a messy pile of fresh cut sticks on Hutch’s high bank. “The bank den.” Two yards from the pile, a half dozen beaver cut saplings rose from the ground like a sprouting crop of corn. “We won’t know if they’re inside until the weather’s colder and their warm breaths condense above the ventilation hole.”
I focused the camera on the sticks.
Spence explored. “You won’t believe this!” he shouted. “This is new.”
I turned off the camera, attached the lens cap, and ducked under briars.
Though moss, withered grass, and brown leaves covered the uneven ground of the island, Spence walked along a dirt path. Beaver tummies and tails had cleared and smoothed this straight, twenty foot walkway to the other side of the island.
I followed. “Wow!”
A new beaver dam, three feet higher than the downstream water, arced across the wider branch of Deer Creek. Behind the dam water formed a smooth, reflective pond. Below the dam, the creek swooshed and burbled over rocks.
Spence grinned at me. “You want to explore the other bank?”
“Definitely.” I studied the submerged tree trunk near our grassy bank, calculated the depth of water above and below the tree, and added the thickness of the trunk. Two and a half or three feet deep. “But we can’t cross here.”
“We can cross at my old logging site.” Spence led the way over the beaver path, across the narrow Deer Creek branch, and down our high bank. Below the island, the two branches combined and spread into a slower, wider, shallower creek.
We splashed across a rocky section. Water topped the foot of my boots. Then the creek deepened.
Spence stopped. “Be careful. It’s slippery and uneven.”
With slow, steady steps, I waded through water coming halfway up the knee high boots. My feet stayed warm and dry.
“That water’s going to come over the top of my boots,” Spence said.
“Go back.” I stepped out of the creek. “We can walk on opposite banks.”
“I don’t like that idea.” Spence hustled through water which topped his boots and wet his jeans.
Though his feet were cold and wet, we followed the wooded bank to a clearing of sapling stumps by the new dam. Further upstream a mess of blackened leaves, sticks, and mud topped a bank den. Beyond the bank den lay two felled maples. Beavers had gnawed through trunks twelve inches and eighteen inches in diameter. I focused the camera on the beaver’s work.
“If Hutch sees this, he’ll trap the beavers.” Spence stomped his wet feet. “Good thing his eye sight is poor, and he doesn’t ride his tractor anymore.”
After taking my eighty-seventh photo, I said, “We’ve got to get you home and into dry clothes.”
Spence agreed.
On Friday, when I pulled on hiking boots to take a break from the laundry, Spence said, “Do you want to see the third bank den?”
“A third?”
He chuckled reached for his jacket and led me to the spot where two huge maples had fallen across Deer Creek downstream. A pile of sticks made a mess two yards from the undercut bank.
“Those sticks?” I squinted at the pile. “Didn’t the flood deposit them?”
Spence walked on logs nestled against the bank, stepped across the stream, and held his hand out for me.
I grabbed his hand and joined him on a pebble strewn beach. We trudged around the horizontal maples. A mud slide, narrower and muddier than the beaver’s dirt path upstream, connected the lodge topped bank den to the creek.
The flood hadn’t left the sticks, and beavers hadn’t snacked while passing through. They’d moved in.
Only the cold water and my too wide derrière stopped me from trying their tempting slide.
Wednesday, because my curiosity about where the beavers slept peaked, I dressed for a beaver investigation walk. All I needed was the pair of knee high wading boots I hadn’t used since I fell into the creek ten years ago. “Where are my yellow waders?”
Spence moved papers into a stack beside him on the sofa. “Your boots are in the cold cellar by the basement door.”
A lemon yellow boot and a corn yellow boot sprawled on the floor between the grill and a basket of sawdust. Color didn’t matter if my feet stayed dry. While I shook each boot to dislodge sawdust and visiting spiders, the curves of the toes discouraged me. I dropped the boots and climbed the stairs. “They’re both left feet.”
He laughed. “You won’t need them—”
I frowned.
“—but you can wear mine. They’re on the porch.” He slipped into his hiking boots.
I fetched the yellow waders from under his summer porch desk and pulled an old gray sneaker out from the top of the boot. A mouse nest filled the foot of the boot. Leaning over the porch rail, I shook out the nest. A dark blob that could have been a dead mouse–I didn’t investigate–fell with leaves, shredded paper, fluffs of insulation, and wood shavings. I emptied a few pieces of paper and leaves from the second boot then dusted the shoes and boots inside and out.
Boots on, camera hung around my neck and clutched in my left hand, I galumphed across the porch, down the steps and through the woods with Spence.
 |
| Old Dam and Thin Ice |
Spence put his hands on his hips and stared at the dam. “Or a subsequent flood deposited gravel and debris.” He ran his fingers across beaver tooth marks on the top of a fresh sapling stump. “If there’s a bank den here, it has to be on Hutch’s property.”
I glanced through the woods at our grouchy neighbor’s house. “I don’t want to walk along his bank.”
“We can cross here and walk up the island.” He splashed through the trickle flowing below the dam.
I followed.
Ducking under briars, we walked along the low, muddy edge of the Deer Creek island.
Spence pointed across the creek to a messy pile of fresh cut sticks on Hutch’s high bank. “The bank den.” Two yards from the pile, a half dozen beaver cut saplings rose from the ground like a sprouting crop of corn. “We won’t know if they’re inside until the weather’s colder and their warm breaths condense above the ventilation hole.”
I focused the camera on the sticks.
Spence explored. “You won’t believe this!” he shouted. “This is new.”
I turned off the camera, attached the lens cap, and ducked under briars.
Though moss, withered grass, and brown leaves covered the uneven ground of the island, Spence walked along a dirt path. Beaver tummies and tails had cleared and smoothed this straight, twenty foot walkway to the other side of the island.
I followed. “Wow!”
A new beaver dam, three feet higher than the downstream water, arced across the wider branch of Deer Creek. Behind the dam water formed a smooth, reflective pond. Below the dam, the creek swooshed and burbled over rocks.
Spence grinned at me. “You want to explore the other bank?”
“Definitely.” I studied the submerged tree trunk near our grassy bank, calculated the depth of water above and below the tree, and added the thickness of the trunk. Two and a half or three feet deep. “But we can’t cross here.”
“We can cross at my old logging site.” Spence led the way over the beaver path, across the narrow Deer Creek branch, and down our high bank. Below the island, the two branches combined and spread into a slower, wider, shallower creek.
We splashed across a rocky section. Water topped the foot of my boots. Then the creek deepened.
Spence stopped. “Be careful. It’s slippery and uneven.”
With slow, steady steps, I waded through water coming halfway up the knee high boots. My feet stayed warm and dry.
“That water’s going to come over the top of my boots,” Spence said.
“Go back.” I stepped out of the creek. “We can walk on opposite banks.”
“I don’t like that idea.” Spence hustled through water which topped his boots and wet his jeans.
 |
| New Dam 3 |
“If Hutch sees this, he’ll trap the beavers.” Spence stomped his wet feet. “Good thing his eye sight is poor, and he doesn’t ride his tractor anymore.”
After taking my eighty-seventh photo, I said, “We’ve got to get you home and into dry clothes.”
Spence agreed.
On Friday, when I pulled on hiking boots to take a break from the laundry, Spence said, “Do you want to see the third bank den?”
“A third?”
He chuckled reached for his jacket and led me to the spot where two huge maples had fallen across Deer Creek downstream. A pile of sticks made a mess two yards from the undercut bank.
“Those sticks?” I squinted at the pile. “Didn’t the flood deposit them?”
Spence walked on logs nestled against the bank, stepped across the stream, and held his hand out for me.
I grabbed his hand and joined him on a pebble strewn beach. We trudged around the horizontal maples. A mud slide, narrower and muddier than the beaver’s dirt path upstream, connected the lodge topped bank den to the creek.
The flood hadn’t left the sticks, and beavers hadn’t snacked while passing through. They’d moved in.
Only the cold water and my too wide derrière stopped me from trying their tempting slide.
 |
| Deer Creek Island |
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