Reflections - Beaver Watch: Gnawed Sticks and Water Tricks
Beaver Bank Den under Leaning Tree
One February evening, he slipped into his boots and donned a hat. I sat at the kitchen table with Carleen and Sandi, the other township auditors. “I’m going to the garage,” he said and opened the door. “Then to the creek.” Spence stepped outside.
My mind tangentially attended to his words because I focused on finding the fuel bill listed three times in the ledger. Sandi, who had already found the amount in the general bank account, said, “The canceled check is dated April tenth.” Carleen held the receipt and pointed her finger at the code. Code number and date gave me the clues I needed to locate entries in the sixty-four pages of data.
When Spence returned, I'd forgotten about his outside trip. What was he doing in the dark?
He repeated these mysterious meanderings every mild February dusk. At the kitchen table with Carleen and Sandi, I focused on the audit—finding an uncashed check, running down a twice paid bill, or verifying that the ledger, payroll stubs, and bank account agreed. I didn’t connect his outings with the beavers at the bottom of the hill until one of our daily health walks.
Our boots thudded against the packed mud on West Creek Road, and Spence waved his arm pointing through the bare-branch trees to Deer Creek in the valley. “Three beavers were out last night. One swam downstream on reconnaissance. It scrambled onto the gravel bank.” Spence wiggled a finger indicating the further side of the creek. “It made ripples near our bank. It swam too close to see. Two played in the water upstream.”
I wished I could go with him.
Sometimes Spence’s beaver watch lasted only moments. The beaver swimming reconnaissance slapped its tail as soon as Spence arrived, and he spied no more beaver activities that evening.
When the audit finished, Spence left while I washed the dinner dishes. My hands in sudsy water, I glanced out the window. He crossed the north garden and disappeared into the woods. If I weren’t so tired, I would have skipped the dishes, trotted alongside him, and cleaned the kitchen before bed. Another time, I promised myself. In the meantime, I suggested a daylight walk to the view the bank beaver den.
The sunny, breezy afternoon of Monday, March 4, on our way to the beaver bank den, I paused across from the garage. Taking a coltsfoot photo, I slipped into the boggy drainage ditch and yanked my boot out—slurp. I hurried after Spence and stamped my boot to dash the mud off.
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| Coltsfoot |
He pressed his finger against his lips. Though I stopped stamping and didn’t talk, our boots rustled dried leaves underfoot. Wouldn’t that forewarn beavers? They have acute hearing.
Atop the knoll, we stood without talking. Spence scanned the water and pointed at ripples. Wind and water striders made them—not beavers. Fifteen minutes later, Spence broke his statue posture. “They aren’t out.”
The soothing babble of Deer Creek and the three inch shoots of the mini daffodil in clumps compensated for the absence of beavers. I hadn’t expected a daylight appearance anyway. “Let’s explore their bank den closer.” Because my wibble-wobbles could cause a tumble, I turned ninety degrees at the edge of the slope and side-stepped down to the floodplain—slowly.
Spence followed, straight footed and swiftly.
We pushed through prickly bushes. The trunk of a huge maple leaned at a thirty degree angle over Deer Creek. Storms had swept logs and other debris around its gnarly roots. The beavers dug their den in the bank underneath. I skirted around their air hole on the floodplain a foot from the edge of the bank. Were the beavers sleeping? Were they monitoring our footsteps above them? Maybe they were munching on branches they’d toted back to the den.
Further down the floodplain, twigs grabbed at my boot laces. Fallen trees challenged my balance as I stepped over one after another. But the dozens of gnawed off young trees bothered my equilibrium more. Beaver teeth had carved foot high spears—a cemetery of saplings. In addition, the beavers had girdled several mature cherries which doomed them. And the gnawers scraped the roots of a large beech. The roots oozed sap and attracted bugs. Beaver watching lost its charm. “They’re destroying the forest, Spence.”
“No, they’re not. “It’s part of nature’s balance. They’re actually bettering it.”
His words shut me up. He’d read Beaverland. I hadn’t.
Spence Holding Beaverland
He trudged to the creek for his beaver vigil nonetheless.
Daylight savings time arrived, and I recovered from the audit. On March 13, a warm, sunny day, I pushed away from the kitchen table. “I can do dishes later. I want to watch the beavers with you.”
Spence’s eyes widened. “Okay, but not until seven-fifteen. It’s too light. Beavers don’t come out until dusk.
He cruised computer headlines. I splashed dishwater. At 7:00, he interrupted my pot scrubbing. “We can go now. The light’s dim enough.”
So close to done, I rushed and finished kitchen chores at 7:10. Spence strode ahead—dried leaves rustling under his feet. I tip-booted behind, stretching for grassy clumps and shallow leaf spots on the path. This slower pace still swooshed leaves but softly.
Spence waved his arm to hustle me. He stared at the creek, checked my progress, and mouthed hurry up.
Later he told me that, while I was creeping down the path, a beaver emitted a powerful musky scent, popped its head out of the water under the leaning tree, and swam downstream. By the time I reached Spence, he motioned for me to take his place beside the maple and pointed. A beaver’s wake rippled across Deer Creek. Maybe my careful treading had allowed Spence the full view.
We stood like statues.
On the upstream side of the bank den two beaver heads popped up. A beaver lifted its chubby body out of the water in a rounded brown hump. Arching, the critter dove under. It resurfaced and faced the second beaver.
A shimmery lightness radiated through me. No wonder Spence walked to the creek so frequently for beaver shenanigans. I hugged the inner warmth.
The second beaver swam upstream, left a six-foot wide wake, and disappeared into dark ripples. A few minutes later, the chubby-leaper swam—head up—to a leaning trunk thirty-yards upstream on the opposite side. The tree had caught floating logs. Perhaps it would become another bank den site.
I nudged Spence. He grinned, no doubt sharing the excitement that bubbled through my nature-nourished soul. He patted my hand and turned his head to scan the creek for returning beaver wakes.
The pink sunset turned orange then purple. A robin led the evening songbird chorus. Deer Creek burbled over rocks.
Spence stood straight and scanned for wakes.
Jupiter sparkled near the crescent moon.
Tree shadows glimmered in ripples.
Earlier in the day, only one bunch of mini daffodils bloomed. I’d knelt to capture their photo. Now seven clusters had at least one open flower and all the buds had yellowed.
My knees twinged as if rusted shut. I whispered, “Are you expecting the beavers to return?”
He nodded and touched his lips with his finger.
I bounced my complaining knees. Though none of the beavers had slapped their tails in the water to signal danger, they may have caught a whiff of the silent humans. And staying quiet in the woods wasn’t the best idea at dusk on a mild evening. Hungry bears waking from hibernation might be out for a stroll.
Spence’s lips curved under the tips of his mustache. Only his head moved to scan Deer Creek.
How long would he wait for his beavers? Their return was unlikely. I bent cramping knees, counted the daffodil clusters again, and tracked clouds crossing the sky. Finally I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. “It’s eight minutes until medicine time. I have to go.”
“Is it that late?” Spence pointed, indicating I should lead.
Climbing the path through the dark woods, I treasured the two minute beaver-frolics and swished the leaves with my boots to alert any woods critters of our presence. Standing motionless in the woods for nearly three-quarters of an hour had lost its appeal. The next time I wash dinner dishes and Spence disappears into the woods, I’ll wish him well and hope the black bears, which have a sense of smell seven times greater than bloodhounds, are downwind of him. I won’t envy Spence.
Beaver Chewed Saplings
