Beaver

Fall has truly arrived now, and we have had a long stretch of beautiful weather. Once again the first frost came late this year and wasn’t very hard; even now the lowest temperature to date has been -3.5 Celsius. Daytime temperatures are pleasant, just around ten or twelve degrees for the most part, which is just right for cleaning up in the garden now that harvest is complete and the grain is in the bins. There is no urgency, since there are only a row of carrots, the leeks, a few red cabbages and brussel sprouts left, and all of those are best kept in the garden as long as possible anyway.

        There is time now, too, to go for walks with Leo. It’s the time of the full moon, and if possible I try to watch it slide, huge and golden, over the horizon. Last month I was on my way home with a grain truck and just had to stop because it was too magical a moment to not take it in fully.

Moonrise at full moon - at least in the fall - usually happens right after sunset, so yesterday evening when the sun had almost slipped behind the horizon I deemed it the right time to walk across the pasture to watch the moon rise over the much shrunken pond. Amazing, how a small body of water can overflow in the spring, flooding its surroundings, yet reveal muddy banks below the grassy slopes in the fall.

I have to confess that the moon wasn't the only reason I went there, however. On a walk with Leo about a week ago I noticed unmistakable traces of a beaver's activities: the small grove of poplars right beside the pond had been farmed for building material, and quite a few of the small slender trunks had been cut down and dragged into the pond, foliage still attached, poking out of the water.

The night before I had been there right after sunset, watched the moon take a dip, joined by a few stars a little later, marveled at the pile of mud and branches that were to become a home for the beaver, or, more likely beavers. I was surprised to find myself quite reconciled with the decimation of trees, something I don't usually take very lightly. The idea that indeed a beaver - a wild thing! - had found its way into this little pond, a mere five minute walk from the house, was just too intriguing to leave much room to mourn the trees. Poplars grow up quickly again, and the ones it chose (so far, at least) weren't very old yet, except for one. There are few big old trees in that cove anyway, though I have to say that I would be very upset if the beaver decided to try his luck with the biggest of them, so thick that my arms don't reach around, but thankfully about the farthest removed from the edge of the pond.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I sat down on the grassy bank by the path the beaver had created by dragging branches and small trees into the water, a good distance from the beaver house but with a clear view of it, and waited, Leo by my side. After a little while I saw the water move with a smooth, long start of a wave, more than the ripple caused earlier by the wind, and indeed, a moment later a brown head appeared, eyes wide open, followed by a broad back. The beaver calmly swam a few rounds, looking left and right, while I urgently whispered to Leo to stay still, hanging on to his collar for dear life. I can't imagine the outcome of an encounter in the water would have been very favourable for the dog. The beaver didn't notice us, I think, yet suddenly slapped the water with its tail and went under, only to reappear seconds later. I watched it for a bit longer, but when it splashed next I grabbed Leo tightly and we were on our way. He didn't even object, surprisingly, just as he had, for once, lain down beside me without an argument.

This was last night, and of course I couldn’t resist going out again tonight. It had been stormy all day, clouds drifting fast, but without shedding any rain, and the wind was undiminished by the time I walked across the pasture, tugging at my hair, bending the long grass almost to the ground.

 

Thankfully Leo had gone with Johann, so I didn’t have to worry about him, and I had my camera with me, just in case. I snuggled down in the shelter of the long dry grass on the northern bank of the pond and waited. Geese returned from their day’s forage and landed a few hundred metres away in the middle of the field, a couple of crows battled the strong winds on their way who knows where, and a tractor started up in the distance, but other than that the only sound was that of the wind in the grass. I looked around: not only was there a big pile of mud and branches, likely the main dwelling of the beaver, but there were at least three more holes in the bank. Mud had been spread above them in the grass, and in four or five places the grass had been worn down to create a path to slide into the water for the beaver.

 

 

The water was almost constantly in motion, driven by the force of the wind, and for a long time I watched the reflection of the poplars change shape, zig-zagging for a moment, suddenly becoming stable as if they had been put in focus, but soon undulating again. Every once in a while I thought I detected another of those long, slow waves that had announced the emergence of the beaver yesterday, but nothing happened. A sudden red blaze in the west indicated that the sun was about to set, showing its face under the dark grey cloud cover for just a moment before it slipped behind the horizon.  Still I waited in vain for the beaver to show up.

Suddenly the sleek head emerged. The beaver made one small round before diving beside the pile of branches in the middle of the pond, quietly, without the characteristic splash of the tail, and was gone. I smiled. While there had not been enough time to take a photo I was thrilled to be there, not to have missed it. It was chilly, and soon it would be getting dark: time to get up and go home. But wait! More movement. Now I could hardly believe my eyes, because a much smaller animal, brown and furry, poked up its head beside the brush and paddled into the tangle of branches. Was it a muskrat? The size was about right. But no, it looked different. After a moment it moved away out into the open again, and now I saw that it was unmistakably a beaver – but a very small one. So it was a family that had moved in! The little guy followed its parent, dove at the same spot and was headed, I assume, for the main house. I, too, got up, now not only smiling but grinning broadly. What a wonderful encounter!