Wetland walk

We went to the beaver pond to investigate the beaver-gnawed tree we’ve been observing and found it felled.

At several points they have already removed branches and carried them away, and they’ve begun on another tree to the far left in the photo.

They’ve also thickened the mud on the lodge.

It’s sight I’d love to see: a beaver carefully smoothing on the mud. Maybe someday.

On our way out I was delighted to see sprays of color. Can it be forsythia — in December?

Driving home we spotted a great blue heron flying from the pond to the river. It should have gone south by now, and I felt concerned for it.

We also saw a big redtail.

After a second birthday dinner for my daughter — this one for the grandparents — we finished the day reading a book which is, by my estimation, perfect: Charlie the Tramp. It’s about a young beaver who wants a different life:

Tramps don’t have to practice swimming and diving and holding their breath under water. Nobody looks to see if their teeth are sharp. Nobody looks to see if their fur is oiled. Tramps carry sticks with little bundles tied to them. They sleep in a field when the weather is nice, and when it rains they sleep in a barn. Tramps just tramp around and have a good time. And when they want something to eat, they do little jobs for anybody that wants little jobs done.

Charlie’s parents let him try out being a tramp. He takes some Fig Newtons and some Good’n’Plenties and heads off. Trying to sleep beside a stream, the “trickling, tickling” song of the running water keeps him awake at night, so the next night he builds a dam and makes a pond. When his father and grandfather come looking for him, they find the pond and try to decide who made it:

“That’s a pretty good pond,” said Grandfather. “I wonder who made it?”

“I don’t know,” said Father. “You think maybe Harry Beaver might have done it?”

“No,” said Grandfather. “Harry always makes a sloppy dam, and this one’s not sloppy at all.”

“What about old Zeb Beaver?” said Father. “Zeb always makes a good-looking dam.”

“No,” said Grandfather. “Zeb never makes a round pond like this one. Zeb always likes a long-shaped pond.”

“You’re right,” said Father. “He does.”

“You know,” said Mother to Father, “this pond looks like the ponds you make…”

It’s a delightful story, one that offers a lighthearted glimpse of instinct and stays in perfect tune and rhythm from beginning to end. Hearing my parents read it to my daughters brought back happy memories, and made me wonder if my curiosity and admiration for these enterprising rodents can be traced in part to Charlie Beaver and his family.