A short distance from our Adirondack cabin, just down the snowmobile trail we hike nearly every day when we are here, we carefully cross a nearly-rotted away bridge that spans the inflow to our beaver pond. Follow this stream inland, bushwhacking through saplings and tangles of undergrowth, and you will come to a series of abandoned beaver ponds, lodges, six, maybe seven of them, ending at a small, lovely pond, and a little mossy peninsula where I like to lean against a large pine tree and take in the quietude of the place so far from everything.
To the left of the bridge is what we’ve come to think of as “our beaver pond.” It has been subject to countless photographs in all seasons, its old, abandoned lodge steadily looking less and less used over the years, the long spans of dams growing more and more grasses, small trees even sprouting now—the chewed stumps of trees moss-covered, barely noticeable in the abundant ferns.
After yet another series of torrential rains in this the summer of endless rain which even managed to wash out hundred-year-old dams and all roadways leading into the nearest small town, I recently noticed the outflow to our beaver pond had managed to find its way directly down the trail, etching a new, deep stream bed there for some 30 or so feet of trail before falling away and back down to its original course. Concerned this would erode the trail even further, I unplugged a small batch of twigs and leaf debris that had clogged the proper outflow beneath the dam, and the water headed in a rush back to its original bed.
I felt something deeply gratifying seeing my simple re-engineering re-direct, the stream now free to flow down into a small shallow bay on the nearby lake.
The next day, on our next walk, however, the outlet was again flowing down the trail, the bed now deeper-still, the water moving faster, steadier despite the lack of new rain. I grabbed a sturdy branch and again dislodged twigs, leaves, this time opening a wider swath, and again the stream rushed back into its original course.
The third time I did this, I started to get suspicious. I was particularly intrigued by three fist-sized stones that seem to have been almost purposefully placed along the top edge of the clogged outflow.
On the return walk that day, I spied something dark-sleek-brown slipping down from the top of the lodge into the black, still water. Beaver!
Sure enough, I now saw the lodge was piled with newly gathered branches, and the pond itself felt different—more full. Tended.
Now I leave the redesigned outflow alone, hoping the snowmobile trail folk will be content with staying a bit to the right (rather than removing the beaver(s?)). I have yet to see it again, but I’m just returned to the cabin after more than a week away, and I’m looking forward to finding out what kind of progress has been made.
I like knowing my paltry effort to change the course of nature was met with such singular, dogged intent. It helps me consider my own level of commitment and determination when things I thought I have done become undone, reminding me that the doing is far more essential than the finished structure. In writing this is especially true. The dams of our words all too often fail to gather up the rushing current of thought, to hold it, however momentarily, in place.
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Gorgeous.