View from a beaver stump
View from a beaver’s stump
I cut off the pointed top of a weathered beaver stump the other day. They felled the old tree alongside the stream, a place I loved to go. I cut it off level so that I could have a spot to sit and watch.
From where I stood, the alders on the other side looked bad. Many dead or broken branches leaned this way and that against the red ones that were still alive. It was easy to tell which were dead now that the leaves weren’t hiding anything.
The snow that had bordered the icy water had melted away, the odd chunk of ice floated past. Through the clear water, I could see a bit of the bottom: small stones and sand, sticks and logs that had moved downstream with the fluctuating level of runoff, the deeper channel where the current kept the bottom clean and the tapering, shallow edges where the silt had built up.
I’d been here a lot last summer, but finally the view of the dead alders along with the dead cedars behind me, all killed by the beavers over the last few years, was enough to drive me back up to the house and abandon our family campfires by the stream.
I sat down on the newly created chair, knee-high yellow grass rustling beneath my boots. A wave of peace flowed over me. I could hear the brook babble clearly, musically now. The sun shone on my face and I leaned my head back slightly. When I eventually opened my eyes and looked downstream, I realized the stream was reflecting the perfectly blue sky. It painted a curving line back and forth downstream as it passed the pond. It suddenly wasn’t a colourless winter day. All around the stream, I’d been seeing the branches and logs hiding in the yellow broken down grass. It had been a yellow and grey world with a bit of white ice still laying in puddles where I’d been working at cleaning up the beaver and ice storm damage. The view of the stream was summer, brimming with colour: the blue water, the brownish pebbles beneath it, the black dots of bugs firmly attached; the yellow grass leaning over, touching the water, the deep green of a spruce that I’d rescued from a cluster of dead cedars that had surrounded it; the red alders with blue sky peeping through the vertical branches. The view was so different than when I had stood alongside, glancing down at it, seeing the dead waterlogged branches it carried.
It occurred to me, how much like relationships this was, people we’re asked to home or visit teach. If I stand up and look from a distance, the people are spotted and speckled with faults and irritating annoyances, sins that are seemingly insurmountable, closer up they’re overshadowed by the good.
It was only when I sat at the level of the stream that I could see the beauty, that I could see what it was like to be the stream; where it flowed all day; what it was like to be living beside the yellow grass that tapped its surface continually; how many small animals were nourished by it; how incredible the music was. It was coming from an old waterlogged stick that bobbed up and down as the water rushed over and around it. I’d nearly taken that stick out till I realized that the music would have stopped.
I wondered if my helping to clean up their flaws had stopped people’s music. My, how invisible were the dead cedars that stood nearby, that had driven me out of this area. I never wanted to leave now. I wanted other stumps nearby for the kids to sit on. How much I’d missed by thinking it was an ugly spot. I’m sure it was the same for some people I had known.
I was glad I’d spent some time here and cleaned up the dead sticks that had been scattered on this side, trimmed off crooked dead alders, taken out the dead cedars that gave it such an unwelcoming look. But I hadn’t shared its life until I had sat alongside the stream. I felt differently now. It was a friendlier place, the kids could come and sit here on the log and stump and fish or catch frogs. I stood up to go. I’d learned something today, something I hoped I’d remember.
Nancy Sont is the mother of five. She lives with her family on a hill in a boreal forest in eastern Ontario, Canada. She is a stay-at-home mum who freelances for newspapers and magazines writing travel articles and nature books. Outdoor Life Magazine and Better Homes and Gardens have both used her work. http://www.travelwriters.com/nancyvsont/
Posted by John in Miscellaneous Articles
I cut off the pointed top of a weathered beaver stump the other day. They felled the old tree alongside the stream, a place I loved to go. I cut it off level so that I could have a spot to sit and watch.
From where I stood, the alders on the other side looked bad. Many dead or broken branches leaned this way and that against the red ones that were still alive. It was easy to tell which were dead now that the leaves weren’t hiding anything.
The snow that had bordered the icy water had melted away, the odd chunk of ice floated past. Through the clear water, I could see a bit of the bottom: small stones and sand, sticks and logs that had moved downstream with the fluctuating level of runoff, the deeper channel where the current kept the bottom clean and the tapering, shallow edges where the silt had built up.
I’d been here a lot last summer, but finally the view of the dead alders along with the dead cedars behind me, all killed by the beavers over the last few years, was enough to drive me back up to the house and abandon our family campfires by the stream.
I sat down on the newly created chair, knee-high yellow grass rustling beneath my boots. A wave of peace flowed over me. I could hear the brook babble clearly, musically now. The sun shone on my face and I leaned my head back slightly. When I eventually opened my eyes and looked downstream, I realized the stream was reflecting the perfectly blue sky. It painted a curving line back and forth downstream as it passed the pond. It suddenly wasn’t a colourless winter day. All around the stream, I’d been seeing the branches and logs hiding in the yellow broken down grass. It had been a yellow and grey world with a bit of white ice still laying in puddles where I’d been working at cleaning up the beaver and ice storm damage. The view of the stream was summer, brimming with colour: the blue water, the brownish pebbles beneath it, the black dots of bugs firmly attached; the yellow grass leaning over, touching the water, the deep green of a spruce that I’d rescued from a cluster of dead cedars that had surrounded it; the red alders with blue sky peeping through the vertical branches. The view was so different than when I had stood alongside, glancing down at it, seeing the dead waterlogged branches it carried.
It occurred to me, how much like relationships this was, people we’re asked to home or visit teach. If I stand up and look from a distance, the people are spotted and speckled with faults and irritating annoyances, sins that are seemingly insurmountable, closer up they’re overshadowed by the good.
It was only when I sat at the level of the stream that I could see the beauty, that I could see what it was like to be the stream; where it flowed all day; what it was like to be living beside the yellow grass that tapped its surface continually; how many small animals were nourished by it; how incredible the music was. It was coming from an old waterlogged stick that bobbed up and down as the water rushed over and around it. I’d nearly taken that stick out till I realized that the music would have stopped.
I wondered if my helping to clean up their flaws had stopped people’s music. My, how invisible were the dead cedars that stood nearby, that had driven me out of this area. I never wanted to leave now. I wanted other stumps nearby for the kids to sit on. How much I’d missed by thinking it was an ugly spot. I’m sure it was the same for some people I had known.
I was glad I’d spent some time here and cleaned up the dead sticks that had been scattered on this side, trimmed off crooked dead alders, taken out the dead cedars that gave it such an unwelcoming look. But I hadn’t shared its life until I had sat alongside the stream. I felt differently now. It was a friendlier place, the kids could come and sit here on the log and stump and fish or catch frogs. I stood up to go. I’d learned something today, something I hoped I’d remember.
Nancy Sont is the mother of five. She lives with her family on a hill in a boreal forest in eastern Ontario, Canada. She is a stay-at-home mum who freelances for newspapers and magazines writing travel articles and nature books. Outdoor Life Magazine and Better Homes and Gardens have both used her work. http://www.travelwriters.com/nancyvsont/
Posted by John in Miscellaneous Articles