Dam Busting

It is Sunday morning. Through the patio glass door I see Dave sitting in the morning sun with a freshly brewed 'tall dark' and a book. He is looking so relaxed these days, and he sleeps all night without waking, sometimes more than 8 hours. What could be more healing to the creative mind! I sit at the breakfast table finishing my cup of Canadian Breakfast tea (from the Oolong Tea House in Kensington) and toast with marmalade; I am anticipating a quiet day of rest and light house cleaning in preparation for a visit from our Calgary friends Kim and Lori Follis tomorrow.
My Dad stomps up onto the deck and I see him speaking energetically to Dave, who immediately transforms his placid face into a look of 'Oh, no!' There is some more discussion and some gesturing by Dad before he breezes into the kitchen. "I was out hunting for some Black Hawthorn trees to make the salt and pepper grinders Townsends ordered; and I discovered those darn beavers are back and have built dams all over again. We're going to have to go over there and chop out their dams." 'Oh no', I said. I know how much damage they did to Dad's property last year; these dams nearly turned the whole area across the bridge into one big marsh. It is not lost on me that I had just been blogging about our beloved Canada; the beaver is the Canadian national emblem - strange as that may seem.
Dad and I don our tall rubber boots - mine actually belonged to my mother, and I can't think that she had worn them for many years. Mom was a very petite woman, with feet the same size as mine. These boots must be two sizes too large at least; can these really have been hers? I slog off to Dad's closet where I find the same white shirt I had worn huckleberry picking. There is no sign of the huckleberry stains, I am pleased to say. I put on my new leather Kansas City Power and Light gloves which Bruce Barnes gave me when I was visiting my garden yesterday. They are a little big too. Dad hands me a 4 tined garden implement, jams some heavy duty clippers into his back pocket and picks up his garden shovel. Off we lumber. I have to lift my feet carefully so I don't trip in these unwieldy, too big boots.
Across the bridge is about 6 acres of deeply forested land. It has a tendency to the slightly marshy side but I am shocked to see huge pools everywhere. I stick the handle of my garden thingy into the first pool we come to and find it is 3 feet deep. We start dredging the little dam and find that it is an engineering marvel. Sticks are intertwined and filled with smaller twigs, grasses and tons of mud. It is tightly packed and we have to dig and lever and reef on the sticks to break the dam apart. Soon the water is flowing rapidly over the dam and we trudge off the the next one.
The bushes and grasses are up to my armpits, very dense and smelling pungently of mint, ferns and rotting organic matter. Taller bushes and trees form snares which catch at our arms, hats and garden tools. It is very tangled foliage. There are thistles and stickery bushes every where. I am grateful that I am wearing a pair of courderoy pants which offer a modicum of protection from these hostile plants. These pants are also a bit large for me. They were given to me by someone I counted as a dear friend but who later proved herself to be a very false friend. I still wear the pants for two reasons: 1. because they are really cute; thin wale courderoy cargo pants with matching satin pockets low on the legs. and 2. because I know my erstwhile friend could no longer fit them. They are too small for her and are too large for me; making me feel smug. But I digress into petulant cattiness.
Underfoot the ground is very uneven: sticks and grass form high spots to trip over as well as disguising deep depressions which can be very jarring to fall into. At one point my Dad trips and completely disappears into an unexpected hole - the tall grasses hiding him from my view. 'Daddy', I yell from behind him, 'are you okay'. I can't run to get up to him in this mess, I can only keep plodding. He is hoisting himself out of a deep grassy tangle when I come up even with him, and he is laughing. I am relieved he is not hurt.
We badly damaged about 5 dams, one of which was formed by the beavers jamming a perfectly sized log into a drainage pipe! That is a little spooky - these are very smart rodents. The Canadian national emblem is not a glamourous (Canadian spelling) creature but it is extremely diligent, intelligent and resourceful. I am impressed. We reach the West edge of Dad's property and trudge up an embankment to the irrigation ditch which skirts along the boundary with Forest Service land. The ditch is perfectly dry; all the water having seeped out somewhere below us into the beaver ponds .
It is hot, dry and rocky up here on the side of the hill. I am feeling hungry and thirsty from all the exertion; wishing I even had a piece of gum to moisten my mouth. A few more steps and I spy something red and tiny in a stickery bush. Wild raspberries! Ripe, too! Oh, the grace of God. I pick them and gobble them, wonderful and refreshing. When we reach the Eastern edge of the property we again turn down into the forest and chop our way through the underbrush until we reach a huge pond and a huge pile of logs and sticks. It is very large and intricate structure mounded up with mud on one side. It is built beside a dam with a very pretty little waterfall left right in the middle of the dam. It is a perfectly beautiful setting for beavers to raise a family. I am sure this is the beaver house and I proclaim as much to my Dad who nods patiently and tiredly. We hack and dig and scrape away at the mound of mud and sticks until the water starts to flow right over Dad's boots. As I pull logs and sticks out of the sturdy fortress I am aware that I am just putting them into a neat little stockpile from which the beavers will retrieve them tonight to rebuild their home. This is not a solution, just a momentary deterent to the deep flooding their enterprise causes. We barely make a dent in this watery fortress, it is so well constructed.
We talk about returning later tonight when it is cooler. Dad jests about bringing his .22 and a flashlight; at least I think he is jesting... Beaver season isn't for a few months yet...
We make our way back to the bridge to cross into the relative sanctity of our manicured yard. I am hot and sticky, tired and famished and sneezing mightily from all the pollen and dust we have stirred up bashing through the brush. My recent descent into cattiness and wound licking has spoiled my personal peace. I am off to the shower to repent.