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I
like to anthropomorphize as much as the next guy, so
when our canoe passed through the ruptured beaver dam
under the foot bridge, I attempted to put a human face
on the occupant of the adjoining beaver lodge. Initially,
I thought calling him Michael Beavens would be a fun
touch, but something about the obsessive way he piled
up branches each night, only to have them pulled down
by the ranger each morning, suggested that this luckless
beaver wasn’t a New Jack Swinger. Thinking that he might
be the type of beaver that prefers using initials, I
briefly considered B.B. Berry Beaves, Dr. C. Beavrett
Beaucoop and, of course, I. Wanataykutu Beaveytown.
None of these conjured up the right mental picture and
the names were too busy, even for a beaver. I dismissed
Bardles Bunfoul Beaver-Beavington and Bellyhugs Beaver
out of hand, for being too fatuous and childish, respectively.
I also visualized a superhero beaver named Blithe (a
bubbly superbeaver) or The Brandisher (rather dour),
but then realized that all this had gone too far and
I really should concentrate on viewing the nature preserve.
(Later, I settled on Beeleey Bally Beaver, because ever
since I saw Billy Elliot, I’ve enjoyed saying “Beeleey”
and “Bally.”)
We
were on a canoe tour of the Creston Valley Wildlife
Management Area. Our guide, the preserve’s education
director, was a woman who spent a good deal of time
persuading children to walk like coyotes. She was one
part ranger, one part third-grade teacher, a physically
fit font of cheerfully delivered wetlands data.
After
describing the beaver’s fruitless attempts to build
an unnecessary dam each night, she pointed out kingfishers,
painted turtles and water plants galore. In fact, she
somehow shamed us into eating cat’s tail reeds that
she pulled up from the muck. They tasted quite sophisticated—a
cross between a leek and endive—but I still felt like
I was eating something that grew in muck.
After
our tour, she taught us a little rhyme that I’ll pass
on to you:
Sedges
have edges
Grasses are round
Both of them grow with their roots in the ground
She
presented this as a chant over a finger-snap beat, but
gave us the option of performing it as a rap.
While
I believe our guide knew what she was talking about,
I must point out that sometimes a catchy nature slogan
can be full of lies. For instance, my brothers’
kindergarten teacher used to say:
A
feather is a letter from a bird
That’s
pure bollocks! It is a nicer message, though, than the
wisdom that my mother imparted to us when we were kids,
which I sum up with the following rhyme:
Leave
the feather on the ground
It’s covered with parasites and disease
If you touch it you’ll be found
Lifeless, the consistency of Roquefort cheese
She
didn’t use those exact words, but that was her message.
Since age six, I’ve stuck to the family feather policy
of “looking with the eyes” and I have fine health to
show for it.
In
my anthropomorphic beaver world, I passed this sage
advice along to Beeleey, who interrupted the ranger’s
next dam demolition with an, “Oy, Mate! Look with the
eyes!” The perplexed ranger tried to clear the fog from
her head and made a mental note to drink stronger coffee
before these early morning outings. She waded deeper
into the channel, in order to remove the dam’s foundation.
As she tugged on a stubborn maple branch, a silver-pelted
figure glided across the foot bridge’s railing, stopping
inches above her head.
Champion
of the assiduous
Protecting builder, lodger and fresh-water fisher
A hero for all things amphibious
Ranger, beware The Brandisher
(Please
do not perform to a rap beat.)
Mr.
Lewis can be reached at jeff@babblog.com.
Copyright
Jeff Lewis, 2004 |
