Castor Canadensis Redux ( Edited )

 

“Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action” ~ Ian Fleming

 Gentle Readers and Loved Ones,

 Earlier this week, I related the silly story of the Wily Namekagon Beaver. Today, Rory and I were involved in yet another encounter with Castor Canadensis. This one is much more bizarre than the first. As with the first, I’d like to take this opportunity to implore that you turn away from the urge to indulge in cheap puns and double entendre.

 Ann is up at the cabin with me the last couple of days so I have been availing myself of the opportunity to have her drive the truck to a pick up point while I walk a hunting trail. It is quite the luxury to not have retrace your steps to return to your ride.

 I have a very nice little trail on Burnett County’s lovely Loon Creek Basin. We got out and walked a little loop that resulted in Rory bouncing not one but two woodcocks. Sadly, Woodcock season ended a week ago so I had to stand there and watch the twittering Timberdoodles flitter away across the creek.

 After Rory found the woodcocks, we went up the shallow hill and began walking the fire trail that parallels the creek. To the left is a cute little beaver pond handmade by actual natural Beavers. 

Loon Creek Beaver Pond

 

Suddenly, Rory breaks hard right up into the scrub Oak and Popple cover that is on the right side of the fire break away from the Beaver Pond. I can hear him aggressively routing around in there and have my shotgun at the ready.

 Then I hear the rhythmic stepping sound he makes when he’s returning on a retrieve. It’s different than running back while hunting. I’m puzzled. As he breaks the edge of the cover and I can see him, I see that he has something in his mouth. At this point, like Hedley Lamarr: “My mind is a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives.”  

I have no idea what he has in his mouth but I have a ton of theories.

 As he nears, it looks like he has a black Croc in his mouth. I am puzzled why he would have found a Croc deep in Wisco scrub oak forest. As he gets closer, morphing, it begins to look like a black oven mitt. Now, I have the same puzzled question concerning forest and oven mitt.

 Rory’s tail is going in big, happy proud circles. He knows he’s bringing me something special. I heel him up, he sits and I reach down to take the oven mitt in a textbook “Deliver to Hand” retrieve.

Then I look more closely at what I hold and my paradigm is suddenly forced to shift. Gentle Reader, I kid you not - I have in my gloved hand, a recently severed Beaver Tail. ( I implore you here to stifle your punning reflex. ) I can truthfully say that one of the first thoughts to flash through your mind when you find yourself holding a recently severed beaver tail is “Now what do I do with this?”

 Because I am the damaged human that I am, I held it back out to Rory, and commanded “Fetch”. Obediently, he performed a flawless Tim Springer Obedient Fetch so that I could pull out my phone and take a series of photos against the gorgeous setting sun. Because, who wouldn’t?

Rory and the Beaver Tail

 

Rory and the Beaver Tail

 

 Do not ask your humble scribe to explain exactly how a beaver tail came to be severed and laying in the scrub oak woods. I do not know. Were I forced to guess, it would be that one of the Fur Trappers that enjoy the bounty that is Burnett County trapped this poor Beaver from the contiguous Beaver Pond and skinned it. I would guess that the process of skinning requires a surgical removal of the tail. I would not be surprised to learn that had I gone into the woods in the direction that Rory came from, I would have found a pile of Beaver remains in the process of being returned to nature.

 At this point, I’d like to indulge in a little braggadocio. I am a member of “Four Points Retriever Club”. The members of this club are all fine dog trainers and good people that far outstrip my meager efforts at training Rory. While I will not go so far as to say that today was a singular accomplishment, I am willing to say that only a small subset of the Membership has achieved the signal victory of having a Beaver tail delivered to hand by their dogs.

 The setting sun provided a beautiful backdrop to end this saga. I hope you found it as entertaining as I did.

Loon Creek Sunset

 On that happy note, I remain,

Dad/ Geoff

Addendum:  I just learned mere hours after hitting the publish button that a Full Moon occurring in November is called "The Beaver Moon".  How I missed this crucial piece of research as I drafted this Gadabout will remain a stain on my story telling skills forever.  I apologize to all of you.

 

 

The Wily Namekagon Beaver

 

"I never tell a dirty joke - it's a cheap way to get a laugh." ~ Red Skelton

The Wily Namekagon Beaver

Gentle Readers and Loved Ones,

 Amongst my tens of readers, there is a small kernel that enthusiastically seeks opportunity to engage in the low act of punning and double entendre. With sorrow, your author must count himself amongst those sadly stricken souls. The saga I am about to recount offers ample opportunity to gratify those sinful ways.

But, before you blindly quip, I encourage you to indulge in a moment of self reflection and consider the permanence of Al Gore’s Information Superhighway. Further, please reflect on whether you wish your base word play to sully your reputation among those who do not appreciate the fine art of the pun and entendre. Thank you.

On to the story. I am here in our family cabin in Burnett County, in NW Wisconsin. Replete with many marshes, streams and lakes, aquatic fur bearing mammals abound, the majestic Beaver being chief among them. The historical re-enactment of the early 1800s Fur Trade is one of the many reasons that this writer would encourage you to visit and support the county’s Fort Folle Avoine Historical Site. We took the grand kids there last summer.

Today, Rory and I went off to stalk the wily Ruffed Grouse along the banks of the magnificent Namekagon River. There are those who claim, with a lot of truth, that the Namekagon river basin is the most secluded river in the US. I have many grouse covers scouted out along the river and seldom do I run across others there.

The little hunter walking trail I used today runs right up against the steep sandy banks of the river. Now that the foliage has fallen you can easily see the river down below. My basic grouse strategy involves me slowly walking along a trail - the better the trail, the better for me - while young athletic Rory quarters the woods and brush around the trail. Rory now knows the scent and sound of the grouse and the woodcock and does a creditable job of flushing them from their hides. Whether they fly an escape route that exposes them to my fire is always a crap shoot. But, just the sheer thrill of working as a team with a dog that I have trained is starting to be more important than actually bagging a bird. ( Yeah, I know, that's really weak.... )

I try to keep my eye on Rory for cues to maintain readiness. He suddenly disappeared to my right down the steep bank.  I quickly tried to locate so that I had the freedom to swing the gun and then looked to see where Rory had gone. I noted he had gone down the steep embankment of what I thought was a very well used deer trail and had jumped in the river. He was paddling around with that wild abandonment that only dogs living in the moment of sheer happiness can achieve. I called him up and here he comes but now he has “The Zoomies”.  He’s running wild circles around a specific location. I look closer and note that what he is circling is a tree that has been cut down very recently by a Beaver. Reassessing the situation, I realize that we are passing through an area that a wily Beaver is harvesting and that the scent of the Beaver must be replete all through the area. That is why Rory is so excited.  Further, what I thought was deer trail was actually a path beaten down by the Beaver as it hauled wood. 

I get Rory calmed down and into a sit and I took this picture. You can see the stump, the stick and the tree laying on its side. I wonder if we surprised the Beaver and drove him off. ( Please recall that you can click on these pictures to enlarge them. )

Rory, the Stump, the Stick and the Tree

This is occurring near the end of our hunt.  Rory knows we are walking out to the Truck which is about 300 yards away.  He grabs a piece of tree trunk that the beaver sectioned up and falls in love with it. 

Rory's new stick

 

He picks it up and starts carrying his "stick" out to the truck. I got my camera out and got this short video.

We walked all the way to the truck, Rory proudly parading his “stick”. He wanted to take it home with us.  No, we did not bag a bird.  Had great time though. 

On that happy note, I remain,

Dad/Geoff