Jungle Land
It’d been a while since I crossed the lattice-work of an old beaver
dam on of Mikinaak Creek. I was looking for a convenient, dry place to cross it so
my two friends and I could get east of it on our way to the confluence
of the Mikinaak and the South Fork of the Roseau River without getting
wet. I called the adjoining landowner for permission to
cross his property before we got there, should our mugs get captured on one of his trail
cameras somewhere without it.
The beaver dam, where beaver-chewed logs and sticks were deeply anchored in high banks of clay, sediment, and reed grass sod years-deep, was likely atop several other old dams built up and fallen down in that location for hundreds of years; and where muskrats, mink, mice and weasels ran and hid in a labyrinth of hidden tunnels veiled by greenish curtains of dried algae and yellow-white willow roots.
I can
say that with some credibility because the Minnesota Department of
Natural Resources / Thief Lake, in the early 1990s, surveyed and
excavated the Mikinaak (An Ojibwe word for 'turtle' inaccurately spelled
by cartographers as ‘Mickinock’) Creek basin to a depth of nine-feet in
one spot, and found remnants of ancient beaver dams buried there.
The overland approach to the dam was through shoulder-high reed grass. I
took the direct route, feeling my way for the one to two-foot drop offs
into hidden channels, under the grass, that had been created by water bypassing the dam and overflowing the creek bank, during floods. Small animals travel along the channels at night and use them to escape predators overhead.
I could see that a deer or some other large animal had pushed its way
through the grass toward the beaver dam too, but the grass had closed up
behind it and partially obscured its trail. It was slow going. I
stumbled and fell momentarily, catching myself with my walking stick;
the grass closing quickly over my head. The channel bottom was
thankfully dry and cushioned by layers of still-moist grass and soil. I
could’ve followed it downstream to an oxbow of the creek, but it was not
in the direction of the dam.
I was soon back to pushing my
way through the high grass. I put aside any worry I had of stepping upon
a gargantuan hornet nest hidden ahead of me, or bumping into a
peacefully sleeping bear, for I had left my imagination at home or else I
would be envisioning lots of wild-eyed animals and reptiles (including
birds) fleeing before me, jettisoning their poop so to make their bodies
lighter, diving into, fervidly flying
over, and leaping like Olympians across the turbid pools of stilled
water, then disappearing into the woods their little hearts pumping
wildly, their hackles raised, their feathers awry.
But in reality, this wouldn't happen in this tiny woodland corner of
Roseau County where all the animals and reptiles (including birds) can
hear everything I say and do, the moment I step outdoors, and so monitor
my whereabouts well in advance. That afternoon they had another jolly
time of watching 'a two-legged' (not a reptile) walk some place, this time
being crossing the creek.
“Look at the poor sot, an’ him wit’
his t'ird-leg ‘walkin' stick’ an’ all. Dis oughta be good... Remember
da last time 'e used it!”
“HA! Didja see dat? Fell smack on ‘is beak, ‘e did!”
“Clumsy oaf!”
“Lotta good dat walkin' stick did ‘im, eh Margaret?”
“An’ I took time outa my busy day ta watch this?? ‘Oose idea was it anyway? Makes me wanna yust snort!”
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