Every morning when I walk to the river I see newly gnawed beaver sticks lapping the shore and remember the beaver family I once knew so well…

A wide slow moving stream meandered its way to the sea below my house in Andover and beavers had made a solid dam and erected a domed lodge in the center of the stream. Early in the summer the parents would swim up to me with their kits as I sat quietly on my bench by the water. Watching those furry little heads with bright beady eyes peer at me curiously as they swam next to their parents is a sight that I will never forget.

This six foot high lodge was occupied by three generations of beavers. The beavers spent part of each summer “logging” the poplars at the edge of the stream. They created open mud slides that led to open water and every night I would sit on the little bench and watch these industrious creatures cut off the branches after logging and swim with their unwieldy catch to the domed lodge. Upon arrival, they gnawed smaller branches off the logs divesting them of most of the leaves, which they ate. They took others to the dam to shore it up and repair any leaks.

As long as I sat quietly the beavers went about their work as if I wasn’t even there, but if I stood up suddenly or tried to rid myself of mosquitoes by waving my hands, one beaver or another would slap his tail making a great fuss! Later in the summer the beavers began to disappear under water with tender poplar branches. Stores of those tasty leaves and sticks would feed them throughout the coming winter. The little kits could be seen swimming with a slender stick or two towards the lodge imitating their parents. There was something about those bright-eyed little kits that stole my heart.

Perhaps the most astounding experience occurred the night an adult beaver climbed out of the water and stood up only a few feet away from me. I froze, barely breathing, but spoke to this adult in a low voice thanking him for the trust he and his extended family had showered upon me by giving me such a spectacular glimpse into the beavers complex world.

As fall set in that first year beaver activity increased and many evenings I witnessed the beavers emerging from the water walking upright, using only their back legs to walk up the steep sides of the lodge with their very short arms holding mud and vegetation against their jaws and cheeks. They deposited this debris on top of the lodge, strengthening it.

By November the slow moving stream slid under skim ice. I observed the beavers from my bench for shorter and shorter periods now because of the cold, huddled in my winter coat.

After my father’s untimely death that month I thought a lot about the relationship between my father and the beavers because the morning he died I dreamed that he had become one! To have such a lucid dream on the day of his death after I had spent an entire summer submerged in the beavers’ world seemed uncanny, prescient.

As winter set in the beavers settled into their domed house that was now surrounded by solid ice. For Christmas I decided to honor my father and the beavers together by giving my friends a present. So I took my handsaw and chopped down two tender poplars after asking for permission to do so… Next I took a crowbar and bored a big hole in the ice not far from the lodge and stuffed the first poplars into icy black waters. Late that day I sat on my frozen bench and called to the beavers, telling them that I had a present for them. I stayed there until almost dusk half frozen – hoping for a sleek brown head to appear, but of course no one did. Yet, when I walked up the hill, I felt as if I had done something important that mattered.

The next morning I raced down the hill to the stream, and to my amazement and joy, the poplar branches had disappeared! For the next three days I repeated poplar gift giving after reopening the hole in the ice, though I never glimpsed my friends.