There is an old, old trail that begins on the
other side of a beaver dam. Hunters use it a lot in the fall.
Walking across the long, skinny expanse of the dam, I made my
way along the trail.
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MATHER |
The first bit of trail had been well packed
from this year's use. New flagging tape marked out a detour
around the new pond the beavers created, then curled back to
the old trail where it rose up the little hill. A whole series
of swampy puddles connect along this strip of land. Big piles
of poop gave
testament to a bear who spent the summer
here.
Half an hour into my wander, the path forked
- which way to go? I took the right. Not too far off I found a
tree stand. Tempted to climb to get a view of the land, I took
three steps up the tree. Then I decided the blocks of wood were
too narrow to climb comfortably with rubber boots. Maybe next
time. It was too bad though. Perhaps from up there, I could get
a better view of the land, and where I was within it.
Instead, I cut across the hill, down and up
to the next hill. I hoped the left fork continued along to the
north, and I would run into it eventually. I kept a big spruce
in the view behind me, then picked out a bigger white pine to
guide me back in case I couldn't find the other trail. At last,
I found
the blazes, just about where I expected
to.
Beaver dams changed the course of the trail.
Sometimes the trail ran alongside, sometimes it crossed to the
other side. Few had come this far this fall, except for the
bear.
No, I didn't know exactly where I was. I
didn't know how far I'd come, nor how far I had yet to go. I
didn't know if the trail would intersect with other trials in
the area, but I knew eventually I would run into the heronry to
the north, the lake to the east, or the old logging road to the
west. Every now and then, the sun would poke out from the
clouds just enough to reassure me that my path still ran
generally to the north - northeast.
I would have liked to have had a map. And a
compass. And it occurred to me that I really shouldn't be
walking around lost in the forest without matches. But there I
was.
The trail came out to a beautiful little
pond! Ah, for a map. I'd like to see where this jewel lay in
relation to the rest of the land. The trail was getting harder
to see, the flagging tape faded, or dropped off the trees, the
blaze marks long faded to grey on this grey day. Beaver trails
regularly intersected
my route, I had to watch carefully to be sure
I followed the right trail.
The trail would be good for a while, then it
would disappear. I walked onward, the way I felt it should go,
but sometimes I would have to backtrack
to find a bit of proof that I had not strayed
from the trail. Without compass or map, I wasn't comfortable
with the idea of wandering away from the remnants of this
trail.
There! Through the trees! A bigger beaver
pond! But no, it is not one I have seen before. I sat on the
ridge overlooking the beauty of the scene, and trying to figure
out how much further it should be before I ran into something I
knew.
Looking across the pond, and up the long,
high hill on the other side, there was a familiar feeling to
the shape of the land. The hill rose up through a stand of
young poplars there! That bald spot on the hill! The old
logging road lay between me and that hill. The old trail I
followed did indeed make
a loop, back to where I began. It was only a
few minutes away. I would be home for lunch.
Viki Mather lives by a lake near Sudbury.
