While waiting for a relative to get some business done in Sanford recently, I drove over to Number One Pond, where I have often sat in the past with a book or a bit of writing. It proved to be an exercise in futility, as there was much more going on across and alongside the pond than was going on within the pages of my book. Then again, that is often the case with Number One Pond, as I’ve never passed it without coming away from the experience with some new impression.
In the two short hours I was there, I managed to compile a considerable list of the birds I saw there. Not all at once, you understand, for birds seem to have an instinctive sense, among others they possess, of just when to make an entrance. First, it was a pair of small ducks whose species remains a mystery, as I’d failed to bring my field glasses with me. Then, I noticed a great blue heron poised soundlessly on a narrow, reedy peninsula midway across the pond’s marshy northern end. Next came the distinctive honking that can only be produced by Canada geese. Sure enough, a pair, male and female, as was quite apparent by their behavior toward each other, glided into view from behind some reeds. Not long after, a third swooped majestically down to join them, but was quickly dispatched by the male, who honked in loud protest. And if all of this avian drama wasn’t enough to satisfy a bird-lover’s appetite, I also enjoyed the presence of robins scuttling across the grass, red-winged blackbirds chortling from the reeds and a cardinal chiming in the distance.
The climax came when, at the very edge of the pond, a disturbance in the water caught my eye, but it wasn’t a bird. It was, rather, some type of mammal swimming along with just the top of its head and part of its back showing. That’s when I decided to get out of the car and do some exploring in the hopes that the obviously mammalian visitor would make its presence more readily known. Had I not gone as far as I’d originally intended to, I would have missed the single, undeniable piece of evidence that confirmed my suspicion.
Just a few feet from the asphalt path on the slope that dips toward the water’s edge lay a tree that could only have been taken down by one particular creature. Its top was immersed in water, and what remained of its trunk bore the unmistakable marks of Castor canadensis, better known as the North American beaver. Both ends of the trunk where it had been chewed through were tapered like pencil points, with just a few of the tree’s heartwood fibers remaining to prevent them from separating completely. I suspected that the culprit would be back late some other night to finish the job. There was relatively little debris on the ground around the tree, for unbeknownst to many, beavers not only gnaw at a tree to cut it down, but eat some of the wood as well. It was then that I also realized that the mounds of sticks and twigs across the water near the small peninsulas were indeed beaver lodges, the partially submerged dwellings that these large rodents are able to enter and exit without being seen.
The fact that the grass is still brown, the air still nippy and the trees still bare are no deterrent to all the wild animals and birds that frequent the pond and other such places. Nor do any of them seem to be put off by the endless bustle of human activity around them. Just feet away from this activity, pond life is thriving, a tribute to nature’s resilience and to the adaptability that makes it possible for us all to live together in harmony.
— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, who enjoys exploring the woods of southern Maine, can be reached via email at rachell1950@yahoo.com.
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