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June is snake season. This is my class mate, partner and friend. Tom Nunamacher
"Sentinal" On a secret den which over looks miles of forest.
Ned's Mercs and the Bank Beaver: A Beaver Ta(i)le
A long time ago, while working for the Game Commission’s habitat crew under land manager, Ned Weston, we were assigned to help Ned remove some nuisance beavers from a stream. As is their habit, the beavers had domiciled high up on a relatively rural trout steam. The problem was that the beavers insisted they build in such a way as to interfere with a water intake for a company way downstream. Ned, a renowned trapper as well as a land manager, was called in to resolve the situation with extreme prejudice in favor of the company. I was not being paid but was there as a mercenary for the great beaver war…also, Ned baited me with the incentive of possibly meeting Jack Lambert, the middle linebacker for the Steelers who spent his retirement years as a Game Deputy. So, off we went on an early weekend morning, to attack beavers with a Steeler; to think I was still wondering if it would be interesting…
When we got there, I really had no idea how to proceed. So, I looked for Mr. Lambert; he wasn’t there so it appeared I was going to have to tackle beavers for free and without the linebacker support I was counting on. While I was busy coming to terms with that added pressure, Ned took off like a shot. He swam across the huge beaver pond and started climbing a pyramid sized beaver hut. The hut was easily twenty feet high. I was shocked by such a frontal assault on the hut and wondered, “What does one do on top of a beaver hut?”
It didn’t take long to find out. Ned began digging down into the hut. He was talking a lot but it soon turned into a muffled echo as branches, limbs and mud flew from the growing hole. I was still looking over my shoulder and wondering how we should proceed by the time Ned’s ankles were the only thing visible of him as he burrowed into the burrow. I think he had just done more before nine a.m. than I planned to do all my life. Then it got quiet, very quiet. My fellow mercenary, Wil, and I stood there looking at each other in the middle of a strange forest on the edge of a huge pond, looking at a beaver dam that had just swallowed a man whole. Important questions floated there like a giant elephant between us. Did 911 answer these calls? Did Ned still have the keys to the truck in his pocket? Right in the nick of time which was about five minutes after we should have taken action…Ned burst back out of the hut, head first still talking and now we could understand him. He said something like, “F$#King S#4%$b#@ches R#$%%racken wro#$%leggers!!!” I thought, “Who knew there was a beaver dictionary in the hut?” So, we called out to Ned, “You okay?” Ned continued out of the hut while speaking in beaver tongues but soon we gathered, through interpretation and hand gestures, that earlier in the week, Ned had told someone not to mess around with the beaver dam or mess with the beavers in any way but apparently, they hadn’t listened and the beavers had moved out of the hut. Now don’t ask me what in that beaver dam indicated that the beavers had moved. I’m not sure if there was a note on the refrigerator or if all the furniture had been hauled out but suspect it was one of the two.
I was about to throw my hands up upon learning that the beavers had moved when Ned astounded me yet again (I was generally in a constant state of astound-ment around Ned) when he announced that he knew where the beavers had moved to. “They’ve gone to the bank!” he declared. I thought, “Of course, if you move you have to arrange your finances, direct deposit, new checking accounts, forward your bills…it was only natural…” Ned interrupted my wandering mind by explaining that the beavers had taken up residence in the banks of the creek upstream of the hut. I nodded in agreement as if that’s what I thought too all the while very glad I didn’t speak up a moment before.
If you are assuming we were foiled by the beavers moving up and going to the bank. I would have agreed with you back at that moment in time. Of course, I turned to get in the truck when Ned announced that we were going to have to set traps at escape points and grope up along the banks until we found the beavers. “Where you going Bill?” Ned asked as he explained. It wasn’t a lie more of a quick change of plans when I answered, “Oh, just to get the traps, of course”. (A weakness of mercenaries is that they are quick to quit since they’re not emotionally invested in the fight).
Skipping forward only five hours into this adventure; Ned is groping up along a bank under the washed-out roots of a giant oak in a big hole. Wil is standing in the stream at the top of the hole armed with a rake and I am in the stream at the bottom of the hole also armed with a rake. Ned calls out, “There he is!!” as he recoils his hand from under the roots. So far, we had found one thousand water snakes and fifty turtles under the banks but no beavers. However, we hadn’t referred to any of those as a “he”. We spoke beaver when we found those and were getting very proficient at it.
Ned reached up under the roots again and recoiled again. “He’s a big one; get ready!” Another recoil and reach and lots of splashing. Then Ned dove completely under the water and into the roots. He emerged sputtering, He’s out! Get ready!” I was right in the middle of a prayer to the saints to ensure the giant beaver would go upstream when I was interrupted by two ears peeking out from the shallows at my feet.
“Neeeeed, there’s the beaver…right here…” I declared in a screaming whisper. “Well grab it!” Ned replied. Suddenly, maybe after speaking beaver all day; I struggled with English, “What?” I said. Ned repeated, “F###$ing GRAB IT!” When he threw in the beaver language I got the gist that perhaps he actually wanted me to grab the beaver. I considered screwing it up but then considered if I’d rather not have a conservation career. I kind of gently went for the beaver because I was more busy considering my future and consequences as Ned had repeated ‘grab the beaver’ one hundred times. His use of beaver language to communicate that thought was growing exponentially. So, I grabbed the beaver by the tail, metaphorically and physically. Not surprisingly, beavers don’t like that. But Ned got there in time to help me drag the hissing, growling beaver who spoke amazingly fluent beaver to the shore. There Ned told me to continue to hold the beaver (at that point I thought that would go without saying; no one wants to let go of a beaver that you just grabbed by the tail.) Then Ned let go! I dug my heels in and Ned went to the giant and expressive rodent’s head and began scratching him behind the ears and cooing! Ned was a beaver whisperer! Soon the beaver calmed right down. He was purring and practically rolling over so we could rub his belly. Wil and I were impressed and Wil asked how that all just transpired. Ned explained to us that beavers groom each other, they mate for life and stroke each other between the ears and it calms them right down. It was obvious that it worked. A butterfly floated by the now purring almost sleeping beaver; it was a beautiful moment…. just as I was about to ask if Jack Lambert taught him that, Ned flipped over the beaver and said, “Lets see what sex it is!” The beautiful moment was over. Beavers don’t like being checked for their gender, once again, I was holding on for dear life and the chances of a career.
The beaver, Wil and I all survived that ordeal and were able to lead a long happy life on another stream.
See you along the stream.
RUNNING FROM CONSERVATION OFFICERS
This is an old story shared with me by Gary Hansen, who is a family friend, old Michigan DNR employee and retired biology teacher who spends most of his year now-a-days fishing in Alaska; as well as a great story teller.
There was a kid like so many, that hunted and fished that wanted to someday become a conservation officer. This one particular kid was out hunting ducks during the dark cold days of winter. It was a day where the snow kept coming and got high enough that it started drifting. It was so windy that the fields had been swept almost bare but the snow piled up along the roads and in the woods. It was a miserable type of day, the type where most people stay inside all except poachers and conservation officers…
A C.O. was driving down the road on routine patrol when he spotted the kid who was sixteen or seventeen cutting across a field while carrying a shotgun. It was still black duck season and the officer had noted back tracks coming across the field over the previous week from a spot where the black ducks were and some mink. So, the officer decided to give the kid a routine check, see how he been doing on the ducks or trapping, if so, then check his license and stamps, plug in the gun, etc.
Being that it was bad day and the kid was way across the field and about to turn a bend that went into a swampy area with tag alders, the officer decided to toot his horn and call the kid over. It was just a kid and simple check so there was no reason to think the kid was doing anything wrong or spook him by marching across the field himself and get his boots soaked.
The C.O.’s plan backfired though. Upon hearing the horn and turning to see the source, rather than coming to the truck the kid took off like a shot. In a mad panic, he ran down to the creek and into the thick snow filled with the alders that ran the corridor along the stream. So, the officer suspected now that something was amiss but being experienced, he did not chase. Instead, he quietly drove around the block of woods and waited where the kid would come out. As the kid came out of the woods, he saw the patrol car and rather than giving, he turned and sprinted back into the woods. So, this continued for a while with the kid running back and forth. The officer, figured it was just a kid and a really bad weather day so he didn’t need much help. With that thought, he kept circling the block and waiting for the kid, while every once in a while, spotting him sprinting this way and that trying to escape the area.
The officer thought it was kind of fun so he just turned on the heater, sipped his coffee and continued to patrol the area waiting for the boy to tire out. Eventually, in the bad weather and with all his running, the experienced officer knew how this would end. With the wet and tired kid giving up and coming out. The only real question at that point was; would he leave his gun in the woods when he came out?
As time passed, the weather worsened and again the events didn’t go as the officer planned. On one of his passes, he noted that the kid had hidden and waited for him to pass and then sprinted across the road into an even bigger block of woods. This bigger section had a lot of downed timber and was even thicker and swampier than the original block of woods, so tougher travelling for the kid but an easier place to hide.
The weather continued to worsen so now the officer started to get worried about him. He went up ahead and got out of his vehicle and tried to cut the runner off in the woods. However, when the kid who now was soaked and had been running in big swampers saw him, he took off again. Even though the kid had been running for two hours and was soaked and wet, he outran the officer. However, the C.O. did find that the kid had stashed some of his stuff to lighten his run. He found his heavy coat and a shotgun, which indeed was illegal as the plug had been removed to allow for five shots instead of three. There was a violation but really no evidence of duck or that the kid had hunted and now he was down to a t-shirt in worsening cold weather and with night approaching.
Now the officer had no choice so he went back to his truck and radioed for help. Another, younger C.O. responded. The younger officer went out and tracked the kid and tried to push him to the older officer who now waited up ahead in the vehicle. After a few rounds of this though, the exhausted young officer was picked up on the road, soaked and disheveled. Then they decided that they needed more help so they called the state police and sheriffs office out. Soon the woods were canvassed by all kinds of cops, big ones, little ones, fat ones and skinny ones. All after an apparent superman. They set-up perimeter and a few of the younger cops decided to make a name for themselves (and show up the C.O.’s) and run the kid down.
There were no holds barred now though as no officer wanted a frozen kid on their conscience. The night was coming and it was dropping into single digit temperatures and the snow was almost blinding now. But, the kid had stepped up his game, too. Now he travelled nearly in a straight line jumping from block of woods to block of woods but he crossed the river several times to do it! This kept space between him and the officers. Now the officers were afraid there was something very serious going on. Maybe a felon and maybe the kid would get to the highway and catch a ride and they’d never know who he was or what he’d done. They brought in a tracking dog and more cops. So as night fell, the search continued with flashlights and a dog. They ran through the night tracking on fresh snow until the handler pooped out and gave the leash to a fresh officer, who finally pooped out then the dog itself pooped out and quit tracking.
As the sun came up they only knew that the kid was “okay” because they found fresh tracks. But the duty officers now were concerned about overtime and shift changes and other calls…and they still didn’t even know for sure the kid did anything wrong. So, the assisting officers all pulled up and returned to their stations and normal duties. Finally, as the sun rose, the search was down to just a couple of C.O.’s again who mainly just stayed in their vehicle talking and taking cat naps, hoping for a break.
One of the C.O.’s went home as it was his day off but he decided to change clothes and get into his own truck and take a drive out an old road where the kid may be headed. As he drove down a remote section of road and turned the corner, there was the kid, walking along the road. His face was bloody from branch whips and he was bruised up. His clothes were torn and he was soaked, muddy, miserable and freezing; shaking uncontrollably. He had one eye swollen shut from something in his eye. A common ailment which is obtained from running through the woods at night without a light.
The C.O. drove right up to him and asked the kid if he needed any help. Before the officer could introduce himself the kid explained that he had spent the whole night running from conservation officers. He had nothing to eat or drink. He swam across the icy river at least two times and laid under deadfalls as officers passed him. It was horrible, he was now hypothermic and shaking uncontrollably and he was sorry he hunted ducks without a license and an illegal shotgun so he wanted the driver to take him to the police station so he could turn himself in…
The officer introduced himself and the kid quietly got into the warm vehicle. For a bit they drove in silence then the officer asked the kid, why he did it - why he ran so hard. The kid looked at him and said, “I wanted to be a conservation officer when I grew up and I knew if I got checked with those violations; I’d never have a chance to become one. Now, I’ll never get hired as a C.O.”
The C.O. looked the kid over and said, “You’re right. You’ll never be a C.O. now…we’d never hire someone who gave up so easily.”
See you along the stream.
The Great Squirrel Migration
The Great Squirrel Migration
My memory is still a little fuzzy about the event I witnessed. Yes, I was stunned and perhaps knocked groggy but I know it happened. Since that moment I have been on a quest to confirm that it is an event recognized by science. I was sitting in the woods during late spring/early summer and witnessed….no maybe I was victimized, definitely mesmerized by a great squirrel migration. After the life changing event I did not speak of it for a long time and tried to tuck it away in the dark recesses of my mind. Until one afternoon while sitting around tending a maple syrup evaporator an old timer, named Smokey, mentioned a great squirrel migration. I was shocked, not just about mention of the migration but also that Smokey spoke up. You don’t say much around an evaporator. Most of the activity is done in various mumbles that means feed the box, another means, too hot and yet another mumble means too cold...then there’s the mumble that means pass the whiskey.
After a swig of whiskey he pointed toward a chewed-up sap line. Then Smokey grumbled about the state of the sap lines as they were found that winter, chewed and tossed by various rodents who, in their natural wild habitat, show a predisposition to prefer plastic tubing over nuts. Looking over the mutilated sap line it occurred to me that plastic will not last hundreds of years. Squirrels will dispose of it long before then, one snack at a time. Smokey regained my attention by mumbling, “Lines are torn up probably because of the gard-derned great squirrel migration we got…” I chuckled a nervous chuckle and after looking over my shoulder, asked, “Great Squirrel Migration?” Smokey, looked up, “What about it…you seen one?” I hesitated then answered, Maybeee...I’m asking for a friend.”
Smokey went on to describe an event similar to mine with as much enthusiasm as a whiskey drinking fire tender turning sap to syrup can muster. He started by saying that there he was working in the woods, as sappers tend to do, and a distant thundering rumble started through the forest. Brush and grass was tumbling over and the tops of the trees were swaying un-naturally. Birds took off in advance of the ground bound animals, who apparently were aware that this event was to be on the woods’ schedule for the day; soon also were long gone and nowhere to be seen.
Then the ground moved and shimmered as the horde of long tails rumbled nearer. As they closed on the old timer, they did not get out of the way as squirrels are generally prone to do; instead they ran up and right over the old sapper! Thrashing him with their bushy little tails as they scampered over everything in their path; hundreds of beady little eyes and whiskers coming and going. After about five minutes, the squirrels petered out and ran by continuing to their unknown destination.
Since my very similar experience to Smokey’s; I have confirmed from several sources that his migration and my migration weren’t the only two. As they ran over me, none of them even paused to stop and look. I’ve had them hop on me while archery hunting many times but once they realized they were on a human they did their squirrely scream, eyes wide open, ears up and mouth agape then bailed off you as fast as possible; only to turn at a safe distance to scold me for fooling them. On a migration, however, no squirrels seemed to notice or care that I was a human.
Great squirrel migrations happen not regularly but definitely occasionally enough to be documented as I have found articles referencing similar events in the old outdoor magazines, recounted by squirrel attack survivors. Why do the squirrels migrate like that? The answer is as elusive as why choosy mothers choose Jiff. Is it a military weapon to control the squirrels and wreak havoc on a wood borne enemy? Are the squirrels in some sort of squirrel Olympic event? Is there a black sale on acorns in another block of woods? Squirrels are seemingly everywhere. I’ve never really seen woods without squirrels, so do squirrels switch addresses leaving and then being replaced in some weird fuzzy cycle?
I have yet to determine why the little critters herd up and trample the forest but apparently for one day, the seemingly docile and innocent, cheeky rodents rampage and strike fear into all other animals in the forest. Maybe that’s why they do it, perhaps they are feeling their oats. I saw a great buck migration once that was similar in how they packed up and moved in unison across the forest. I’m not sure of the squirrel’s gender despite so many of them running up and over me, I didn’t think about conducting physicals but it seemed that male, female and undecided squirrels were all running together. Perhaps they were working together to drive out a larger predator. I don’t know what causes migrations to occur, only that they certainly do. If you’re ever in a situation where you’re caught in a charge of a light brigade of fuzzy tails and fluffy cheeks, don’t be afraid, don’t panic, don’t run….it might incite them or excite them. If you survive, don’t worry you are not nuts, you’re lucky to have experienced one of the great mysterious events of the forest, just count yourself as lucky. Then check your pockets for your wallet…
See you along the stream.
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