The Call of the Swamp

The beaver swamp behind our house is a place of endless discoveries and surprises. I’m fascinated by the tall dead trees, the wind-rustled dry grasses, the ripples made by the beavers as they carry mud to repair or extend their dams. What was once just a wetland with a seasonal stream, under the beaver’s work now contains two ponds deep enough for snapping turtles and nesting ducks, and it pulls me to it again and again.

In the spring, I eagerly await the return to life which the melting of the ice brings. To watch a male merganser flare his hooded head while the female silently swims by, or to see the great blue heron wrestling a large dead branch as he refurbishes his nest is to feel true awe at the beauty and diversity of nature.

The summer swamp is filled with sound. The frogs sing all day and night and the birds hold long discussions about many interesting matters. I’ve watched a barred owl sit patiently on a branch over the water, waiting, watching. Suddenly I’ll become aware of movement and a mother mallard will swim by, closely followed by five or six youngsters. Meanwhile, up high, the heron young are squabbling again, jostling for room in the rapidly shrinking nest.

When fall comes, the water is usually low enough for me to venture out onto the dam itself. I need a sturdy hiking stick or branch for balance, as the dam is uneven at the top, with full tree trunks butted against it and branches sticking out. I love to look at the colors reflected in the water - azure blue, gray-white, and swamp-maple red. It’s quiet now. The birds have gone or are silent. My dog tentatively follows me out onto the dam. He’s frightened, but must go where I go. The beavers have been gnawing at a large oak; it’s still standing though I can’t imagine how. There’s so little to hold it up. The first winter wind will surely take it.

Winter may well be the best time to enjoy the swamp. The frozen ice and snow cover mean I can get out onto it and truly explore. I grab my snowshoes or cross-country skis and make my own trails. Under a sky full of sun and into the glare of the snow, I’ll often parallel the tracks of bobcat or deer, eagerly following them and wondering when they were there.

Where did they shelter last night when the winds blew so strongly? What was that bobcat thinking when he went right over the top of the largest beaver lodge, and then circled around it? Could he hear or smell the beavers inside? Then he turned and skirted the ice-free area near the beaver’s spillway and I wisely follow suit. Sometimes the tracks abruptly veer off at a right angle and I suspect some sound caught the creature’s attention and caused it to turn left. Off into the woods the tracks go, leaving me to move on in search of other discoveries. I find where the woodpeckers have torn apart a rotting tree, spilling the bits of wood onto the new snow below and leaving behind a sculpture, mysterious and eerie.

Perhaps I’ll find an oriole’s nest, still intact despite winter winds. What a marvel of weaving! I look to see if any of the thread orts or dog hairs I’d put out made it into the nest. I peer into tree holes to see if other nests are hiding there.

This year I discover a new lodge, the third for the upper swamp. It’s quite small and off to the side, where the water can’t be very deep. The first lodge, which I call the Manor, looks about the same, but Junior’s lodge has increased in circumference and height by several feet. I wonder if the old Manor is still in use or if the family has moved to this home instead.

Ah! Another discovery - some new tracks, ones I’ve never seen before. In the deep snow, I can just make out what appear to be webbed feet and between them, something has been dragged. Here, where there’s a stump, the tracks separate and I realize I’ve been tracking two creatures. These must be the tracks of otters, one following the other, tails dragging in the snow. Where were they heading? The tracks come from the south. There are no fish in this swamp, as far as I know, so do they live here year round or are they hunting for new territory? Will I see them come spring?

The swamp is more than a home to hundreds of creatures, furred, feathered, scaled and otherwise. Like a mother it nurtures its young, sheltering them, feeding them, and then, letting them go. She lets them go, yes, but she knows they will return. And so will I. When the swamp calls, I will answer.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

5/31/07