Part 15

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For five or six months every year, from November to April, the beaver is virtually a prisoner in his winter lodge. It is a small domicile, and as six or eight beavers may occupy the one, low living room, it is fortunate that they instinctively keep it very clean, and that the aroma of musk or castor fills it at all times with penetrating, antiseptic odors.

It is early autumn when a beaver family begins to think of the lodge as of a home; not an old home, but a new one, for Hamoosabik is strangely typical of America in that he is forever moving somewhere else or building a new house. All summer long the beavers lead a nomad life, wandering up or down the wilderness streams on endless exploration; but when nights have a warning chill, and days grow mellow as ripened fruit, then the heads of the family begin to look about for a place to spend the winter. There is nothing haphazard in the location; a beaver never settles on a place for winter quarters until by examination he is assured of three things: an ample food supply, a storehouse in which to keep it, and a dry lodge in which to live in comfort and security. Because he must have all these, with solitude or remoteness, you may search long in beaver land before you find where the animals have settled.

The first need of the family will be plenty of good food, and to secure that they explore the neighboring woods until they find a grove of poplars, of young poplars with tender bark. One might think that, having found their food, they would begin at once to cut and gather it; but such is not the beaver’s way. With him all things must be done not only decently, but in order. Before a beaver touches his selected trees, he examines the stream carefully to decide where he will put them; and when that matter is settled he will pick out a convenient spot for his house. As he intends to raise the water in the stream, which is too low for his purpose, and as rising water must overflow its banks, he commonly locates his house some distance back from the shore. Then, as he will be working here many days before his house is ready, or even begun, he proceeds quickly to dig three or four refuge burrows. And very cunning burrows they are, starting in hidden places near the bottom of the stream, slanting upward through the bank, and ending in a den under a tree’s roots above the flood level. He will sleep in these dens while preparing his permanent quarters; in winter he will use them as hiding places should he be driven out of his lodge.

The next important matter is a storehouse beyond reach of frost, and the only sure place for that is under water. The stream is shallow; it might easily be frozen to the bottom; but the beaver overcomes the difficulty by going downstream a little way and building a dam of logs, brush, stones and miscellaneous litter. The dam is intended to provide an artificial pond; the double object of the pond is to furnish a playground and a pool for storage, the one wide enough for winter exercise, the other deep enough to give assurance that ice can never form to the bottom of it and grip the food which is to be kept there. So we think, viewing the finished dam and seeing it serve its purpose; what the beaver thinks when he builds it, only a beaver might tell.

While the pond is filling slowly, Hamoosabik gathers his food-wood. First he fells a large number of trees by cutting around the butts with his teeth; then he trims the branches into convenient lengths, drags or rolls them to the nearest water, and floats them down to his storehouse, where he sinks them in a loose pile on the bottom. Green wood sinks easily, as a rule; if the beaver’s sticks have a tendency to bob up to the surface, where they would be frozen into the ice, he keeps them down by pressing one end into the mud. If he can use flowing water for transportation, he always does so; but he will not hesitate to tow his food-wood across a lake, if need be, or to dig a canal if his poplars stand some distance back from the water. He works by night for the most part, remaining hidden in one of his burrows by day. Any dull or rainy afternoon may bring him out; and should the weather turn severe, threatening to freeze his pond or canal before he is ready for winter, he will work day and night without rest. There will be time for sleeping when he has nothing else to do.

When the pile of food-wood grows to goodly size, and while younger members of the family are nightly adding to it, the old beavers prepare their winter lodge on the shore. Their first care, curiously enough, is for a cellarway or tunnel, which leads from the middle of the lodge ground down through the bank, and emerges at the bottom of the pond, convenient to the food pile.

Around the upper or land end of this tunnel they build their house, a solid structure from four to eight feet high, and six to twenty feet in diameter. The height depends on the expected rise of water in the spring, since one room at least must always be above high-water mark. The size varies with the number of occupants, a little lodge for a pair of beavers just starting housekeeping, and a big house for a large family. The latter usually consists of an old pair, with some “kit” beavers recently arrived in the wilderness, and half a dozen or more yearlings and two-year-olds. The materials of the lodge are brush, grass and mud, and the interior is arranged with a view to comfort and security. For safety against enemies the beavers depend on thick walls; for comfort two rooms are provided, a lower entrance hall and an upper living room, with an inclined passage or stairway between.

Just over the tunnel, perhaps a foot above the level of the ground, is a small chamber which serves as the entrance hall and dining-room of the lodge. Here the beavers shake the water from their hairy outer coats when they emerge from the tunnel (the inner coat of fur is always dry), and here they eat their meals. The hard-packed floor of this hall invariably slants upward from the mouth of the tunnel, and the evident purpose is to allow the water to drain away more easily.

From one end of the hall a stairway, just big enough for a single beaver at a time, mounts through the middle of the lodge to the living room above. Sometimes this central passage is the guiding part of the building plan, the lodge being constructed around it; but quite as often the material is piled in a solid mass, and hall and stairway are then cut out from beneath, as a continuation of the tunnel from the pond. Around the top of the stairway, just under where the roof is to be, runs a circular bench or gallery, which is covered deep with dry grass or shredded wood. This bench forms the floor of the living room; on it each member of the family will have his separate nest, from which he can slip into the central opening and down the stairway without disturbing any other beaver.

The bench is then roofed over, making a circular room from four to eight feet in diameter, with an arched ceiling just high enough to enable a beaver to move around without bumping his head. A small ventilator is left among the poles that project through the roof, and the structure is covered to a thickness of two feet with grass, sods, and rushes, all mixed with mud from the pond bottom. This last is the beaver’s mortar, and the frost hardens it to his purpose.

Like most other buildings, whether of bird or beast or man, the completed house receives a final “touch,” and a very suggestive one; but whether Hamoosabik adds it consciously, with purpose of concealment, who can say? When the lodge is finished so far as comfort and safety are involved, the beaver throws over it a litter of weatherbeaten sticks, making it appear like a pile of drift stuff cast up by winds or high waters. With nights of sharp frost the lodge walls harden, becoming finally so granite-like that no enemy can break in, and the beaver himself cannot gnaw a way out. The only door left him is the opening in the middle of his living room, which leads down the stairway through hall and tunnel, and emerges under five or six feet of water at the bottom of the pond.

While all this building is going on, the ice forms thicker and thicker, and presently the beaver is locked in until waters are open once more, and returning birds are filling the silent woods with melody. Meanwhile he will spend the greater part of the time in his upper living room, and for exercise will pass a few pleasant hours every day in swimming about his pond with its roof of ice. Farther he cannot go, and even here his journeys must be short; since there is no air under the ice, he must return to his lodge or enter one of his refuge burrows every time he wants to breathe. When hungry he slips down through the tunnel to the food pile, takes a stick up to his hall, and there eats the bark to the last scrap. Then he carries the peeled stick back to the pond, where it is thrown aside with a growing multitude that have no more interest for the beaver family; unless, perchance, they use the pond another season. In that event the peeled sticks, no longer glistening white, but sodden brown, may be used to repair the dam or disguise the new lodge.

That the beaver wearies of his diet of water-soaked bark is evident from the fact that he explores every inch of his pond for roots of the yellow lily; from this also, that if you cut a hole in the ice and push in a pole of fresh willow or “popple” or moosewood, he will find it within the hour and carry it away. Should you hold the pole, keeping very still and throwing a blanket over the air hole to exclude the light, he will attempt to pull it out of your hand. And if you stick one end deep in the mud, leaving the upper end frozen fast in the ice, he will promptly cut it in two places, one just above the bottom, the other just below the ice, and so carry the pole away to his dining-room.

The only variation of this winter-existence comes when there is an open spring-hole in the pond or a bit of swift water at the inlet. The imprisoned beavers make glad use of such an opening, which they may have to reach by a long swim under the ice. They come every day to play in the free water or to sit erect beside it, sunning themselves by the hour on pleasant days, combing their fine fur meanwhile, or coaxing a snarl out of it, using for the latter purpose the peculiar split claw which every beaver carries on one of his hind toes.

Such hermits are happy fellows, lucky above the majority of beavers, who have no sunlit playground in winter; but they enjoy themselves circumspectly, knowing the danger of being caught in the open. At the slightest alarm, the faint click of snowshoes or a breath of your scent drifting downwind, every beaver disappears under the ice, giving the danger signal by slapping his broad tail on the water as he goes down; and when you hear them again they will be creeping into the living room of the lodge. Rap the roof sharply, after approaching on silent feet, and you hear plop! plop! plop! as the beavers drop into their tunnel one after another. Go out on the ice now, and hammer it with your ax. If your ears are keen, you may hear a faint rumble or gurgling of water as some of the family return to their lodge, while others enter refuge burrows in the bank. So they are driven back and forth; but spare them any prolonged fright, for they are the most inoffensive little prisoners in the wilderness.

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Meanwhile Keeonekh the otter is a foot-loose creature, a rambler, an erdstappa or earth-hitter, as our forbears called one with a gift for roaming. He has the whole wilderness for a hermitage; yet his world is only as big as he makes it. Like most wild creatures, he has definite limits beyond which he rarely passes, and then only when food fails in his familiar district. The waters are sealed, to be sure; but every large lake has an air hole or two, and swift streams offer plenty of open places. When fishing for his dinner Keeonekh holds close to one opening, coming out where he went in; but when on a journey he may enter one air hole and emerge at another so far away that you cannot see him. And this because he has learned the curious trick of breathing under the ice, where another animal must quickly drown.

That trick is simple enough, but few besides Keeonekh have mastered it. When he is far from an opening and must have fresh air, he presses up against the under surface of the ice and slowly expels his breath, which forms a great bubble around his nose. He leaves it there a moment, till it is purified by contact with water on one side and ice on the other; then he takes it back into his lungs and goes on refreshed. He may reach an opening on the next tack, where you hear him blow out his breath with a long wheeeef of satisfaction; if not, he rises against the ice once more and repeats his extraordinary performance.

An otter travels widely in winter, following a definite circuit and returning at fairly regular intervals. The circuit may be a dozen miles in diameter, much wider than a deer’s, but not so wide as a wolf’s, and he covers it by his own trails from lake to lake. These commonly follow direct lines, reaching their objective by the easiest route; but if there is a bit of open water on the way, Keeonekh must turn aside for a splash in it; or if there is a steep hill or bank anywhere near, he will climb up one side for the sake of sliding down the other. Even on level ground he proceeds in merry fashion, taking two or three swift jumps and throwing himself forward for a slide on his belly. Part of his traveling seems to be done in mere enjoyment of change, of motion, of seeing the country; another part is intended to keep him acquainted with places where the best fish are wintering. With that difficult matter he is enviably familiar; if ever you find where an otter fishes regularly, you may confidently drop your minnow there.

Keeonekh is a dainty feeder, and uncommonly notional for a beast. He will pass by a score of watery chub if he knows where to expect a fat trout; he will ignore suckers for a white perch, or a coarse-fleshed bass for a sweet eel. He will not touch any fish a second time, though he may have left the greater part of it; and he will not look at a dead fish or at bait or carrion of any kind. Only a fresh fish, a living fish, appeals to him, and he may catch this by stealth or in whirlwind fashion, according to circumstance or his mood of the moment.

Sometimes his approach is so shadowy, so arrow-like, that a somnolent trout is gripped before he is aware that danger is near. Again, a fish darts away in alarm, and Keeonekh follows with silent, powerful thrusts of his webbed forefeet, swinging his body left or right by aid of his muscular tail as a rudder. So he follows every turn of his prey, and catches it at last by sheer skill and endurance. He is a wonderful fisherman, only Hukweem the loon comparing with him in this respect; and the loon is inferior in that he chases little fish, while Keeonekh always picks a big one. When you find the remnant of his feeding, one of your surprises may be this: you have fished the same lake or stream, using your best skill and most delicate tackle; but the head and tail which Keeonekh leaves behind him bespeak a better fish than ever you saw caught here.

All that is simple enough in summer, when waters are open and flooded with light; but when a blanket of ice covers the lake an otter must be more alert, keener of eye and quicker of snap, if he is to keep in good condition by what he catches. The fish are now in hidden places, deep and inconvenient; they eat little or nothing, and they lie so quiet in the underwater gloom that one must be very near to distinguish them from other shadows. Then, when Keeonekh catches a fish under the ice, he cannot breathe from an air bubble, as he does when he is free, because the slippery thing in his mouth interferes with the delicate performance. Neither can he dispose of his fish where he is, but must get it quickly to the nearest air hole. Even there he cannot or will not eat in the water, but invariably takes his catch out on the ice, where he leaves record of his feeding in the shape of bones or scales or, it may be, a pound or two of excellent fish, since he often catches a bigger one than he can eat. When you find such signs, be sure there is good angling nearby. An otter never carries a fish beyond the spot where he lands it.

Keeonekh does most of his winter fishing in half-open streams, where it is easy to bring his catch out on the bank, and where he has hidden dining rooms under shelves of ice left by falling water. For lake fishing he uses a spring-hole or the open mouth of a brook; and should you see him enter such a place, you may confidently look for him to come out again, unless he happened to see you first. If not alarmed, he makes a swift circuit of the fishing grounds, and presently you see his glistening head shoot up in the opening. The next instant he is out on the ice, humping his back over his catch, and sometimes mewing to himself in a pleased kind of way. If he finds nothing in his rapid search, you may know it by his wheeeef! as his head appears; for he cannot whistle like that while his mouth is full. Then he will either wait awhile by the opening and try again, or else hurry away to another fishing ground.

If the lake be small and frozen solidly from shore to shore, Keeonekh passes over it indifferently; it may hold many good fish, but there is no way for him to enter and catch them. Should the ice have a single opening, such as one often finds at the inlet of a lake, you may have a puzzling question to answer when you see an otter go into it, and wait hour after hour without seeing him come out again.

Once, when I first began to follow the winter trails, I saw an animal swim rapidly across a pool of open water and disappear under the ice. He was too far away to name him with certainty; but the electric motion, the broad head without visible ears, the following bits of fur with a handbreadth of water showing between back and tail,--all these proclaimed an otter, because no other creature swims in just that way. He had not seen me; I was luckily quiet when he passed, and the breeze was in my favor. Very confidently I watched for him to reappear, thinking I would take his fine skin back to camp. I knew the pond well; it had no other opening, and the inlet was frozen for a mile or more above the spring-hole. Of a surety, therefore, my game must show itself again, since no animal can live for any length of time under the ice.

Ten minutes ran away, while I marveled at an otter’s power of holding his breath. An hour passed, a time of increasing bewilderment, and no life stirred in the black water, which glimmered like a pool of ink in its setting of ice and snow. The afternoon went to join all other wasted afternoons; I began to doubt what I had seen, until I crossed the inlet and found Keeonekh’s trail under the shore, which made me hide and watch once more. Evening came; owls hooted in the woods; a storm wind began to moan, and still no otter. When it grew too dark to see anything clearly I went home.

Two or three inches of snow fell that night. At daybreak I was back at the inlet, and there were the fresh tracks of my otter,--leisurely, exasperating tracks, which emerged from the spring-hole as if there were no call to hurry, and headed down the pond on a journey of which I never found the end. He had come out, just as I expected; but where had he been?