The last post ended: Looking like an island, the vegetation covered dome of Beavers’ lodge rises in the middle.
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I stop. I breathe. I gaze. At first, I notice little, so immersed am I in the happy feelings of success. I found THE pond. Then details begin emerging. The lodge is elaborate. It appears to have several rooms, maybe even hallways connecting them. Many plants grow on it, so I conclude it’s been here a long time. The scene before me is bucolic in contrast to the jagged mountain silhouettes to the West. A tight knit family of ducks carves a rippling V from the bank to my right toward the center of the pond. They appear to be coming from hummocks of tall amber grasses in shallow water. I can imagine they have a nest in that tangled wateryearthy world.

On the opposite side of the pond, an anomaly catches my eye: bright royal blue and “high-viz” orange. Humans have left life jackets, paddles and a raft leaning against an aspen trunk.

An owl hoots. A loon trills. I see neither source.

I want to sit but see no easy place to do that. Alders, poplars and aspen closely ring the pond’s perimeter all the way round. I don’t want to meander far from where I emerged from the trees for fear of losing my lifeline of a trail back home. So I decide to scrunch up right where I am.  I plop down. Toes almost meet water, knees close to chest, back against tree trunk. I have wriggled my day-pack off, but before I can extricate my binoculars, I see water rippling out by the lodge. A dark roundness pops up. A head. Beaver! A back. It’s gone…concentric circles, tell-tale signs where someone has been… Again, a head appears. Stays long enough for another head to appear – smaller – much smaller. Riveted with my eyes, I hear birds all around me – singing, chatting, calling. Another dark head pops up. It, too, is small. A second big head arrives. I watch with my naked eyes, a family playing, working, teaching, learning. I see them communicate, responding to the moment. A big body rolls a log, lets it go, backs away, ”treads” water watching, waiting from a few feet away. One of the small bodies, approaches the log, paws it, splashes, paws again and then again… Rolling a log is not so easy.

I slowly, quietly, ever so slowly, extricate my binoculars from my pack. Through them I watch another head appear. Bigger than the two littles, smaller than the two bigs. An elder sibling perhaps? They frolic – twirling, diving, rising, spinning. They root for greenery under the water. Drag it up to the air to eat. The elders tail slap and the youngsters imitate. Two more medium sized heads appear. With three “baby-sitters” present, the two adults take off. They head for the far side of the pond where a “fresh” log is beached. They amble onto land to investigate it.

Meanwhile, birds are everywhere feeding in the air and under the water. One particular bird makes “incredible dive bomb calls” before it plummets from the sky to pierce the water. Splashing, scrabbling, ripping, gnawing; sounds abound of life being lived.

I am enthralled. I am immersed. I am engaged.
I have lost my boundaries in this seamless community
communing with life nourishing life.

And yet…