In spite of their novel urban setting, the Conners Creek beavers behaved as if they were in the middle of the Canadian wilderness (as far as I know). The label “Urban Beaver,” while potentially evoking images of street-wise rodents picking up fresh bark peelings from the Eastern Market or eating left-over shish kabob sticks in Greektown, is meaningless.  I assume wild Canadian Beavers carry mud to their lodges, store cuttings underwater, and slap out warnings just like the Beavers I observed in the “D”.  These were beavers – neither urban nor rural – just beavers doing their thing.

I didn’t expect the beavers to be active after the arrival of daylight so I arrived well before sunrise on my first visit. The spot-lighted stacks of the Conners Creek Power Plant glowed like two tremendous light sabers and cast a bright refection on the canal next to the lodge. As expected, I soon spotted shady forms moving about in the light-sparkled water and was excited to “see” them coming and going. As the sun rose I could actually “see” these creatures.  Since they could now see me as well, I expected they would start to get shy. I could not have been more wrong.

As if on cue, waiting until it was light enough for me to take some videos, one of them emerged out of the water with a stick in his mouth and carefully placed it. The event had an OCD component to it. After returning to the water the same animal re-emerged at the base of the lodge carrying an armload of mud. It walked upright like a small human and plodded up the slope with its cargo held tightly under the chin with the front legs. It dumped the load with workmanlike precision, pushed the wet pile into place, turned around, and walked on all fours back to the water.  Several other loads, similarly delivered on two legs, transported a load of water plants and a mixture of mud and sticks.

A written description can hardly capture this most amazing of beaver behaviors, so I have included a video. There is no soundtrack, but you can include your own mental version of “Whistle While You Work” for effect.  In 1698 a mapmaker by the name of Nicholas De Fer presented a largely imaginary scene of a colony of beavers working on a dam. He showed a line of beavers walking upright with bundles of sticks in their hands like so many merry elves. It looks comical by today’s standards but, apart from the details (like carrying bundles over one shoulder and walking in a line) this part of De Fer’s image is remarkably correct.

De Fer, in that same engraving, also shows beavers carrying rocks on their tails but we’ll have to ignore that one. Beavers do not drag materials in that manner.  Speaking of tails, however, you’ll note that the beaver shown in my pictures had a large notch in its appendage which made it easy to identify. This was the only individual which performed lodge duty. Perhaps it was a union thing?

Old “Notch” then demonstrated how to drag a tree into the water. After dumping the last load of water plants he walked over the top of the lodge and latched onto the trunk of a small freshly downed Cottonwood. Gripping it near the cut end with his powerful jaws he dragged it down the sloping face and into the canal.  Finally he dove, taking the entire tree with him, and wedged the trunk into the canal bottom adjacent to the lodge.

If this were a PBS nature show, the accented voice of the narrator would explain that “Like all beavers, Notch was building up a food supply for the winter by creating an underwater stockpile of branches. Beavers don’t eat wood; they are bark eaters which will depend on this supply to get them through the long northern winters.”  Of course, they would then show an underwater view of the beaver placing the branch into the food cache. I was not able to do that because my camera is not cleared for water duty, but you can imagine that part when you view my video.

Our imaginary accented narrator would have brought up an important point, however. Beavers chew wood in order to fell trees. They do not eat it. Those trees with non-palatable bark are used to build dams and lodges. Willows, poplars and cottonwoods – trees with tasty bark – are neatly cleaned of their bark before they are used for building. There was plenty of evidence about the Conners Creek lodge for both activities. A hungry beaver can strip off the bark layer of a branch with incredible precision.

My next visit to the Conner Creek Castor Casa revealed even more fascinating details of beaver life and I’ll cover that in Part III (Return of the Castor). Fortunately, upon learning that these critters were not night owls, I was able to sleep in before embarking on my next visit. That was a slight beaver joke, by the way: embark as in bark as in not that funny but still a good way to end a piece. Perhaps if I had stated that with a slight English accent it wood have gone over better.

Ray Dushane shows Jim the Fine Points

Like it or not, I am going to talk about naked muskrats again. Turn away and cover your eyes, ye avoiders of meat, because I will be showing blood. Cover your ears, ye traditional meat eaters for you shall hear of eating “rat.” Speak not, ye “Stream of consciousness” talkers, for what I am about to discuss rat meat and ask that the phrase “ewwwww” not dominate your vocabulary.   I am doing this because the day after Christmas was muskrat preparation day at the Monroe Boat Club and I was there to assist in the preparation and I (as you may know if you are a regular reader) cannot not talk about muskrats for any extended period of time.

Father and daughter pick’n ‘rats

Some 200 muskrats awaited the cleaning crew at the Monroe Boat Club on that morning. It has been a long tradition to clean the carcasses on Dec. 26^th and to serve them at a muskrat dinner on the following week. I brought my son Jim and daughter Katelyn along to assist in the cleaning. The ‘rats in question came from a trapper in Napoleon, Ohio and were already “cleaned” by most standards. The post-Christmas re-cleaning involved further removal of the so-called musk glands and all the fatty deposits (see here – re-cleaned ‘rat above and pre-cleaned ‘rat below). Once re-cleaned they will be par-boiled in water and later re-cooked for the actual dinner (served in a sea of creamed corn next to a mountain of mashed potatoes).

This year’s crop of muskrats were especially robust and fat. When these Napoleon ‘rats met their Waterloo they were well fed. We all agreed that one of the bodies looked more like that of a woodchuck than a ‘rat but it was processed anyway. Each carcass had to be probed and picked with proctolist-like precision. Under the shoulder blades, between the thigh muscles, inside the body cavity, along the back – there was no bodily space place un-examined by the cleaning crew.  It is a labor of love.

Jim was a first-timer at this and was placed right next to veteran ‘rat cleaner Ray Dushane in order to absorb all the fine points of the activity. Unfortunately this meant that all his ‘rats had to pass muster before being placed on the finished pile (see beginning picture – note extreme attention on his part). My daughter and I simply hid our products under the pile whenever we were tired of cleaning any particular carcass. Jim is now an expert but his hands still smell like muskrat fat.

My real reason for bringing all this up, however, is the opportunity to explain how one can love something and kill it at the same time. It is a chance to illuminate a fine point of cultural identity. I will fail at both because I have consistently failed at this in the past.

I have a book about muskrats floating around in my head. Once I get past the introduction the rest should flow – like a sink un-plugged by Draino or a toilet….never mind. The introduction remains my mental plug.  Because the book would deal not only with the muskrat as an animal (life, ecological relationships and all that)  but also with the muskrat as a cultural animal, there will be a lot of talk about dead muskrats. The identity of this creature is intimately tied with human culture. A majority of this connection concerns the pelt and the meat – which means that a majority of the muskrat/human interaction over the centuries involves live people and dead muskrats. Therefore, my job is to explain how one can literally love a creature to death and still love it in life.

Unfortunately, even the spiritual type connection requires that the poor little ‘rat must die. The muskrat saved the world in most versions of the Odawa Nanabozo tales but invariably dies in the attempt.  About the only live muskrats in human culture are the little known Jerry Muskrat tales of Thornton Burgess and that insipid track recorded by the Captain and Tenille.  Jerry and the Captain are not responsible for the special nature of the muskrat in the human world. To be perfectly frank, live muskrats tend to creep people out anyway simply because they are rodents (large mice) who live in marshes (mud) and have the word rat attached to their persona (confirming the presence of their naked tail).

You should be able to perceive my problem by this point in time. I have used way too many words in the effort to reach the point at which I can state my case. In fact, the previous sentence even uses too many words (such as the multiple use of “point”).  Let me just say it and be done. It’s time for the Draino to take effect, so to speak.  Muskrat love is a regional phenomenon involving a distinct cultural identity revolving around a particular animal in a particular place. It is the cultural equivalent of one of those pin-point icons that show a location on a Google map.

From the regional (S.E. Michigan) French-Canadian side of things, the muskrat provided both fur and food. Long after the beavers were gone, the muskrat provided. Because it was a water creature it could be eaten during Lent – saving many a starving Frenchmen during the War of 1812. The preparation of the carcasses reached the level of priestly preparation for the High Mass involving certain “must-do” steps. Secret family ‘rat recipes evolved and bridged the generations.

So, you see, the loss of the muskrat would be as culturally damaging as the loss of buffalo to western tribes, salmon to the N.W Natives or Crawdaddies to Louisianans. It would not be fatal but would result in the fraying of regional cultural fabric.  That is why we will never allow the muskrat to vanish and why we love the creature.

Wow, that was heavy, eh?  Just one more thing, just in case you are still holding out on this dead ‘rat thing. Muskrats reproduce like rabbits. It is near impossible to eliminate them and they will always have a place to die as long as a Frenchman has anything to say about it.  They – that is the species – will be dancing on our graves long after we are gone.

You are now ready to view this picture. Happy New Year.

Although I am primarily a muskrat man (as confirmed in my previous post on the MDL) I must admit to more than a grudging respect for beavers.  In fact, as long as we are confessing here, I have spent an inordinate amount of time seeking out the opportunity to observe these large rodents in the wild. The chances have been few and far between. Even in the North Country I have been provided with sustained views of their handiwork, such as dams, lodges, or felled trees, but only glimpses of the creatures themselves. They are primarily nocturnal and this made things even more difficult.

Incredibly, my golden opportunity presented itself in a very regional manner. It turns out that one of the most observable beaver colonies in the state is located in urban Detroit. No, this is not a joke. The colony is located at DTE’s Conners Creek Power Plant on the Detroit River just opposite the north tip of Belle Isle.

You might recall a news story from a few years ago that a beaver was spotted on the plant property. A trail cam video captured by DTE wildlife Coordinator Jason Cousino in 2008 confirmed the tale that not only did two of the flat-tailed beasts show up but that they were raising kids!  At least two young were shown reaching for some cottonwood boughs placed before the trail cam in 2009.

The press releases trumpeted the “Return of the Beavers to the Detroit River” and cited a mystery figure of 75 years as the last time these creatures were seen in the region. Perhaps biologists were looking at records from the Canadian side of the Strait, because in terms of the Detroit side that figure should be well over 100 years and probably much longer. As a center of the fur trade, Detroit was “ground zero” for local representatives of the Castor clan.

Some 200 years ago this location was prime Castorland.  Bela Hubbard, the early Michigan surveyor, once wrote that much of the pre-settlement landscape of Wayne County – and by inference, the adjoining counties – was actually created by beaver activity (dams, ponds, meadows, etc.). In case you are wondering, he is no relation to Bela Lugosi nor is he responsible for naming Big Beaver Road (that was an early settler thing based on a lodge near the road).

The Conners Creek Power Plant was built between 1915 & 1921 (originally known as the Seven Sisters Plant due to the line of seven stacks that once adorned the building). Placed on the marshy ground where the creek entered the river, this plant loomed over the landscape for 90 years without casting a shadow on any member of the Castor clan. The entire Michigan side of the shoreline south of that point was developed, filled, industrialized, and basically beaver un-friendly.

But, over time the immediate area opened up as surrounding buildings were razed and the place slowly took on the substance of a proper beaver habitat. The appearance, however, remained urban. When that wild beaver colony showed up, they completed yet another grand cycle of life.

My introduction to this colony occurred this past summer when I was asked to give a presentation for the Kid’s Day at the Edison Boat Club. This club just happens to be located on the canal leading to the Conners Creek Plant and they promised to show me the beaver lodge. Not only did I see that the lodge was within touching distance from the club property, (the spot was even equipped with a chair!) but they were open to allowing me to return for some further study.  I did pull a Douglas (as in Macarther) and returned. My experience was, to say the least, memorable. I offer you the accompanying photos as a teaser (wait ’til you see the video).

              copyright G. Wykes 2011

This will not be my typical Naturespeak blog in that it will be on-topic. My motives are, well, less than noble. I wanted to show my readers that I am occasionally right. My self-serving topic is a simple one. Harvard can be wrong on occasion.

Words are wonderful things but because it takes a thousand of them to describe a picture, I often resort to pictures in order to save the alphabet. I was searching the web for some word-saving pictures the other day – looking at the Google image page to find them. I was seeking old illustrations of beavers and beaver colonies. Some of the early woodcuts that came out during the fur trade era were done by European artists that had never actually seen one of these North American animals before. There were beavers in the Old World, but the artists that illustrated these travel accounts were forced to rely purely on fanciful descriptions. Their pictures certainly reflect that and they can be quite amusing by current-day standards.

The 1738 account of Claude LeBeau contains a woodcut showing a colony of industrious beavers which look more like Naked Mole Rats with flat tails. There are dozens of animals working together. In one corner of the picture 6 beavers are shown chewing away at a single tree. The dam in the background is topped with an upright fence. There are no beavers shown painting that fence but the image definitely hints that they probably did so every Wednesday after the groupsing.

As part of this search, I was directed to the site maintained by the Harvard Art Museum. The listing was for a drawing labeled “Head, Paw and Fur of a Beaver”(see above).  From the second I clicked onto the image I could see a problem. The picture did not depict a beaver. It was a muskrat. So, in a moment of self induced authority I shot off the following e-mail:

I was just looking through your Harvard Art Museum Website and noticed a mislabeled illustration. Since it doesn’t appear that the piece was originally labeled by the artist, I assume that this is probably a cataloging error made at an early stage – possibly during initial acquisition (in the 1920s?). You might want to consider changing the label for the sake of accuracy (in cases of on-line search engines etc.).

The illustration I am referring to is the William Rowan drawing titled “Head, Paw, and Fur of Beaver”. This sheet actually depicts a muskrat – detail of head, hind foot, and portion of tail. There is a world of difference between the muskrat and the beaver. The hind foot on the beaver, for instance, is fully webbed whereas that same appendage on a muskrat is equipped with only a tiny portion of webbing. It also takes about ten hefty muskrats to equal the size of an average beaver. As a career naturalist my observation can be considered valid.

Yes, I know this may not seem much of a distinction but the two creatures, although related, are as different as a house cat and a lion. Of course, the real reason for calling this to your attention is for the defense of the lowly muskrat. The beaver has always gotten the attention over the years while the muskrat’s recognition has been delegated to that cheesy “Captain and Tenille” song. I guess someone needs to be captain of the MDL (muskrat defense league)!

I did not really expect an answer. The pencil drawing, by a Swiss immigrant to Canada named William Rowan, was executed in the early 1900s. It was not a major piece of work. I, however, felt proud of the chance to flex my Muskrat Defense League muscles.

Imagine my pleasant surprise when I received the following response within hours:

Dear Mr. Wykes,

Thank you for your message. The title has been changed to reflect the correct species.

With best wishes,

Michael T. Dumas  Staff Assistant

Specialist   Division of Modern and Contemporary Art

Needless to say, I felt the need to forward this tidbit for two reasons: vanity and education. I’ve explained the vanity part, but ask that you examine this illustration closely. Examine the details and compare this with foot  and tail details of a beaver (see below) and you too can become a member of the Muskrat Defense League.

Yes, I know, it’s supposed to be “Long Live the Queen” but in the case of hornets, the term “long” is relative.  A queen Bald-faced Hornet is lucky to live a little over a year – and to do so she has to sleep through half of it. Considering that the average life of a run-of-the-mill worker Baldie is closer to three months, of course, her reign is considerable. Perhaps “Longer than average  live the Queen” would be a more appropriate phrase.

Late autumn is the time when a hornet queen is forced to keep a stiff upper mandible, so to speak.  By the time the first killing frosts hit, the entire colony will be dead. There may be 500 individuals in a typical “hive” by late summer and they nearly all perish with the autumn leaves. This includes the old queen as well. Before the old gal kicks the bucket, however, new potential queens are produced from her generous supply of eggs. These virgin queens do not remain chaste for long. They are quickly mated and thus prepared for the next crucial stage in their lives.  The newly minted, and fertilized, royalty are the only colony members that will survive winter.

At this point in the discussion I should interject a few crucial points for the sake of accuracy. First of all, the name of the Bald-faced Hornet is a bald-faced lie of sorts. These large black wasps are endowed with ivory white markings including a full white facial mark – so the bald-faced part of the name is true enough (you might remember from earlier blogs that the term “bald” means white). But, because these hornets are not true hornets there is more than a bit of falsehood in the name.

Technically they are members of the Yellowjacket clan and are designated as “aerial yellowjackets.” This latter term may seem perplexing at first given the fact that all yellowjackets are aerial (all fly directly into your face when you are eating outside in the fall, for instance). The term is more specific than that. Bald-faced liars…er, wasps… built large paper nests during the warm season, as do all yellowjackets, but they build their structures in exposed aerial situations suspended from tree limbs. Other ‘jackets create their paper nests in underground or between-wall locations.  In other words, if you can actually see a roundish gray paper wasp nest then it is a Bald-faced edifice.

Bald-faced yellowjacke…er, Hornets build their reverse teardrop shaped nests out of a unique form of wasp paper. Wood pulp is chewed, mixed with saliva, and applied in semi-circular patches. The interior of the nest is hollow and contains suspended combs in which the young are reared. The new queen starts the thing in the spring and the later generations finish it. At peak activity in mid-summer the walls are multi-layered affairs that can be over two inches thick.

Ignorant  folk have long maintained that a thick-walled hornet nest is a sure sign of a bad winter. Sure as toot’n, they’d say. The idea being that the critters inherently know that a big winter is coming and can prepare themselves a “right nice cozy little home” in which they can brave the arctic blasts.  Of course, in light of the fact that all the little critters are dead before winter even arrives, this is a tale that needs to die. There’s nobody home in a winter wasp nest except for a few homesteading flies or other small hibernating insects. The old nests fall apart over the course of the winter (see below), so they are not good winter shelters period.. (Note the use of the extra period in the previous sentence to emphasize the word preceding it).

Even the wintering queens do not overwinter in their old nest. They seek protected places under bark, and inside hollow trees where they enter into a state of hibernation called “diapause” (a condition completely un-related to menopause, by the way). I spotted one of these potential ice queens clinging to the side of my house during one of our recent chilly days. Her wings were neatly folded into a position reminiscent of the pose she will assume when passing the long cold season. She moved away from the spot when the next day crept into the upper 50’s.

Although I do not know where she ended up, we can be assured that if she successfully passes the winter with her precious cargo intact she will begin the cycle anew from young non-hornet queen to old non-hornet queen. “Short live the queen.”

“Swallowing the Nuthatch” sounds like one of those euphemisms employed to describe another event in the same vein as “Seeing the Elephant” or “Pushing the Envelope.” But, in this case, it serves to describe something that nearly happened – I did nearly swallow a nuthatch. To be specific, the nuthatch in question was a Red-breasted Nuthatch.

It was an unusual thing, to be sure, because I rarely see this diminutive species in my yard (the White-breasted variety are far more common around here) and even odder that I came close to receiving one in my mouth!  I was taking out the trash – a task that led me out the front door and through a narrow space between the front corner of the house and a large cedar bush. It was at that point when a grayish blue blur whizzed past and perched on the cedar branch only inches from my head. We eyed each other for a second before the startled bird launched. I instinctively ducked as it whizzed over my head and landed on a maple tree branch about twenty feet away.

It was only after the bird landed on the distant perch that I was able to identify it as a Red-breasted Nuthatch. A black line through the eye, a rusty breast, and a series of “tin horn” toots confirmed the I.D. The question that remained, however, was the reason why the little ‘hatch was on that cedar bush to begin with.  Like their larger White-breasted cousins, Red-breasted Nuthatches spend most of their time working up and down tree trunks and large branches.

A bunch of Black-capped Chickadees were flitting around the same cedar on that morning and they eventually provided the answer. I watched and waited for several days after that incident in order to see what the birds were doing. The Chickadees were more than willing to show me (the traumatized Nuthatch was never seen again). The tiny birds were landing directly on the tiny cones, probing into the open scales and extracting sizable seeds.

I’ve always liked my Cedar bush/tree. It is not especially attractive and was planted in the wrong place by the previous owners. But because it serves as winter cover for many local birds, and remains vibrant green throughout the long winters, it has remained. I’ve always assumed it to be a Northern White Cedar. As a naturalist, I should have paid more attention.

This year the tree was having an especially productive year and was covered with hundreds of cones. Wild White Cedars have very small cones- less than ½ inch in length and are covered with papery scales. I did notice that the cones on my cedar were heftier than the wild ones, but I chalked that up to the fact that I said hello to it every morning. A closer examination of the cones, prompted by the Nuthatch incident, revealed that they were very different from those on the native wild trees.

To begin with, the cones were distinctly bluish and each scale was endowed with a prominent spur. They were opening naturally in the late fall air and, although most were emptied already by the feathered clan, some still had their cargo of oblong seeds. Considering the size of the cones, these seeds were quite large (about ¼ in.) and were un-winged. Northern White Cedars have two small wings attached to either side of their much smaller seeds.

I popped one of them in my mouth and found it to be nutty and refined in taste (like pine-nuts). If it was good enough for a nuthatch or a Chickadee it was good enough for me. Of course these same critters also eat maggots and caterpillars I am not tempted to take this comparison any further.

While munching I was forced to consider that this was not a White Cedar. To save you the process, let me simply state that this bush/tree – my bush/tree-  is a Chinese Arborvitae. A native of Asia, this species is commonly planted as an ornamental because it never attains any great size (ohhh, so that’s why my tree hasn’t grown much in the last two and a half decades!). They are related to our White Cedars and share with it a common group name of Arborvitae. This is a term that means “Tree of Life” and given the context of this blog, I find this a very appropriate term. The addition of a wildlife food value to the list of this tree’s benefits has cemented it’s value in my mind.

I learned several things this week, not the least of which was discovering the secret of a bush/tree that has been in my face every day for over twenty-five years. I also found out that my Naturalist instincts were not working as well as they should. But, there remains one un-answered question.  I know what a Chinese Arborvitae seed tastes like but still wonder what a Red-breasted Nuthatch would have tasted like.

One technique of a wandering naturalist is to wander the back roads until something presents itself. On a particularity crummy day in the backwoods of Northern Michigan I did just that. It was one of those dark days when you can’t quite convince yourself that you are totally awake. Light rain showers punctuated the morning drive and seemed to set the tone for the rare things I did come across.

Let me tell you what I saw and go from there. There was a spoon, a Cyclops eating a sign, and a melanistic deer. Now if that list doesn’t instill a sense of curiosity then you needn’t proceed any further. If it does, then please do (proceed, that is, to the next paragraph). Even if you have seen a spoon before, you have to admit that the last two items certainly need some explanation.

First, the kitchen utensil. My random drive brought me to a spoon in the road. Now, everyone knows what to do when they arrive at a fork in the road – they need to make a decision, right? They either take the right or left route. Robert Frost would opt for the route less travelled while others would take the route indicated by the poet Garmin. There is no straight option – that would lead to a plummeting (into the ditch) followed by a towing (by the Frost Towing company).  But, what does one do when a spoon is present? This is a rare thing.

My road spoon was flattened by previous traffic (which on this road is not very frequent) but it was still identifiable. I decided that one is required to turn around when a spoon is present, so I did. The effort did not result in anything especially notable except for leading me to a sign-eating tree.

To be precise, this tree was a sugar maple, and the sign it was consuming was a well-rusted “No Trespassing” sign. Only the “Tres” part was visible, so I have to assume that’s what it said, anyway. Perhaps it noted “Mauvaise enfant Tres bon permit” as a crude French way to announce “Very good poor child allowed.” Perhaps the owners of the place were announcing their willingness to help the unfortunate. However, in this part of Northern Michigan the only written French appears as “No” in the numerous “No Trespassing” signs.

Regardless of what the sign used to say, that the maple tree in question was a Cyclops was not in doubt. Call it a branch scar if you must, but that tree was definitely looking at the world through one eye. This one would fit nicely into a Halloween landscape. Like the spoon, I saw this rare item as a signal to turn around once again.

This time I spotted a trio of White-tailed Deer grazing at the far end of an open field. Because one of them appeared nearly black, I stopped to get a better look – thinking it was an escaped exotic such as a Fallow Deer or some African Antelope. It turned out to be a Whitetail, but was a rare example of a Melanistic deer.  Albino deer may be uncommon but melanistic deer are much scarcer.

Everybody knows what albinism is – or at least they know without knowing that they know. In a black and white world, an albino is all white. Individuals lack skin pigment of any kind. There is no such thing as a partial albino – something either is or it is not an albino. Any mix of white and normal is called Pie-bald. Melanism, on the other hand, is a different beast – so to speak – because it involves the over production of a skin pigment called Melanin. The pigment can be produced anywhere from slightly over done to totally dominant. So, an animal can be semi-melanistic. It seems that recessive genes are responsible for this effect, so it appears on a hit or miss basis in most critters (although it is very common in Grey Squirrels).

Melanisim is very rare in White-tailed Deer. Over the years there have been notable examples of jet-black deer and random spottings of very-dark deer with varying shades of black. Texas is apparently the hot-spot for black deer in North America, in case you are interested.

My deer retained her white belly and under parts as well as a fringe of reddish orange on the legs and top of the head. The rest was a deep ashy gray and resembled, for lack of a better comparison, the shading on an antelope. The dark portion ended at a definitive border on her flanks. She was a beautiful animal (and this coming from a man who has expressed on more than one occasion that deer are ugly).

As an astute reader you might recall that I was out on a misty day and might be thinking that she was just wet. I can put that aside because wet deer are more intensely orangish or light gray (depending on the season) and are not darker. Secondly, she brought along additional proof that rain had nothing to do with her shading.

She bounded off after only a few seconds of observation. Her two fawns followed suit. The trio vanished within a few bounds but not before revealing that her fawns were normally colored. They were wet little orange spotted deer.

Ahh, it was a rare day in the North Woods. I’ve been past that point several times over the past month to see if I could spot her again, but without luck. The Cyclops is still there, however.

It had not been my original intention to seek the grave of Silas Culver. My wife and I were vacationing in the vicinity of Upper New York State, Vermont and New Hampshire. Although this was not the primary focus of our trip (I’ve heard that some people go on vacation to relax), I was actually on the track of another long dead soul who once called this area home – a remarkable revolutionary soldier by the name of Thompson Maxwell. I’m not remotely related to the guy but he had piqued my historical interest enough to inspire a pilgrimage of sorts to his homeland. My brother sent a text message our way wondering if we might find some time to swing by the gravesite of one of our own lineage who was buried in New York. Blood being thicker than Vermont water, we agreed that we were indeed “in the neighborhood” and would make a go of it.  His name was Silas Culver and he was laid to rest in the South Horicon Cemetery in Warren County New York.

Horicon is south of Glenn’s Falls, New York and very close to the Vermont border. Our Grandfather, on the old New England Culver side, hailed from that neck of the woods and was appropriately named Glenn Culver Wykes. Unfortunately he died back in 1929 and was never available to fill in the family story (he, in fact, created an entirely new and fascinating chapter in the family line but we’ll have to categorize that one as a “skeleton in the closet” tale and leave it for now). Silas was his grandfather. Most of what we knew about this “great great ” was based on a geneology book about the Culvers.  In that tome, Silas Nelson Culver was listed a farmer who enlisted during the Civil War, was captured, imprisoned in Libby Prison for a while, and eventually exchanged or released. Suffering from the effects of that imprisonment, he returned home and died shortly thereafter in 1863. A good story to have in any closet if it’s true.

The fact that this fellow was purportedly a Civil War soldier caught the imagination and interest of my brother Dan who had been immersed in re-enacting as part of an Illinois Battery for many years. He never claimed to “be” Silas but admits that it was nice to have someone to channel when engaging in such affairs.  The other nice thing that made Silas stand out is the existence of his photograph. Putting a face to a name and a name to one’s own name is always a thrill.  The fact that he looked like one of the family certainly helped. My wife and I gave the Culver name to our middle child, in part because of this palpable connection.  Jim has never shirked the responsibility of explaining that unusual middle name when asked. I have never been asked why my middle name was Paul.

The problem came when we tried to verify this Civil War/Libby Prison story. There was no solid evidence that Silas Nelson Culver ever enlisted in the Union Army or was in Libby Prison. He does not appear on any veteran list either in New York or nearby Vermont. Nope, the only reference was this one family text.  Still, soldier or not, it was still worth seeking out his tombstone. A picture of it appeared on an on-line genealogy site but none of us had ever seen the real thing. It was my duty to be the one.

Located off a dirt road off another dirt road in a forgotten part of Warren County the south Horicon Cemetery (aka Pitt Cemetery) is small by cemetery standards. It is large by small cemetery standards, however, and the idea of locating a single rock among a hundred headstones was slightly daunting. Fortunately my wife found it right away.

It was a rectangular lichen-encrusted affair with the simple letters “Silas N. Culver” over “Born April 9, 1828 / Died May 13, 1863.” Oddly enough I was slightly disappointed. It looked just like the picture. Had I had travelled 300 miles just to stand next to a picture?

I did my familial duty and posed for a photo.  Late afternoon sun in my eyes, I decided to kneel next to it, in the manner of a football picture, because Silas was shorter than me. I dislike such staged shots but what else was there to do. Upon viewing this photo on my wife’s Facebook page (sent out instantly through the miracle of the ether) my other brother was prompted to wonder which of the two gnarly figures in the shot was actually the headstone. Such helpful comments from my brother, my much older brother I should add, are why I hate staged shots.

Any feeling of disappointment rapidly dissipated upon telling myself that I had not specifically travelled this far for that single reason and secondly upon the realization of a sense of place.  As an historian I’ve told countless people about the importance of being in the place where something significant happened – regardless of what it looks like today. Battlefields, for instance, give off a feeling from the ground level that is hard to describe. Without getting all “spooky” about it I have even been known to say that we channel some sense of being from such hallowed grounds.

Brother Dan, the kinder gentler brother, later asked me whether I felt any “vibes?” from standing next to the stone?  I had to admit that I did but was forced to admit to another on-site reality – the kind you couldn’t see in the on-line picture. All of the headstones in the S. Horicon Cemetery belonging to vets were marked with a flag and a bronze star marker. There were at least 13 Civil War vets in that place. At least one appears to have died during the war. There was no flag or star next to Silas Culver’s grave. Although not definitive proof against the family claim, this evidence was one more indication that his coffin nails were driven into the pine box of a civilian and not a soldier.

We may yet discover that some forgetful maintenance guy forgot to put the marker back after trimming around his gravestone. We may yet find some long lost record proving that the family story was true and my brother may yet charge across the re-enactment field crying “remember Silas.” He would never do that, by the way, but he could. Silas’s father was a minuteman during the Revolutionary War and likely did so that his sons wouldn’t have to fight.  His connection to the Green Mountain Boys of Vermont was enough to qualify the females in our family line for membership in the DAR. My sister never took up this flag but she could have.  David James Culver’s patriotic blood flowed through Silas’s veins and that same blood has flowed through the centuries through our father, through us, and will continue through the following generations. Brother Dan could presently revise his battle call to say “For the Sake of David and what he fought for!” and maintain historic accuracy.  He won’t, but he could. In truth even if Silas turns out to be “just” a God-fearing American farmer who died of consumption he will always be worthy of a battle cry – at least from our side of the clan.

The Culver gravestone looked somewhat lonely on that low sandy rise at the edge of the cemetery.  It appeared to be between rows, as a matter of fact, but was well cared for (leaving serious doubt about the forgetful maintenance theory forwarded in the previous paragraph). As I left the place I wasn’t sure how to finish my meeting with my dearly departed g.g. I’d taken plenty of shots, touched the stone, and silently talked to the neighbors. As if on instinct I finally reached down to pluck a tiny weed from the poor soil directly over the bones of Silas Culver and walked off. I pressed the plant between pages 120 & 121 of a book I had in the car. Don’t ask me why. Barely a week after returning home to Michigan I discovered the reason.

I happened to be reading an book called “the Native Grape” – a small 1866 publication by Missourian George Husmann about the American wine Industry (again, don’t ask me why) when I came across the following passage. It was in reference to a particular variety and why it flourished in Missouri:

“I think this is pre-eminently a Missouri grape…I have seen it in Ohio, but it does not look as if it was the same grape. And why should it? They drove it from them and discarded it in its youth; we fostered it, and do you not think, dear reader, there sometimes is gratitude in plants as well as in men? …it will cling with the truest devotion to those localities where it was cared for in its youth.”

Husmann went on to explain how this same devotion was expressed during the “recent war” by those German immigrants who gladly spilled blood for their adopted free country in the Civil War. “But you may call me fantastical for comparing plants to human beings,” he continued, “and will say plants have no appreciation of such things. Brother Skeptic, have you, or anybody, divined all the secrets of nature’s workshop?”

According to Husmann, plants are people too. They sense that which is about them beyond the earth, sun and water and incorporate human essence as well. Perhaps Mr. Missouri was imbibing in a bit too much of that happy Grape Juice and willing to bypass the “show-me” requirement of all Missourians. However, I did take away a fascinating thought. I had to consider that plants do have a connection to the human occupants of the land even if I could not swallow the whole of Hunsmann’s belief.

My tiny weed was flat and dry when it was later retrieved it from the book. I had a difficult time identifying the thing because it was such a micro-example of its type. That thin dry Horicon cemetery soil was not plant friendly. I won’t go into the details but it took a week to determine it was an anemic version of a mint called Self-heal. Members of the mint family, Self-heals are so-called because of their many medicinal uses. One early herbalist explained that, “when you are hurt you may heal yourself” with it. Of course the identity of the plant wasn’t especially important. It was the worse possible example of its type. Still, it started to take on some greater meaning because it could now be appreciated on two levels.

A few days later, I heard a recitation of Walt Whitman’s poem “Pensive on the Dead Gazing I Heard the Mother of All.” This, combined with the thoughts of the grape man, crystallized something in my head. Written in 1865 as a reflection on the tragedies of the Civil War – of which Whitman a witness- this poem probably has a greater meaning beyond that which I drew from it. The selected lines which centered me went as follows:

“Absorb them all, O my earth, – lose not my sons! Lose not an atom;”

“My dead absorb – my young men’s beautiful bodies absorb – and their precious, precious, precious blood;”

“Which holding in trust for me, faithfully back again give me many a year hence;”

“In unseen essence and odor of surface and grass, centuries hence”

“In blowing airs from the fields, back again give me my darlings – give my immoral heroes;”

“Exhale me them centuries hence – breathe me their breath – let not an atom be lost.”

Whitman and Hunsmann, neither theological geniuses nor men of science, might have breached a third level of thought beyond reality. Of soldiers and grapes, the same can said of regular folk. There is a connection between plants and people both in life and death. We both come from and are returned to the soil. I’m not all in on the idea that plants appreciate our admiration but am willing to give the idea a nod. I am closer to considering the possibility that the tiny Self-heal plucked from my ancestor’s grave may contain a part of him – or at least a few of the atoms that once formed him. And, if you blend that thought with Whitman’s vision, it was exhaling them.  That could have been why I felt compelled to pick it.

My piece of Silas is now carefully preserved in the center of a square from a very old baby quilt. The square only measures 3 inches itself and makes the micro plant looks larger than it really is.  Yes, it’s just a pressed plant but, as you can see, such a thing can be much much more.

Sept. 14   Halloween Town & Moreau State Park

Before crossing the State line back into New York we paid a visit to Windsor, Vermont – the birthplace of Vermont. Apart from visiting Dan’s Windsor Diner, a chrome & wood diner car dating back to a much simpler era and the oddly named, but fascinating, American Precision Museum (site of the 1840’s Robbins and Lawrence Armory) I managed to focus in on the one thing the town is not likely to promote. Windsor Vermont is a Halloween town complete with a spooky old graveyard full of slate headstones topped with hollow-eyed angels and spiders. Lots of spiders.

I won’t dwell on this aspect, but the arachnids of Windsor appear to be working for Hollywood set designers. They have spanned nearly every building angle with webs and have occupied every crack and cranny in town. The stoplights at the corner of Main & State are mounted on the sidewalk like streetlights. The light on the northeast corner was completely draped with a layer of webbing (see below & here). It is real webbing and not the movie prop kind.

This means that Windsor is probably free of noxious all insect pests but few spider-phobic types would acknowledge that fact. Perhaps the town could hit on this as a slogan and proclaim themselves as “the bug free town” and remind folks that spiders are bug-eaters and are not bugs themselves.

The scenery around Lake Moreau in New York is a long way from that offered by Windsor’ween Town. The rolling topography and deep woods offered many highlights, but two came to the fore.

There was a beaver lodge actually marked on the park map. It was a real beaver lodge and not a creatively named picnic shelter. This thing shared as much ink on the paper guide as the other permanent facilities such as the bathrooms, park office and, well… picnic shelters. On one level this was like marking a woodpecker hole or a Chipmunk den, being a creature-made structure, but on the other hand it acknowledges the amazing abilities of our largest local rodent. Woodpeckers change location every year and chippy dens are hardly worth viewing. Beaver lodges can last for years and remain a part of the landscape long after the residents have moved on.

I assumed this lodge was abandoned but ample shoreline evidence proved that an active family of Castors still resided there. These guys had even attempted to dam up the narrows under the bridge between the lakes.  My efforts to see these fellows were a bit frustrating, however. Beavers are primarily nocturnal. I did see the pair in the twilight at around 7 pm and resolved to return the next morning to catch them again.

Early the next morning before the sun had sufficiently crept over the mountains enough to illuminate the lake, the beavers were again in evidence. Unfortunately they were in the process of heading home. I was able to see them linger for a moment before plunging under and entering the lodge for the day(see here). It seems that the Lake Moreau beavers keep a 7 to 7 night schedule. They would not show themselves in the full light of day for better observation/photography. Dam.

I couldn’t have asked for better view of the Red Eft that showed itself on the beach just as the first beams of morning light struck the opposite shore. Efts are the terrestrial stage of the Eastern Newt. They start out as aquatic larvae, leave the water for a few years to live as a land lubber, and eventually return to the water to spend the rest of their days as a water beast. The water form is a green gill breather with a substantial tail fin. On land it becomes bright orange-red lung breather with a round tail. I believe Newt Gingrich, for instance, transformed into Newt Rockne for a brief time.

There is a possibility that this particular Newt was recently transformed (after losing out on his candidacy for the lake presidency). He was discovered on the sandy beach heading toward the forest and was about as fresh looking as you can get. This little beast actually glowed. The pebbly skin texture, gummy worm glow, and bright red speckling made it look almost good enough to eat.

I did not eat that Eft, but instead let it continue on its terrestrial adventure. Red Efts have toxic skin (it’s not just the eye of the newt that makes for a good witches brew). They will emit noxious compounds when roughed up by potential predators. Ingesting one would either have made me very sick or have turned me into a politician.

P.S. Just for fun, I thought I’d include this roadside image taken in the neighborhood of Halloween Town – talk about mixed messages!