Tonight, later than usual, Ox and I drove to a lake east
of Crozet. A fine mist was trying to
become a drizzle. Graceful bare trees stood out, stark against the gray sky.
Leaves on the ground glowed orange and yellow in the failing light.
Before we reached the lake we saw a swift silver v-shaped beaver wake shining on the gray surface of the lake. The wake’s dark-nosed point travelled halfway across the lake and then, with a slap of his tail, the beaver dove. We waited for the beaver to surface. He stayed submerged.
Some years ago we had lured another beaver with song. My voice, always scratchy has deteriorated since then. I nudged Ox, “Sing something! Sing!” Ox oiled his dulcet tenor with “After dark, when everything is still . . .” I joined in with a wobbly, off-tune harmony. The beaver wake reappeared and headed towards us. Ox sang “Wait ‘til the Sun Shines, Nelly”. The beaver wake headed nearer. Fifteen yards off shore, the beaver swam back and forth, keeping an even distance from us. Ox stopped singing. I took up “The Ash Grove” in a quiet and low-pitched range. From the west of the lake another beaver wake headed towards us. I sang “Amazing Grace” as we walked away from the lake uphill to our car.
Before we reached the lake we saw a swift silver v-shaped beaver wake shining on the gray surface of the lake. The wake’s dark-nosed point travelled halfway across the lake and then, with a slap of his tail, the beaver dove. We waited for the beaver to surface. He stayed submerged.
Some years ago we had lured another beaver with song. My voice, always scratchy has deteriorated since then. I nudged Ox, “Sing something! Sing!” Ox oiled his dulcet tenor with “After dark, when everything is still . . .” I joined in with a wobbly, off-tune harmony. The beaver wake reappeared and headed towards us. Ox sang “Wait ‘til the Sun Shines, Nelly”. The beaver wake headed nearer. Fifteen yards off shore, the beaver swam back and forth, keeping an even distance from us. Ox stopped singing. I took up “The Ash Grove” in a quiet and low-pitched range. From the west of the lake another beaver wake headed towards us. I sang “Amazing Grace” as we walked away from the lake uphill to our car.
Beavers may or may not be musical, but they are curious and intelligent. I felt as we left the lake that we had made a magical connection with two of these admirable animals.
Driving home, we made grandiose plans to introduce the beavers to more wonderful music. I suggested that we bring the portable CD player I use for garden work. I suggested Brahms, Ox countered with the more cheerful Mozart Horn Concerto. We have a world of experimenting to do with beaver musical taste. I hope they hang around long enough to experience some other kind of music than creaky old voices. Stay tuned
