Two Worlds, One River
 by Rick Book

  An article for Kanawa magazine

            We were in my canoe, Monica, Misty and me, paddling slowly upstream, happy that we had one more day in our long weekend. It was a warm and sunny afternoon and we were gunkholing - quietly poking into marshes and ravines and the places where streams run into rivers, looking for wildlife.  Misty, a border collie/sheltie mix, sat in her middle spot, ears perked, taking in everything. We were on one of those small pretty rivers that wind westward from Ontario's Muskoka country into Georgian Bay. It was still early in the season so the black flies weren't bad and the vegetation hadn't choked all the inlets.

            We came around an elbow in the river and saw a promising marsh to the north. Behind it was a valley where a river once flowed into ours. We decided to explore the marsh and nosed the canoe into the young water lilies and pickerelweed. After a few minutes, the water got shallow, so we poled with the paddles. To either side of us, the new leaves on the aspen and birch shone bright and green in the sunlight. With a gentle swishing sound, our canoe parted the sea of plants.

            We paused and could hear water trickling somewhere ahead. Suddenly, we realized that what we thought was green marsh was, in fact, a beaver dam. The top of the dam was at eye level and we could see a pond behind it. As we got closer, we realized that this was more than a pond; it was a small lake!

            Quietly, we sidled up to the dam. Monica put a leg ashore to steady us. Misty wanted to abandon ship, but we told her to sit and, reluctantly, she did. I held onto the branch of a willow growing out of the dam. We looked around and listened in awe. There were no beaver in sight. A red-winged blackbird broke the silence with a song; its red-and-yellow chevrons flashed in the sun.

            The dam bellied out toward us in a graceful curve as it crossed the entire valley floor. It was a meter wide across the top and perhaps a hundred meters long: a creature mega-project. The beaver had knit aspen, birch and poplar together in the embankment, then packed them solidly in place with mud. The water lapped at the top of the dam; it seeped and trickled through in spots around our canoe. Suddenly, silently, a great blue heron glided in low from our left and landed at the far end of the lake. We spoke in whispers and passed the binoculars back and forth on a paddle.

            The peace and magic of the place enveloped us. We had no intention of leaving soon. We unzipped our snack pack and picnicked on trail mix and juice there in the canoe to celebrate this place.  I dreamed of spending days there, just watching from a blind in the trees near shore. We wanted to absorb the silence, to burn the sight into our memories. Not being able to take it with us, we were already mourning our loss. It was the sun that finally broke the spell; the low, slanting rays told us it was time to leave and find a campsite for the night. Reluctantly, we backed out the canoe and stole away.

            Within 15 minutes of paddling, we spotted a campsite, one we'd passed by three days ago. It was vacant so we put ashore to inspect our home for the night. As our canoe touched the bank, we looked down and saw crumpled beer cans in the water. There were plastic six-pack rings, too, the kind birds' necks get stuck in, and empty plastic bags. The ground near shore was covered with cigarette butts. Clumps of tangled fishing line hung in the bushes.

            We walked up the path to the campsite. A large black tree stump was smouldering in the fire pit. Two forest-green, plastic deck chairs were sitting on the flat rocks around the fire. Their legs had been amputated to bring them closer to the ground: the butt-ends wrapped in duct tape. There was a broken ketchup bottle in the fire. egg shells, more crumpled beer cans, a half-melted plastic mustard jar. The ground was speckled with cigarette butts, beer bottle caps and plastic bread wrap tabs.

            We were in shock. We could not imagine what manner of human animal had fouled this nest so completely. We felt an angry, evil presence there on this otherwise beautiful site.

            There was more. We found a four-litre can of stove fuel, half-full, sitting on a tree stump, a live birch that had just been cut down; and beside it, a broken long-handled axe in two pieces. It looked like the guy had just walked away.  In the latrine area, there were two huge industrial rolls of toilet paper hung on spikes hammered five feet high into the trees. The paper was out in the open, unprotected from the rain. At first glance, from a distance, we thought the forest floor was covered in white trilliums. But it was toilet paper - used - hundreds of pieces. Gingerly, with sticks, we picked up every single piece and gave it a proper burial.

            We slept fitfully. In the middle of the night, we awoke and, by moonlight, talked, and as we talked our anger turned to curiosity and finally dissolved into sympathy for this deeply troubled soul, so alienated even from the woods he sought solace in. We guessed he came here every weekend.

            The next morning we left a note in a Ziploc bag simply asking the person to please have more respect for the bush and for those who also enjoy it. We left with two large garbage bags full.

            Throughout the winter, in front of the fire or when walking Misty in a gale, it was not the campsite but the beaver dam that I remembered most. Now that summer is finally here, people are back on that river canoeing and camping with family and friends.  Fortunately, many bring extra garbage bags and clean up campsites and trails as they go.  They pack their garbage out.  Some have read books on low-impact camping. They live the outdoor credo: "Take only memories; leave only footprints." You will recognize these people only by their anonymity, by the beauty they leave behind.

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