Shooting Beaver

Crouching out behind my cabin in the shadows of a new moon, sporting an all black polartec ensemble, and toting a loaded 12 gauge shotgun,  I was horrified to hear my name being called. By the local game warden, no less. The one person I least wanted to run into while holding an unlicensed firearm was now standing on my back porch, knocking on the door and calling my name. Feeling like a criminal, I sat stock still and prayed he wouldn't notice my lurking figure, or the light glinting off the frosty Rolling Rock in my trembling hand.

***************

"Ba-Boom!" 

Joe answered my desperate question with the most succinct of answers. We were standing around in my yard on a crystal clear fall morning, surveying the unequivocal evidence of a rodent rampage.  I'd arrived in Claryville the night before, and hadn't noticed the devastation till first light this morning. My pond was about a foot deeper than usual, and the yard was beyond a mess. Two apple trees, four or five forty-foot Ash trees, myriad younger trees and tender saplings;  all had fallen before Castor Canidensis' carrot-orange incisors. And all were piled into a five foot high dam and an eight-foot wide den, complete with underwater entrance. This had all taken place in a five day period.

A beaver's teeth grow its entire life. If they don't gnaw, their teeth grow and grow, until they complete a full circle and penetrate the beaver's lower jaw, killing it. Gnaw to live, live to gnaw. 

I'd seen beavers around my pond before, but only  passing through for brief visits.  They liked my little section of the Neversink for the same reasons I like it: a beautiful, quiet diversion from the main current, which widens gently until coming up against a dam, then tinkling along on its way back into the main body of the river.  The mad chipper had dammed two spots, one where the stream reentered the river, and one right on top of my dam, raising the water level a good foot and expanding the pond to double its original size.

My neighbor Joe Weise had been my caretaker for  the first year or two, until I learned to do most of the stuff that needed doing. I could still call him if I forgot to turn off the heat or something, but mostly I just go over there to hang out.  I can't leave without his giving me something, especially during vegetable season.  He plays the country bumpkin, but he's the uber-bumpkin, who knows where the ginseng grows, how to make stick furniture, and when to hunt for Morels. I've yet to find a topic of even remote connection to Claryville upon which Joe can't wax rhapsodic, and at length.

He gave me his business card one day (after I'd known him for over five years). It reads: EXPLORER, FLY FISHERMAN, GOURMET, ALIEN LIFE FORMS AND ROAD KILLS  IDENTIFIED. Specializing in: Used Nails, Minor Surgery, Moonshine, Manure, Used Trucks, Twig Furniture, Turkey Calls, Repossessed Coffins, Giant Squids, Medicinal Uses of Gin and Tonic, Snow and Ice Dislodged. Also: Governments Run, Revolutions Started, Uprisings Quelled, Bulls Shot, Fleas Trained, Sheep Sheared, Rattlesnakes Castrated, Things Butchered, Elephants Bred.

Among other quirks, Claryille's residents exist in some sort of weird behavioral time warp where people don't  use telephones. Oh they all have them, but prefer to just stop by and chat a while. Though it feels like the country, there's a never ending stream of locals coming by to say hello starting about fifteen minutes after they see your car in front of the house.

For this mid-fall visit, I had pictured a nice relaxing weekend. I was getting ready to help deliver my second child, and my wife Liz looked like she might pop any day.  But instead of a relaxing couple of days, I found myself getting sucked into the thrill of an obsessive beaver quest. Each morning I'd call home to check in and try to explain to Liz why I needed to stay just one more day. It turned out Lucinda Jane didn't make her debut until ten days later, but our due date was imminent, and I was getting heavy pressure to get the hell back to the City.

Over coffee at Joe's house later, it turned out he had indeed noticed the beaver damage a couple days earlier. He'd applied for a trapping permit and been turned down by the DEC, something about it being too close to hunting season. I wasn't really clear on why you have to wait a month to kill a nuisance animal, but a month more of damage at the same rate and the woods would be gone, with my cozy little cabin underwater.

"This is a nice old gun." Joe commented as he reached into a cabinet. "Nothing fancy, but it would do the job. I keep the shells in this cigar box on the shelf."

"Great," thought I, "but why is he telling me about the tools he's going to use to get rid of this infernal toothed nuisance?"

With a wry little smirk, Joe excused himself  to make a "phone call".  Now, Joe would no more leave a conversation to make a phone call than fly to the moon, so I kind of wondered what was up. Then it dawned on me just why I was standing there alone in Joe's workshop looking at a shotgun.  I grabbed the gun and took it  outside and put it in the back of the truck. I grabbed a handful of shells and put them in my pocket as Joe returned from his "call".

"Manstoppers, the troopers call 'em."

"What?"

"Those red shells, they're called ‘Manstoppers.’"

"And if I shoot, er, hypothetically shoot a beaver with one...?"

"I wouldn't want to be in front of it."

"Beaver don't see very well, hear very well, or smell very well. You just wait by his den 'til he comes out and shoot him.  Aim for the head..."

Still kind of stunned at the turn this had taken, I drove back down to my place and pulled out the shotgun. It was a simple affair, just a metal tube, wooden stock, and two levers, one to open the gun and one to fire it. No fancy auto loading or anything, just slip the shell in the tube, snap the gun shut, and fire.  I took some practice aim, and opened and closed the breech a few times to get a feel for it. Never even having held a gun before, I was disappointed at the simplicity of it. I'd been hoping for some more of that cinematic "tchk-tchk" sort of sound: "Go ahead beaver, tchk-tchk, make my day". All Dirty Harry fantasies aside, I was awed by the power of this simple device of metal and wood. Just having it in the house creeped me out a little.

Daylight faded to a gloaming, and I slipped into some fleece to combat the evening's chill. Black fleece. I  slipped some foam earplugs into my ears and settled in to await the arrival of my nemesis. I waited, waited, and waited some more. It was cold, dark, and I felt isolated and disoriented.  The dark void of the den remained barely visible against the reflections in the water. I'd brought along a bottle of beer for , uh, sustenance.

Suddenly, through my foam blocked ears, I became vaguely aware of a voice calling "hello". I pulled out my earplugs and realized it was not only my neighbor,  she had her grandfather the game warden with her. Of all the people in Claryville, Bill was the one I least wanted to know about my little escapade, what with its questionable legality and all.  Claryville's a fairly odd place, but even the locals would look askance at a black-clad chowderhead crouching in the yard with a loaded shotgun. Just as I became aware of their presence, I realized they probably couldn't see me, as  they were standing under the porch light and I was crouched down in the brush out by the pond.  I hunkered down and waited for them for what seemed like forever to give up and go home.

Ten minutes stretched into twenty, then forty, then an hour.  I was freezing and neither saw nor heard movement one. Damn, this hunting stuff is hard. I also realized that there was no freakin' way I was going to be able to find, aim at, and hit a dark little creature swimming rapidly through pitch black water. And what the hell was I doing there, anyway? My first time even firing a gun, and it was going to be a shot in anger with intent to kill.  Discouraged and cold, I gave up for the night.

Next morning, there was still no sign of the critter, except that one of the apple trees which had still been standing was now flat on the ground. They're relentless. Busy as beavers, I guess. My reservations and trepidations of the previous night vanished with the new morning's sunlight. The felled apple tree was the last straw, I was fired up to bag some beaver!

I headed over to Joe's house to get some advice. Sitting around the woodstove in the workshop he offered another strategy:  removing the dam would lower the water level in the den. The nocturnal beaver could be counted on to come down to the dam to investigate and effect repairs as soon as daylight faded. Back home I jumped into waders and set to work taking out the dam.

What appeared to be a random pile of branches and shrub turned out to be a complex and detailed structure. The branches and sticks weren't just piled on top of each other, they were woven, so pulling out one or two just showed you more you'd have to pull out. Atop this lattice, mud and leaves were packed to make the whole thing waterproof. It took me an hour of hard labor to remove enough material to lower the water level a foot.

Come twilight, having ached enough during this quest, I pulled up my favorite Adirondack chair and a frosty Rolling Rock. I realized there would probably be a fair bit of waiting and figured I ought at least to be comfortable. I also spent the  fast fading twilight fixing a flashlight to the barrel of the shotgun. I duct taped it on there and settled in to wait for some beaver. And a fine sight I was, perhaps even better than the urban terrorist look I'd affected the night before. Tonight's ensemble suggested more of a genteel  redneck on acid.

It was a still, cold night. The final light faded from the sky and the stars began to emerge. The water was a dark, featureless void. I could see less and less until I was down to glimpsing the reflections of stars obscured by the silhouettes of trees. 

I nearly jumped out of my skin when the stars rippled ever so gently. There wasn't a hint of a breeze, so something must have been moving in the water. Shit. I grabbed the gun and hoisted it to my shoulder.  There was a creature out there moving around! Damn, just how big was it? Could it hurt me? Joe hadn't said anything about it attacking but...I hadn't been this freaked out since I saw Jaws.  The adrenaline and cold combined to produce shivering so violent I had to go inside the house to warm up and calm down.

Finishing my Rolling Rock and huddling over the gas heater in the cabin I got a hold of myself, added a hat, and quietly snuck back to my perch by the dam. There was definitely something moving through the water. I switched on the flashlight and right there, about ten yards in front of me was a-a, thing, with shiny eyes in a dark head cutting quickly through the water. I put him right in the center of the light, raised the gun to my shoulder, and fired. The noise of the gun wasn't as surprising as the sound of a Manstopper load hitting the water ten feet in front of me. The beaver disappeared and for a heart stopping moment I thought I'd killed him. I heard a splash and  it dawned on me what I'd done:  I'd had the light perfectly on him, but the gun was aimed an entirely different direction! Human: zero, beaver: one.

I heard a splash off in the dark, as if he was slapping the water in pique, or maybe triumph. I gave up for the night, and headed back inside to nurse my wounded pride. 

The third day I had to spend another cold wet hour removing the dam my nemesis had rebuilt after I'd gone to bed. Again, I marveled at the intricacy and strength of his construction. Again, I realized that it had to go, cunning architecture notwithstanding. I corrected the aim of the flashlight, bundled up, prepared my chair and settled in to wait.  The same routine of a quiet sunset quickly followed by loud crunching sounds repeated itself as my furry Moby Dick began the pressing work of replacing his waterworks.  I switched on my beam and caught him in it. Unlike the proverbial deer in headlights, this time he immediately dove, tail smacking the water with a resounding swat as he went. Damn, not even a shot. I stayed in my spot, waiting for signs of activity but saw nothing. Silence and stillness returned. Then ever so gently, the stars reflected in the dark water began to undulate. I could tell he wasn't over by the dam, so I got up and walked stealthily over to the den. I could just make out the ripples in the water. Something was definitely moving out in the darkness. When it seemed to move closer I again switched on my light. Perhaps because of my location near the den he turned and headed straight for me. I waited as long as I could stand and "Blam!" took my shot.

I hit him right between the eyes, just as Joe had suggested.  The death throes were absolutely awful, yet too compelling to turn away from. The beaver disappeared the moment the shot had rung out, his head being replaced by a roil in the water and a cloud of dirt from the bottom obscuring the motion. All I could make out in the beam of my flashlight was a churning cloud of dirt in the crystal clear water, hiding a violent, thrashing, ugly underwater death. It went on and on, until finally and inevitably, the roiling stopped, but not before I could feel totally sick to my stomach. After all the adrenalin of the hunt and the excitement of just tracking and shooting an animal, the actual death was far more horrible to witness than I'd ever imagined. Man, killing sucks.

I went inside to warm up and get my wits back about me. On top of all the emotion of actually killing, I felt relieved to have finally done the deed.  I pulled on my hip waders , grabbed a flashlight, and headed back to the scene of the crime. The dirt had settled, restoring the water to its usual gin clarity. There, submerged halfway between surface and bottom, lay the big old dead guy himself. Kind of peaceful, really, no evidence of the violent end he'd just suffered. He hovered there motionless, lying on his back as if he'd just paused there for a rest.  I waded into the water, losing my very breath at how icy it was when it turned out to be about an inch deeper than the hip waders I was wearing.  I reached out and grabbed it by the tail. It was a lot heavier than expected, and it was all I could do to wrestle it to shore and up the bank. In the garage I strung a rope from a rafter and hoisted him up, putting a bucket beneath the carcass to catch any blood.

"Dude," I bound into Joe's workshop the next morning, "finally got the beaver!"

Joe looked up with that funny look he seems to reserve just for me. Before he could say a word I blundered on, "And I got on the internet and found a really cool tutorial by some Eskimo kids on how to skin a beaver and I'm pretty sure I can do it. I just have one question: Do I have to bleed it first?"

That funny look again, for perhaps a millisecond too long: "I'll come over right after I finish these chores." Pause. "And don't start anything without me..."

Excitement and bonhomie aside, I'd secretly hoped for this reaction, though the vehemence with which he urged me not to do anything myself took me a bit aback.

An hour or so later, Joe showed up with a grin and a bunch of knives: "Yup, that's a beaver,"  he pronounced.

We cut it down, laid it on its back, and smoothed the fur along the belly. Joe started on the limbs with a knife, then paused and asked if I had something better. Indeed, my vegetarian wife's tree loppers have never been put to finer use. Whilst snapping my way through bone, sinew, and flesh, I realized this was serious business. This was a dead creature, that I killed. It seemed somehow important at least to not  waste it.

Next was a straight cut up from the anus to the lower jaw. Like opening a zipper. No blood, in fact the whole thing was a lot less gory than I'd imagined. There was a bit of stuff called castor which stank to high heaven (it was in a gland under the tail) but once we'd removed it nothing else really stank very much at all. It was a little unnerving to see steam come off some of the better insulated parts, but other than that the whole operation was, well, surgical. Joe and I each took a side and working our way outward from the center, gently cut and pulled the pelt away from the rest of the animal. It was a little tricky cutting around the ears, tail, and skull, but it's surprisingly easy to separate a beaver from its skin. Then you're left with a gorgeous pelt and the most disgusting beaver shaped thing you've ever seen. We took it and dumped it in the woods where Joe has established a feeding station for eagles. I retained the tail as a gift for an  artist friend of mine.

It was a simple task, but scraping the meat and remains off the skin took a few hours serious work. Joe made sure I had the technique down and went home. I scraped like mad till my knuckles ached.  I ended up with this fatty looking thing, bits of meat and gore still sticking to it in spots, not the kind of thing I was going to be allowed to bring into the house. This is where the salt comes in: about ten pounds of kosher salt poured into an even layer on top of the skin will desiccate it . The new  way to tan hides is to send them to the taxidermist, who sends them to the tanner, who uses chemicals unavailable to you and me.  Old school uses plain old NaCl.

The pelt was nicely dried, when Liz and I returned a few weeks later, reverently bearing the new dependent. Not nice enough to have it be allowed in the house mind you, but nice enough on the furry side to allow a nude babe to recline in warmth and comfort. Despite protestations from her mom,  I got Lucy ready for her first portrait.  A serene, jolly baby, so different from the first. Lucy just gurgled when I gently laid her on the luxurious pelt. Her soft pale skin contrasted with the dark fur. The silvery guard hairs added highlights to the lustrous chestnut background.  Surrounded with sticks the beaver had gnawed clean, she snuggled there as if in some prehistoric nest.

The next morning, I cut the apple trees into chunks for the smoker, cut and dragged the ash trees to the saw mill, and pulled out the dam one last time. I'm saving the boards for a desk. Lucy got bundled into the Baby Bjorn for a tour of the woods to survey the damage one more time. A barred owl swooped down out of a tree, startling abut giving a thrill  as I felt the breeze from its wings. I smiled to see the water receding to its proper level. I hugged  my slumbering babe just a little tighter and made plans to plant some new apple trees next spring.

all material ©copyright chris carroll 2012