Troubled pleasure from pulling a beaver dam  

by LW Oakley

 There are in our existence spots of time

Which with distinct preeminence retain

A fructifying virtue, whence, depressed

By trivial occupations and the round

Of ordinary intercourse, our minds

Especially the imaginative power

Are nourished and invisibly repaired;

         William Wordsworth 

While hiking in the woods north of Kingston we cross many beaver dams along the way.  

Usually we inch our way over the top of the dam with the aid of a stick before continuing on. 

But occasionally someone wants to stop and pull the dam. There are two kinds of people in this world – those who pull beaver dams and those who don’t.

I sit on the shoreline and watch. 

I’ve watched people tear down beaver dams with pry bars, crow bars, shovels and hoes. I’ve even seen dams dynamited and blown a hundred feet in the air. 

But within days when I returned those dams were always rebuilt by a beaver. There’s only one way to beat a beaver. You have to kill it. Even if you do another will take its place.  

You may be able to beat a beaver but you’ll never beat the swamp.  

When a dam is pulled while we’re hiking it’s always pulled by hand.  It takes a long time. 

Like everything else there’s a proper way. You start well below the top of the dam and pull out the big branches and stones. When you tear away the twigs and weeds and mud packed across the top the dam bursts and water flows over the top carrying away everything in its path with little resistance from the lower end.   

I would not recommend pulling a beaver dam alone. If your foot gets stuck or wedged when the dam gives you could be pinned down by the force of the water and drown.   

There are two reasons that people pull beaver dams. One is from necessity since a dam can flood roads, fields and property. There other reason is for pure pleasure. 

The dams I’ve watched pulled while hiking are pulled for pleasure. The man I watched pulling the beaver dam that day was 64 years old. He grew up on a farm in the eastern townships in Quebec. He was returning to his childhood on the dam just as he had earlier that morning when he stopped to throw rocks in a swamp.

  After throwing a big rock in the water he told me to ‘watch the ripples as they cross the pond and return before disappearing.’ 

As he pulled the dam he was no longer aware that I was sitting watching him a few feet away. Some of the sticks he tore away and threw landed near my feet.  

He smiled the whole time. He seemed unaware of how long and hard he worked at the dam.  

Then suddenly he was back. 

‘Let’s go.’ He said. 

‘Are you finished?’ I asked. 

‘That was fun. I like to see and hear and feel the power of the water.’ He replied. 

As we walked away I said to him, ‘What about the beaver? He won’t be happy. It will take him a long time to put the dam back together.’ 

‘I only tore out a small part of the dam. Just enough to get the water flowing. He won’t mind. He doesn’t have anything else to do.’ He said. 

I sensed that my friend’s fun suddenly became an act of troubled pleasure. 

‘There’s ice in the corner of the swamp. Winter is coming. He has to find food and store it for later.’ I said. 

‘It reminded me of my childhood. That’s what I used to do as a boy. We played in the woods. We made are own fun.’ He said.   

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin it for you.’ I answered. 

We walked away in silence for a long time after. 

When we came to the next beaver dam we did not stop or speak.  

We crossed it together and continued our journey home.