Beaver Lodge

by Rollie J.

Quietly I cast off from shore and began paddling across the lake. My homebuilt 15' solo cedar-strip canoe silently parted the waters as I aimed the bow towards a narrow channel that led to another corner of the lake. A barred owl called out from the opposite shoreline. Odd I thought for mid-day, but I was grateful for the verbal welcoming.

It felt good to be back in the great north woods of Minnesota, my spiritual home. Even my canoe with its auburn, honey and coffee colored woods seemed to enjoy being back in the forests from which it was birthed. Each paddle stroke took me deeper into a peace-filled world and the ripples and whirlpools that trailed behind me seemed to be carrying away the stress and uncertainty of our new Covid crazy world. Coronavirus had not arrived in this little corner of the planet.

My canoe was packed lightly for a couple-day excursion; a folding chair, small Duluth pack with sleeping bag, hammock and change of clothes, my fishing pole, and a Rubbermaid with my camping and food supplies. A good Spanish novel and my Native American flute were my only forms of diversion.

It had been 15 plus years since I’d camped here with my kids. Big Rock Lake in White Earth State Forest, just north of the Elbow Lake Indian Village was as beautiful as ever and had a very Boundary Waters-esque feel to it, minus the long drive time!

I paddled the shoreline of most of the lake looking for a reasonable place to make camp, and finally settled on a long peninsula that jutted out into the bigger section of the lake. This little ridgeline provided a little higher view and excellent breeze to keep the mosquitos at bay.

It took only a few minutes to hang my hammock and tarp, then dig out a safe perimeter for my modest campfire. I heated up a mid afternoon coffee, and then sat just soaking in my surroundings, listening, observing, and chatting with my Creator. It was a good day to be alive, and I gave thanks for this remote and tranquil setting.

As I settled in, I soon found out I was not alone. A hummingbird buzzed me, and then flitted and darted to and fro. A pair of very vocal woodpeckers pecked and poked on a large maple tree just beyond the reach of my campfire. I couldn’t tell if their intense vocalizations were two birds passionately in love, or a squabbling, bickering married couple who’d spent too many years together.

Soon a pair of loud and brash trumpeter swans honked loudly flying low and overhead so I could hear their wing flaps. In several directions around me, I could hear what sounded like a motor being started. Smiling I realized it was just our local roughed grouse beating their wings in a macho display of courting.

An hour before sunset, as I was reading and enjoying an ice-cold barley pop near the cozy fire, I was startled by a loud splash. A member of the Local Beaver Lodge #404 was alerting other members to the presence of a stranger in their midst. The loud slap of his tail on the waters surface was heard several other times throughout the evening. In the waning moments of light, I could see the tell-tale moving “V” in the water as he patrolled back and forth. The long top of his back and head cruised like a German U-Boat patrolling the enemy shoreline. I tipped my hat to him and promised my full cooperation in our agreed upon detente.

As I snuggled into the coziness and comfort of my sleeping bag and hammock after dark, I was serenaded by several barred owls who were sounding off from all points of the compass near and far. “Whooooool, Whoool, Whoool, Whoo cooks for you?” is the classic way to remember their calling. I was not sure as to the content of their calling. Was it connecting or checking in for the night's work? Was it some tidbit of juicy owly gossip? Warnings about a smelly human in a nearby hammock? I took it as more of a Walton Family good night. “Good night Bobby Sue, Night John Boy, Good night Bobby Jo. Night Grampa Billy Bob.” I nodded off in the peaceful bliss of being watched over and protected from above.

Day two found me quietly paddling the snaking shorelines of the lake fishing. I’m a half-hearted fisherman at best, having very little knowledge of what to use, when or how. I just chuck one brightly colored lure after another in hopes of landing a lunker. It is rhythmic, peaceful, and enjoyable though, and I did my best and caught a few cooperative bluegills and narrow hammer-handled northerns.

Throughout the lake were several large beaver lodges. I pulled into one for a break to untangle my line and was completely surprised by what ensued. I soon heard some babbling, and startled, I literally raised my head and scanned the shoreline looking for someone who I thought was speaking. The vocalizations continued and I soon realized they were coming from within the beaver lodge itself! I quietly repositioned my canoe to put me closer and sure enough, plain as day I could hear a complete beaver conversation! I could differentiate between the deeper, guttural voiced mom and pop, and higher pitched chattering and squeaking of the kids. It was sooo cool!

I then could hear what I believe was gnawing, most likely a beaver eating bark, and then the swoosh of water, a beaver diving to leave the hut. Sure enough, seconds later I could see the tell-tale bubbles of an underwater traveler and then “Bingo” dad broke the surface and upon seeing my canoe, a loud “slap” of the tail and he was gone again. Seconds later I heard the “shoosh” of him reentering the lodge, shaking off his fur and more chatter began.

Now I have been around and on top of hundreds of beaver lodges in my day. But never have I been privileged to listen to and hear such intimate sounds in the secretive life of these socially isolated creatures! I was thrilled by this unexpected gift!

This bizarre little encounter has had me smiling and thinking. How did this take place?

Well number one, I simply showed up, I was present and available. This couldn’t have happened in front my TV. Two, there was quiet. I was quiet. There was stillness and silence. I believe these are the requisites for us to hear God’s still, small, quiet voice. Show up continually. Be still. Be quiet. Pay attention and listen.

And let’s be honest here… just because you sit still, are quiet and show up, doesn’t mean God will speak every time. In fact, if we are real… there are lots of days, maybe even the majority, where we don’t hear God speak to us. That’s just life, that’s just faith. I’m not smart enough to know why or when. I don’t know what triggers God’s speaking to each of us. I’m not sure if the problem is on my end or God’s. Most likely it’s mine. Is his silence due to my failures, my sins, my improper prayers, my poor technique, somewhere I’ve strayed or missed the mark? Or is it that God is trying to build my trust muscles, to wean me away from having to know, to see what is ahead, to remove the crutches of certainty and clarity? Is he inviting me to walk by faith, and not by what I can see, touch, and feel?

I can say with certainty though, that over time God has proved faithful. He has revealed himself at just the proper times and places of my life. He has done that over, and over again. Not on my demand, not on my timeline, not on my begging or pleading, but in those subtle and unexpected places and spaces when He has chosen. And those divinely timed encounters keep me coming back over, and over again to restore and renew faith. I believe… because He continues to speak.

And by the way, did I really hear the voices of those beavers? Did I really hear them gnawing on wood and splashing in the water? I guess I can not prove it. I can only bear witness to and testify about what I felt, heard, and saw. This is the life of faith.

May you continue to show up. Be still and quiet before the Lord. Spend some significant time in natural spaces and places. God may speak to you when you least expect it.

-- Rollie J.