Jungle Lands Thursday August 12, 2021

 
    

                                 Palmville Jungle Land

    It’d been a while since I crossed the lattice-work of an old beaver dam. I was looking for a convenient, dry crossing, of Mikinaak Creek, so my two friends and I could get east of it on our way to the confluence of the Mikinaak and the South Fork of the Roseau River without getting too wet and muddy. I called the adjoining landowner for permission to cross his property, should our mugs get captured on one of his trail cameras somewhere without it.

    The beaver dam, where beaver-chewed logs and sticks were deeply anchored in high banks of clay, sediment, and reed grass sod years-deep, was likely atop several other old dams built up and fallen down in that location for hundreds of years; and where muskrats, mink, mice and weasels ran and hid in a labyrinth of hidden tunnels veiled by greenish curtains of dried algae and yellow-white willow roots.

    I can say that with some credibility because the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources / Thief Lake, in the early 1990s, surveyed and excavated the Mikinaak (An Ojibwe word for 'turtle' inaccurately spelled by cartographers as ‘Mickinock’) Creek basin to a depth of nine-feet in one spot, and found remnants of ancient beaver dams buried there.

    The overland approach to the dam was through shoulder-high reed grass. I took the direct route, feeling my way for the one to two-foot drop offs into hidden channels, under the grass, that had been created by water bypassing the dam and overflowing the creek bank, during floods. Small animals travel along the channels at night and use them to escape predators overhead. 

     I could see that a deer or some other large animal had pushed its way through the grass toward the beaver dam too, but the grass had closed up behind it and partially obscured its trail. It was slow going. I stumbled and fell momentarily, catching myself with my walking stick; the grass closing quickly over my head. The channel bottom was thankfully dry and cushioned by layers of still-moist grass and soil. I could’ve followed it downstream to an oxbow of the creek, but it was not in the direction of the dam.

   I was soon back to pushing my way through the high grass. I put aside any worry I had of stepping upon a gargantuan hornet nest hidden ahead of me, or bumping into a peacefully sleeping bear, for I had left my imagination at home or else I would be envisioning lots of wild-eyed animals and reptiles (including birds) fleeing before me, jettisoning their poop so to make their bodies lighter, diving into, fervidly flying over, and leaping like Olympians across the turbid pools of stilled water, then disappearing into the woods their little hearts pumping wildly, their hackles raised, their feathers awry. 

     But in reality, this wouldn't happen in this tiny woodland corner of Roseau County where all the animals and reptiles (including birds) can hear everything I say and do, the moment I step outdoors, and so monitor my whereabouts well in advance. That afternoon they had another jolly time of watching a two-legged (not a reptile) walk someplace, this time being crossing the creek.

    “Look at the poor sot, an’ him wit’ his t'ird-leg ‘walkin' stick’ an’ all. Dis oughta be good... Remember da last time 'e used it!”
 

   “HA! Didja see dat? Fell smack on ‘is beak, ‘e did!”
 

    “Clumsy oaf!”
 

    “Lotta good dat walkin' stick did ‘im, eh Margaret?”
 

    “An’ I took time outa my busy day ta watch this?? ‘Oose idea was it anyway? Makes me wanna yust snort!”