Beaverwood Paradise

I took the trail along the river that led to the secret estuary. On my previous visit, which occurred in a dream, I was pressed for time and didn’t follow the trail to its end.

Now, here I was dreaming about it again.

Fifty yards into my hike, knee-high water blocked my path. It made no sense. It was low tide and the slough should have been drained.

I backtracked and found another trail at a slightly higher elevation. A hundred yards in, water, water, water. I pulled off my Pumas and socks, then put the Pumas back on, rolled up my corduroys above the knees, and plunged in! Nothing would stop me. I had to see this place.

I walked through three or four pools and then the marsh turned into dune. I hiked through the dunes until I beheld a magnificent beach with an astonishing amount and assortment of driftwood. No one else was around for miles and miles.

There was so much driftwood it was like walking on driftwood flooring. A piece of beaverwood caught my eye. Then another. Then another. Every third or fourth step led to the discovery of more beaverwood. I started picking up the best specimens for my collection like a kid trick or treating on Halloween. I felt like I was losing my mind, but in a good way, a way forgotten by most adults.

I noticed a large sawed round of wood, upright like a coffee table. It had a beaver stick on it. Clam shells were arrayed in half circle a few feet away, as if they were placed there as an offering. Nearby was a little sculpture of intertwined beaver sticks.

What was this? What realm had I entered? Who or what had left this behind?

I left the stick alone. It would have been the centerpiece of my collection but it seemed sacrilegious to take it.