I was out in my trusty kayak last fall for a relaxed trip around a nearby island, when suddenly, to my startled delight, I spotted an adventurous beaver apparently swimming as if s/he was aware of neither man nor beast.
I halted my forward momentum to see if I could snap a photo.
At which point said beavie did in fact notice me, and responded with an alert tail slap, which produced a voluminous sweetly flowing brief yet remarkable cascade, as s/he gracefully descended into the depths below.
"But where did that beaver go?," thought I, as I waited for him or her to resurface, camera ready in hand, naturalistic anticipation growing.
S/he was heading towards shore when s/he disappeared so I meticulously scanned the area, and was disappointed shortly thereafter to discover that I had no idea where s/he was.
When it dawned on me.
That beaver was trying to lead me in the wrong direction!
In other words: that beaver was trying to trick me.
I reoriented myself with the island and began steadily travelling around its western tip to see what awaited on the other side, where, as I had eagerly hoped, not just the sought after beaver, but a family of beavers was energetically going about their business, some collecting branches to eat or attach to a dam or lodge, the young ones swimming back and forth, devotedly learning how to indubitably persevere and beaver.
In stride and mesmerized.
The photos I took were crappy and I realized I should probably stop spoiling the idyllic scene, so I turned back round and headed in the opposite direction.
"'Twas a marvellous sight," thought I, as I proceeded to patiently paddle, onwards towards a robust lager, a baguette, some cheese, and some blueberries, feeling lucky to have witnessed such a frolicking, glad I had kayaked that night instead of staying home to nap then lackadaisically hike, wondering if I would ever see something that striking again, hoping that if I did, it wouldn't be three or four years down the road.
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