Joy is the only thing that slows the clock
By Tom Bryant
It was my favorite time of year. I don’t know why I say that. Every season is my favorite, except that maybe fall has more in the plus column because of bird-hunting, surf-fishing, and just the beauty of the great outdoors. In the fall, Mother Nature pulls out her most colorful palette and paints the landscape in brilliant hues of red, yellow, russet and pine green, preparing nature for its long winter sleep and another beauty that’s entirely different.
This past summer, during one of my many forays afield, by chance I discovered a beaver pond way back off the beaten path, down close to a small creek where I hoped to do a little cane pole fishing. I was really far back in swamp country and being extra careful not to disturb “Mr. No-Shoulders” (an old Native American term for a snake). I was treading lightly. It had been fairly dry for a couple of weeks, and farm crops and wildlife needed some rain badly, so the ground that would have been very marshy was passable. I hardly got my feet wet. But after stepping around wet, overgrown areas and toting some unwieldy fishing poles, I decided to head back to the truck, drive over to the farm pond, and fish there.
As I angled back on the return path, I noticed to the west a general sloping where the land and vegetation seemed to be more vibrant. Walking slowly that way and being extra quiet not to alert wildlife, I discovered the beaver pond. It was a picture right out of Sporting Classics magazine. Alders were thick on the banks, and hickory trees and oaks and even some cypress completed the picture of a perfect, undisturbed wild habitat created by some of my favorite animals, the industrious beaver.
It was late in the afternoon, so I gave up the idea of fishing and decided to sit and watch a bit to see what game was using the pond. I had just sat down with my back against a big longleaf pine when two wood ducks, a hen and a drake, darted through the alders and skidded across the water right in front of me. They swam for a couple of minutes and then leaped straight up, kicked in the afterburner, and jetted out the far end of the pond. They must have seen me, I thought, as they climbed out of sight. As soon as the ducks were gone, a pair of deer, a doe and a new fawn, materialized on the far side and nosed down to the water to drink. They stood for a minute or two and disappeared back into the forest as if they had never been there. Three beavers swam close to where the deer had been. They were dragging freshly cut alders through the water, probably to reinforce their dam. My new discovery was so unbelievably pristine, it was hard for me to leave, but sunset was on the way and I needed good light for my trek back to the truck. I made mental notes on the location of the beaver pond, resolving to come back as soon as I could; but as in a lot of my endeavors lately, I was delayed. It was October before I could visit the pond again.
A northwestern front had moved through the area the evening before, leaving behind the first real cool snap of the season. I was on my way to revisit the pond and was really up for a big day in the woods. The deep blue sky was the perfect backdrop for the russet colored dogwoods accented with yellow hickory leaves. I pulled the truck into the woods a little way and grabbed my gunning bag and shotgun from the back. The shotgun was one of my favorites, a 28-gauge Remington 870 that I had rigged with a sling so I could carry it over my shoulder. Linda, my bride, had given me the little gun for my birthday many years ago, and it became the one I used the most when I was going to be in the field for an extended time.
Birthdays. They were rolling around pretty fast, it seemed. I had just celebrated one that really got my attention. It wasn’t one with zeros, although those tend to amplify the speed of time. This one quartered the century and was a special event in my rush through life. It increased awareness of my own mortality.
I recognized the route to the beaver pond right off the bat and moved off in that direction at a brisk pace. I had plenty of time and had to keep telling myself that there was no train to catch and to slow down and enjoy the day. That was it, enjoy, and I thought of John MacDonald’s quote in his book that I had just read, reread actually. “Joy is the only thing that slows the clock” in our rush to the end, or as a lot of us hope, the beginning.
I caught glimpses of water reflected by the overhead sun and slowed my walk to a crawl, so as not to disturb any animals that were enjoying the pond. I came to the water at the same location I had on my first visit, propped my shotgun against the pine and sat down using the tree for a backrest.
The rest of the afternoon was a blur. It was as if the area wildlife planned to put on a show for me and used the little pond as a stage. I saw beavers, deer, ducks, doves, a pair of otters, and even a bobcat made a special appearance. They didn’t notice me, or if they did, they didn’t care. They went about their business as if I was part of the scenery and belonged, just as they did.
It was an exceptional time in the backcountry, and all too soon my special day was gone. I had a real knowledge of the pond now, having walked the northern perimeter from the dam to the creek. It was about five acres and was situated in the swamp bottom. The beavers used the lay of the land to build one of the best nature habitats I’ve ever seen.
I came out of the woods near the truck just as a full moon was coming up over the eastern pines. I got a drink out of the cooler in the back, grabbed a sack of peanuts out of my gunning bag, leaned up against the front fender and watched as a pair of Canada geese, silhouetted against the moon, flew honking toward the pond, probably to roost, I thought
If MacDonald is right, and joy slows down the clock, I dang near stopped the thing that day. PS
Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.
