Beaver Baffler: Architecture of a Universe

In August 2008 my Dad and I came across a beaver pond while bushwhacking. My Dad had a new hand. held GPS device he wanted to use. A thin green line moved across the screen's grid and it led us to an old logging road that followed along the ridge. The trail was wide enough for ATVs and with the sun being hot, it was lousy with horseflies. After an hour or so, the trees thinned out, and stepping forward, we drew back the foliage. A beaver pond!

The clearing smelled like eggs and musk, a blackened birthmark with a dam at one end. We were struck by the extent of the beavers' work. There was an island lodge, fresh beaver chips, sharpened stumps, large curvy clouds. "Oakalee! Oakalee!", cried a red-winged black bird.

In the 1800s, my Dad's great-great Irish grandfather, and then his son, and his son, all worked in the timber industry of the area. They logged white and red pine, tied them into large booms, and ferried them down the Tenagadino Zibi (Gatineau River) to the Kichi Zibi (Ottawa River). The logs were then floated up to Tiohtià:ke/Mooniyang (Montreal, disassembled, then up the Kaniatarowanenneh (St. Lawrence River) to Kébec (Québec City) where they were shipped

"lousy with.." from my Dad, who learned from his off to European and American ports. I learned to say Dad. Not to nitpick, but it literally means "infested

with lice".

Over the next two years, I returned to this pons many times and, eventually, wrote this book.