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My friend C joins me. She has driven all the way from Atlanta on a round the country tour to deliver artwork from a huge collaborative exhibition on the Iraq war that she organized...and did pretty much everything. People made gloves, 6 for each week of the war. No one knew that so many gloves would have to be made. C did hundreds herself before asking for help.We portage down the hill to the east end of the ancient portage. C's dog, EJ comes with. I have never canoed with a dog. It is a cloudy, warm and calm day, an ideal summer day, a truly peaceful summer day. A heron sits on the dead birch that sticks up out of the Workbench Lodge...I've never seen one sit there in 3 years of steady paddling.This time of day is not a busy time for the marsh, but there are many herons around and they are always a wonderful bird to watch. EJ enjoys the trip, having never been in a canoe, I can tell it is exciting and the dog is well alert to everything that goes on. When we get back in the dead end of the East Marsh, the backside of the beaver forest, EJ launches herself from the canoe in a ridiculous attempt to outswim a few ducks. We haul her back in and clip her leash to my backpack. EJ can now launch herself all she wants, but she will only swim two more feet once she hits the water.
The little pile of "salad" at the water's edge in the center of the photo is the nest of a pied billed grebe. As we approached, she quickly covered the eggs with vegetation and then slipped off of the nest and submerged herself without a ripple, as only pied billed grebes can do. We hurried past so that she can get back on the eggs as soon as possible.We cross to the NE lagoon, and skim the NE shore to the mouth of Ravenna Creek. There are a great many great blue herons today. I find and point out one of the marsh wren nests near the osprey tree and we are lucky as the hole in the side is facing us. EJ launches herself a second time somewhere in here and then decides that it is best to sit on my backpack and watch the world slowly go by.I have so much to show C, a visitor to this town. My tours of Seattle have a tendency to take on adventure/epic proportions....and my visiting friends sleep well. We pass by Dale Chihuly's little shack and head down the dead lake to show C some of the working boats.
Our friend B joins S and I for an evening picnic paddle. We portage down to the south lagoon for a put in. A late start, or an early start is best on a warm summer day when the lake is full of toy ships and aluminum rental canoe mayhem. Everyone is heading for home by the time we start, but I know that the life of the party is just getting its legs. We put B in the middle of the canoe. A fully loaded canoe is really a pleasure to run, it carries its momentum so much better than a light boat.
We paddle up to the Workbench lodge, and while I point out some features, a beaver slaps its tail behind me...nothing makes a splash quite like that. It isn't long before we spot another. It's still a little busy here, so we head across the bay up to #2 island to show B the wren nests. Then, as we sit near the West Lodge, S spots a lone beaver swimming back from where we just came.
We skim the north shore to the NE lagoon. Again, S spots a beaver swimming right next to the North Lodge, while a heron feeds on the north shore where the heron always seem to be feeding. The female bald eagle flies past on its way to the nest and a moment later the smaller male flies by on its way to the bay.We eat our picnic.
When we leave, we find the male eagle on a drift log at the north marsh. It gets up and flies low, just 3 ft off the water, out across the bay. I tell the others to watch - it is flying as if it is hunting. A half mile out it dips to the water and comes back, passing us and heading for the nest with something small in its talons.We see two beaver as we near the Big Lodge. Then, as we head to the take out, we stop back in to see where the beaver from the Workbench lodge are. We find one sitting almost out of the water eating lily pads...one after another. We saw beaver from the Workbench, West, North and Big Lodges.
The pied billed grebe is still tending its nest in the north end of the east marsh. When we come near, it hastily covers its eggs with vegetation and silently dives. We hurry away so that it can return.
I wake to the dripping of water and the day brings a heavy sprinkle or a soaking mist, depending on when you are out in it. I have finished a couple of projects and fell unburdened. The calm day gives me a chance to explore some new wetland that I located on the far side of the big lake.I head out for the portage in my red wool jacket, an old item that sheds rain as well as most raingear, an old item that my dad gave me. I wear it on special occasions, such as anytime I am in my canoe or outside. It always brings me an inch closer to my dad, a foot closer to the forest and lakes of my home state, and it moves me well back in time.At the lake's edge, the rain stops and I pack the wool jacket away. I have a 2 mile crossing ahead under calm grey skies. The wetland is another mile. When I looked at it on a map, I saw the potential for a healthy spot. It is a "patch" and not just a transition zone, so it has the possibility of having a vibrant interior with a fair amount of plant and wildlife diversity.
There is an inlet that penetrates the shoreline. It is guarded by some cattails and a shallow mud bar, but the canoe passe by with ease. In my layman limited knowledge, it appears to be quite a healthy spot. There are cattails and the appropriate shrubs and alders. No blackberries....and lots of birds. The inlet ends in a high grass wet meadow, the continuing passage too twisty for the canoe. As I paddle back, I hear running water up a brushy opening to the right. I can get in, but not far enough. It appears that there is a beaver dam ahead, although it may not be well tended. I have seen some trimmed branches on the way in, but no evidence of a lodge. Then, I see a large mammal serpentine swimming. But, I only get a glimpse - otter most likely, but maybe a beaver. A second later, a muskrat swims towards me (no confusion here, a muskrat is much smaller than either an small otter or a small beaver).
I spot a Virginia rail and a cedar waxwing, neither of which I've ever seen in person before.The wind stays down and I have a calm crossing back to my home marsh with little to note other than an osprey passing overhead as I neared Wilson Point.
My friend W arrives not long after noon and we set off on a portage down to Portage Bay. The day is in the 70's and sunny. I don't need to show him the main lodge, as you can't miss it from where we launch the canoe, but the bank burrow on the west side needs explaining. W probes the water depth as we near the burrow and finds the deep canal that the beaver keep open to access the underwater entrance. That chore accomplished, we paddle through the crossing under place for a clockwise tour of Union Bay. There are a good number of heron still out, maybe one every 200 yards. An immature bald eagle passes by and a mature one circles high. When we are cutting across the bay from north to south, two herons fly towards us in a single file, veering away when they get near. But, the 2nd one circles tight and dives to the water catching a fish. It sits in the water, 8 or 10 feet of depth, while it swallows the fish and then flies off. This is the first time that I've seen a heron hunt in deep water let alone land, float and the take off. When we get to the Big Lodge, there is a heron on a dock hunting. It leaps off and into the water catching a fish just as the previous one did, floating a few seconds, and then flying off from deep water.I find the homeless man with the rowboat in the south lagoon and we stop for a good long chat. We have mutual friends. He is much more knowledgeable about wildlife than he was the last time we talked. I am impressed. He is learning about wildlife the same way that I have, by watching and carefully observing what goes on. He recently saw the pied billed grebes mating dance. I have not seen this although I saw a nest and both of us are familiar with the unusually loud whooping call that many people are unaware of (the bird is so small that I suppose most people cannot believe the call comes from it). Then W and I take out at the ancient portage.On the way back, we divert a few blocks to visit our friend A, who is a local archaeologist. It has been too long since any of us have seen each other. While we are there, G, another friend and archaeologist as well, shows up. It is a splendid 45 minutes or so. The canoe parked on the sidewalk amuses all.Just short of the house, a woman does a U-turn in her car to ask us what we are doing. She has seen me many times go by with the canoe. It turns out that she is a neighbor and we have a good short talk. The portage remains one of the most important parts of any canoe trip.
Yesterday, S decided that she would like to go see the beaver. I get her up at 4:30am and she looks at me and says, "you suck." But, she laughs that line out. We put in on the west edge of the Workbench Lodge territory after a very quiet portage. We don't paddle much more than 50 yards before I spot one, then another, and then the first one surfaces 10 ft away and slaps tail. 
Now, S knows what a beaver looks like in the water (a moving log) and she starts spotting them on her own. We stop near the Workbench Lodge after the first two beaver have disappeared on us. A newborn kit, perhaps one or two months old is in the safety of the workbench, a tangle of semi submerged trees. An adolescent comes in towing a lilypad. They don't need to eat bark at this time of year as there is plenty of green vegetation available. By the time we paddle away from the Workbench, we've seen six or seven beaver. They all come from this same lodge.
A heron waits on the recently downed tree in the east channel, which we cross as if it was a beaver dam, getting out and standing on the log and pulling the canoe over. It only takes 30 seconds if you do it correctly. You get wet if you do it incorrectly.
There are a lot of marsh wrens and red wing blackbirds calling in the east marsh.
As we round the bend to go to the Big Lodge, we sneak up on a Big Lodge beaver that is eating a lily pad. It submerges and we watch the lily pads wiggle and tug as it swims direct to the cattails. It doesn't surface and I figure that it has slipped under the floating cattails and come up in a safer spot. We sit behind the Big Lodge for a half hour watching two, maybe three beaver watching us. It is getting near the time when they retreat into the lodge. The last one to watch is quite large and when it no longer shows itself we set off down the big lake in calm water under a fine sun.
I wake early, planning to reach the south lagoon in time to watch the beaver finish their activities. But, rainfall on the roof changes the plan. I roll over and sleep another hour and some.I start again at the unnamed lagoon. It is 7am and there are no beaver to be found. But, I see my first green backed heron for the season, flushing it from a branch on the Workbench. It pauses on a snag on the nearby lodge and then gets up and flies a big circle all the way around the lagoon, following the edge of the trees.
Sedge Meadow
I cut straight across the bay in a steady tailwind with the light sprinkle of rain moving almost horizontal but at my back. An eagle sits on the lunch counter. It has been a very long time since I saw an eagle there. The mate is at the edge of the north marsh watching the commotion that the carp are creating. It's rather cat like...the fish are way too big, but the eagle can't help but watch.
I leave the house before sunrise and briskly walk the portage down to that unnamed lagoon that lays between the ancient portage trail and the Workbench Lodge.A homeless man shouts unseen, unintelligible from the shadows, back under a bridge and reminds me of my most dangerous moment in 400 days of canoeing - when I faced down a man of criminal intent on one of my portages. I would rather face a grizzly bear than go through that again, the grizzly being much more predictable than the man. This preoccupies me as I set the canoe in and load my gear.
No sooner than taking up my paddle for the first stroke do I spot a beaver swimming past. I am on the west end of the Workbench Lodge territory and starting here means I traverse the area that they claim. A second smaller beaver is grazing in the shadows next to two mallards. A tail slap is all the notice I receive of a third. And, finally reaching the 100 yard point of the trip, a fourth slaps its tail back in the felled trees that line the point. As I near the lodge, a fifth beaver clambers over the submerged workbench island from which the lodge gets its name.I continue into the south lagoon, towards the hidden lodge. I saw several beaver here the last time I was down here so early in the morning, but today there are none, until I head into the east channel of the burial island. A beaver comes swimming straight at me. I stop and it swims esses back and forth, raising its nose clear of the water at times to catch my scent. Then, it dives quietly and I sit still waiting for a minute. I watch the water beside the canoe in case it swims under and past. After a minute I spot it 10 yards behind me. It has passed under without showing any wake on the surface of the still water.
The East Marsh is spectacular in the sunrise, as it always is, the cattails flaming to the sounds of redwing blackbirds and marsh wrens while a great blue heron silently hunts (it makes three catches) in the shadows. The main channel in the big dead end is only a half canoe wide today, cattails on the move again. The dead end is in the shade, so it has not yet woken up so I head around to the Big Lodge.
I pass the two resident dead beaver along the way and park myself just southwest of the lodge. A large beaver slips off of a rootball and there are a couple of tail slaps announcing my arrival. A mother wood duck herds her brood back into the safety of the beaver forest. The beaver return to their business after I sit still for a few moments. They keep an eye on me, but don't seem to be overly bothered. Two nuzzle each other in passing and I hear one let out the clicking chip of their call.An osprey flies overhead.I head down the big lake.
The little pile of "salad" at the water's edge in the center of the photo is the nest of a pied billed grebe. As we approached, she quickly covered the eggs with vegetation and then slipped off of the nest and submerged herself without a ripple, as only pied billed grebes can do. We hurried past so that she can get back on the eggs as soon as possible.
