Yesterday we drove again to the eastern side of the Sierras where we had accidentally found a series of beaver dams years ago. Turns out this fork of the carson river is central to the debate of whether beavers are native at higher elevations. Fish and Game says that all the beavers around Tahoe and Yosemite were ‘introduced’ in the 20’s. There are plenty who argue that this was actually a ‘reintroduction’ and point to trapping records and native lore to support it.
One tipping place of the debate seems to be the Washo tribe. These were the natives to the Lake Tahoe Region and were intimately connected with the eastern sierras. There is an argument that says that there couldn’t have been native beaver ‘because there’s no word for beaver in Washo’. However, our wikipedia friend whose looking into this recently found an online Washo database put together by the University of Chicago where the word for beaver is clearly listed.
c’imhélhel
It turns out that the very area in question, the sight of the fork of the Carson River where this debate is playing out, is the place where we stumbled upon beavers 8 years ago. We were drawn by the strange lunar landscape of the high desert, intrigued by the tribal lands of the Hung-a-lei-ti tribe, fascinated by the miles of sage and pinyon pine – suddenly on display after driving through a vista of fur trees. We followed the footsteps of Kit Carson and were ultimately directed to this very spot.
As you can see, the beavers here are clearly going about their business. They abandon the 5 year investment in their curving dams downstream and just started in on several new ones upstream. With singular and furry focus they are entirely indifferent to the argument of whether or not they have a right to be there. Isn’t that wonderful?
These adorable silhouettes are the work of our map-creating friend Libby Corliss. We scoured through Cheryl’s photos to find the right images. Libby is helping us get the images to artist Paul Craig who will be making a metal two-dimensional sculpture of mom and kits as a memorial. Originally we were planning to have the artwork adorn the very un-artistic sheetpile wall, but in talking with flood expert Mitch Avalon we learned that there would be more concern of debris getting stuck behind it in high flow. Now Paul is leaning towards the upstream side of the Main Street bridge, which would be visible and water-safe.
Paul is the artist behind the metal sculptures at the Martinez library and has been a great friend of the beavers. Because this is truly a small town, his wife was my PE teacher in 7th grade. Go figure. We have already had some expressed enthusiasm from the council for the project. It’s probably the most visible place for it, and Starbucks is where the public interest in beavers really began. It’s where we picked up mom on her very last day, curled weakly in the weeds and grasses. We’re excited about the project and hopefully we’ll have more to report soon.
I also heard yesterday from the retired supervisor of Sunol Regional Park who knows about several ‘remnant beaver dams’ in and around the area and beyond. Hopefully he will lead us on an expedition to get some samples for carbon testing! This is useful because the current mythology says there were “no historic beavers in Alameda Creek” and so of course you’re completely justified in killing the ones there now. Looking forward to changing that myth. I’ll keep you posted.
So our historian friend Rick sent word today of research on the heating rocks used by the Indians in Calaveras county. Guess what kind of meat it appears the natives regularly ate? Umm that would be beaver. You know, the aquatic mammal not present above 1000 feet? The lipids were taken from a Miwok cave at 3300 feet outside Arnold. Apparently they’d throw a hot cooking rock into a basket or hide vessel to make their dinner. The rocks were later analyzed by Tammy Buonasera to see what the natives were eating and to make sure the lipid analysis was accurate. She questioned whether this was the case, as there were some natural rocks (not used by human) that also tested positive for beaver. In a later paper she focused on ground stone which did not include such traces. Still, it’s a whiff of a clue and I can be excited about it if I want too. The beaver lipids date to around 250 years ago.
Could this mean beavers were on the western slopes of the sierras? Clearly Tappe and Grinnell, with 60+ years of false reporting to defend, would say no. Obviously it was a hard life to be an native. First you had to catch your dinner 2000 feet down the mountain, tracking a species with which you were totally unfamiliar and then haul it back up the mountain to cook it on a rock. Tough gig.
I still say wide open is the direction in which this particular beaver myth is going to be blown.
Readers might remember that on the way to my parents home I pass through the Gold Rush town of Sutter Creek where a large beaver dam stops water on both sides of the bridge. Each summer the dam is knocked out, and in the past we have been alarmed that maybe the beavers were killed. Last week I got the real story.
In the course of researching beaver prevalence in California we found a delightful book written by a Sutter Creek native. He described his father, who was born at the turn of the century, checking his traps on the way to school and getting beaver, martin, fox. This was of course interesting to me as we’re talking 1600 feet elevation, and that if indeed beavers were trapped by his father it was about 10 years before the were “introduced”.
I promptly called the author to verify and ask about photos. He assured me that his father wouldn’t have mistakenly referred to trapping beaver because the pelts were so valuable. Sadly no photos, but in passing he mentioned the beaver dam that was there now, remarking that it had to be removed each year to allow for the rubber duck races that were held for charity.
I knew immediately which dam he was talking about, and was happy to hear the reason for its annual destruction. Still, I suggested, his town would be MUCH more recognized if they left the dam in place and had rubber beaver races instead.
So in the increasingly dense fog of discovery (a phrase chosen for a reason) that has settled upon my beaver life, I was learning yesterday about the role of music with the early trappers. Apparently the French Canadians were famed for singing as they paddled their canoe to keep time and motivate the troops. One such trapper had the presence of mind to put 11 of these songs on paper. Edward Ermatinger was the son of a swiss father, born on an island off Tuscany, educated in England and went to work as a clerk for the Hudson Bay Company. About his unique skills, a family member later wrote;
He took up [in England] the study of Latin, French and Italian, besides acquiring those habits of neatness and precision, both in calligraphy and expression, which his journals disclose. He, at this time, also took up the study of music and acquired some proficiency with both flute and violin. Accomplishments which afforded him much enjoyment in after life, especially during his service with the Hudson’s Bay Company …
Sounds kind of refined for a beaver-killer doesn’t it? I suppose trapping was the ‘space race’ of its time. Exploration. Adventure. Fortune. Memoirs. Escape from the rules and constrictions of society. Escape from wives or potential wives. (And how much do you wanna bet the slang-meaning of these rodents has something to do with this their feelings for the women they left behind?) They quickly learned from the natives that the birchbark canoe was their best means of getting around, easy to build, cheap to repair and ready for action. Two men could portage easily over short distances, four men could do it over long. The music kept their strokes in time, encouraged the hungry or frightened, and focused the inattentive. Alouette is a trapping song we still sing today. Trois beaux Canards was one of the most popular at the time. Words could be changed or added to fit the particular brigade or quarry.
The Ermatinger Collection presented here offers the best answer so far discovered. Its eleven songs, recorded about 125 years ago by a fur trader, are typical paddling songs for canoemen. Their tunes are rhythmical, and the solos, as in most work songs, alternate with a chorus (“refrain”) which prolongs the action. Yet these songs belong also to the common stock of traditional folk songs brought over by the colonists from France at the beginning-mostly from I640 to I680. Even their deviations from the original pattern resulted from their vitality. Alive and variable, they constantly yielded a trifle to the mannerisms of individual singers and the utilities they served either in the settlements or in their peregrinations. Canoe men, more than others, were apt to fashion refrains that reflected new surroundings and features, like canoe and paddle.
So after a few hearty rounds of the french equivalent of “row row row your boat” the men would haul out at an inviting looking-lodge, plant some poles to keep the beaver from getting out, and then rip open the top of the home to kill them. Maybe they’d throw the carcasses into the boat to skin later and paddle away singing some more until they got to their next lodge. Wash. Rinse and repeat. And so on, farther and farther west until there weren’t many beaver to find, no matter how hard you sang. You can see why you’d need a vast lexicon of music to intersperse with all that killing.
It chills me deeply to think of the disconnect between a ‘group hum’ and a near species genocide, but the strangest thing is this: I have been an avid canoer for 30 years, and when i am in ‘thick water’ paddling against the wind, I have always, always, instinctively, sung as a way of keeping my spirits up. I guess its destiny.
May I suggest some new lyrics to ‘alouette?’ It’s not a lovely song to begin with, so these fit right in.
