It narrowly escaped destruction during an early 90s development project. Volunteers replanted it; annual spring flooding along the Rideau River flattened it; and now its neighbours—who live in the beaver lodge down the bank—happily feast on it.

Each of its five, massive trunks—which snake in all directions from its core—sends up enough sinewy limbs to seem as if this one tree is growing an entire forest, all on its own. One of those limbs is arched like a secret doorway. Several have large chunks chewed out of them. Others, toppled and hanging on by strips, still sprout viable branches rippling with leaves.

Some Alternatives

We love our trees. All summer they absorb sunlight, carbon dioxide, and nutrients from the soil and turn them into new green leaves that shade us on hot days, keep moisture in the air and soil, and harbour a huge number of living organisms.

As the days get shorter and cooler, all those leaves will soon become a liability. They can no longer photosynthesize as the temperature drops, but they still lose water, especially when it’s windy. No problem. Deciduous trees in our part of the world have adapted to winter by sending some of the nutrients from their leaves back down into the roots for storage. That’s why they turn colour, by the way – chlorophyll components break down, revealing the previously masked oranges, yellows, and reds of other chemicals.

Once upon a time, there was a small settlement on the banks of a beautiful river. It was a lovely site, with many trees, open meadows of wildflowers and grasses, and a marsh where water plants grew and many different kinds of insects, birds, butterflies, and small animals lived. When it rained, the water seeped into the ground where tree roots could reach it, and it replenished the marsh.

In my daily walks around Brewer Pond, I’ve noticed old signs of beaver activity from the beaver that used to live there in 2014. I figured it was only a matter of time before they returned, and happily, they are back.