Long night of the Beaver
If I am in my neighborhood but not within sight of my apartment building, and I hear a fire truck wailing, I am sure that I have left the kettle or a pot on the stove and those trucks are now rushing to extinguish the fire I have caused. With that in mind, consider how I felt when I heard about the beaver that was dragged from the East River just before the cutting of its thread of life. Not only did I believe that that beaver was the José from the Bronx River, but as the person that is somewhat responsible for keeping an eye on the health of the river, I felt that I had killed him. “The police pulled him from the East River,” Warren from the Friends of the (Bronx) Zoo (FOZ) said, “but then he died.” What I heard coming from his lips was, “You did not sufficiently administer the Bronx River Stewards; your negligence allowed him to die.” If the beaver leaves or dies on my watch without my being able to show why, then I have failed the river, the Bronx, and the world.
When a body is found, it must be identified. I have never met José (Josefa?) So I could not physically identify the body, but I have seen signs. It seemed rational to me to want to know for sure, so I threw out the suggestion that the beavers incisors should be measured for width and I could compare that width to the evidence I could find along the river, and possibly eliminate José from the list of possible victims. My inquiries, however, went unanswered. I can only imagine that the people and institutions that received my e mails believed that I was just a crackpot, but the exit of the animal whose arrival last year was touted as proof of the river’s revival, should also be seen as raising questions about sustained improvement. Recent finds and anomalies raise just that issue as they do the importance of regular monitoring.
On Monday, May 5, 2008, as I met with the FOZ for their weekly water quality monitoring. I decided to wander upstream. I checked first some of the signs that I had seen early last winter, and found no changes. I’ve come to believe that José is a juvenile, an adolescent, like my son. There is nothing scientific in this just that like my son, José prefers a buffet to a sit down meal. He snacks, sometimes heavily, and then moves on. At the known snack stops, I didn’t notice anything new. Then I saw a few new, white chew areas. And then a few more. Finally I found an area that still had some bits of fresh chips clinging to the tree, chips that would have been washed away in the previous night’s rain. Walking down to the bank of the river, I was also able to find tracks in the mud. There were various small prints, and some that looked like goose tracks. I learned that those “goose tracks” were most likely the back, flipper-like feet of the beaver. The combination of evidence seems to point towards life, not death.
I feel better knowing that I have not had to bear witness to such a tragedy at this stage in my stewardship. José lives. I am still sad for the beaver that did pass away, and feel that it is very important to discover the reason for its mortality. I pledge, before all, to do my duty, to the river and the Bronx, to keep as close an eye on the river as possible, to better serve the amazing stewards that volunteer their time to gather data about the river, and work towards a better river for all.
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