In the structure of my days I find myself and lose myself. I find myself on the blank page as I scurry the pencil around the shapes of words. Words that beckon to the woods, the ponds, the stars, the sky reflecting pool…and this week to Pleasant Valley Wildlife Sanctuary, ten minutes from my home. The park is swirling with paths, ponds, birds and wildlife. The ponds are decorated with beaver huts, gnawed trees in evidence as they work to reinforce their homes for the winter. Bright green ferns are sprinkled amidst shy mushrooms and purple flowers are shining here and there. Yesterday bright pinkish-red prickly bushes flamed out of a brown cattail backdrop.

As I tripped among the tree rooted path around a beautiful calm pond I kept thinking, “Where are all the beavers that make these intricate huts out of twigs, that chew down these huge trees with their little grinding teeth?” I want to see a beaver! I have lived here fifteen years and have seen only two in that time, swimming in a lake far from shore.

As I pass over one of the little wooden bridges, hearing my sneakers echo hollow clomps to the stream below, I round a corner like Alice in Wonderland through draping yellow leaves and framed in my view is a little brown clump. I stop and stare and the clump moves ever so slightly. Step by slow step I move ten feet in ten minutes and see my wish come true before my eyes. A beaver!—sitting there in the shallows like a cartoon character chewing and chewing on a little branch. He rotated the twig like a corn cob with tiny claws and the sound was like rocks being polished and tossed to a shiny glow. Head over to my Instagram page to see him on video.

Eventually I got to within eight feet of my beaver, then six, as close as I could without jumping off the wooden planks into the pond. I talked to Alfred—yes I named him and asked if I could sit and join him with his meal, while down I slowly crouched, camera ready.

I hear that beavers are near-sighted and he probably could not see me very well but I watched him intently as he, in great meditation, often closing his eyes in seeming ecstasy, kept on munching. After thirty minutes, darkness falling and only one of us getting cold, I sadly left him still gnawing away, not bothered by my movement or concerned with my departure.

Still in a daze by my great fortune I zigzagged around a corner to see another brownish, moving lump thinking, ”Alfred’s wife!” But I quickly spied some pointy, off-white bits flopping around on its body. Retreating a few steps backward I realized this was not Alfred’s wife but a distant cousin, Petunia Porcupine. There was not going to be an invitation to sit and watch her eat dinner and as impressed as I was at her quills and the funny looking way they stuck here and there, I was a bit afraid. I didn’t know how fast she could move so I looked for the closest exit before I relaxed a bit. Being on a raised walkway over a pond the escape routes are very limited and the only way to my car was past Petunia, unless I backtracked a few miles. I know now that porcupines don’t actually shoot quills at you but when confronted will swipe you with their tails if you are within reach, so I needn’t have been so uptight, as I gave her plenty of space.

Relieved to be back on the path to my car I am struck by how these wild creatures are camouflaged in their world. The beaver exactly matched his muddy pond, the porcupine her dirty roots and the daring chipmunks that chittered at me all day perfectly match the light brown crunchy leaves under our feet. Am I made to match anything? My blonde hair to the California sunshine? Are you? Maybe I’ll find a few cobs of corn and repetitively chew and meditate.