A hike on the Daemonelix Trail in Agate Fossil Beds National Monument leads to the Lakota’s Ca’pa el ti, strange spiral burrows of a long-extinct beaver. The New Territory, Issue 03.
“It’s only the middle of June and already it’s hot as hell out here in the far northwestern corner of Nebraska, where the Niobrara River cuts through the prairie’s tough hide like an old, half-healed knife wound. A wiry pelt of vegetation swaths the undulating slopes, but in the steepest places, the crumbling, pale gray flesh of the earth shows through. The afternoon sun bounces off the bare bluffs, throwing heat and light back at me as I scan their flanks, and sweat trickles down my spine. Perfect weather for checking out what the homesteaders who settled these parts in the 1800s called the Devil’s Corkscrews.”
Exploring British Columbia’s southern Gulf Islands and learning about Hul’qumi’num life: a six-day sailing tour on a classic schooner. Canadian Geographic Travel, Spring 2015.
“It’s late afternoon when we drop anchor in Bedwell Harbour, but the mid-April sun still rides high above the horizon, illuminating the long, west-facing shore. A small crescent beach, tucked at the base of a forested slope, gleams as white and enticing as an unopened letter. In the three hours since the Maple Leaf left Sidney, we’ve cruised past several of the many islands and islets that make up the terrestrial portion of Gulf Islands National Park Reserve. I’m eager for a closer look.”
“At the turn of the 19th century, many people thought Canada’s national animal was a goner — a doomed species that had passed the point of no return. One notable pessimist was Horace T. Martin, a Canadian Fellow of the Zoological Society of London and author of Castorologia or the History and Traditions of the Canadian Beaver. ‘As to the ultimate destruction of the beaver, no possible question can exist,’ declared Martin in 1892, noting that ‘the evidences of approaching extermination can be seen only too plainly in the miles of territory exhibiting the decayed stump, the broken dam and deserted lodge.’ One hundred and twenty years later, on a warm June evening, I sit on the shore of a massive beaver pond in Algonquin Provincial Park, watching water bugs etch ephemeral lines on the glassy surface.”
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