Beaverdam Pond
It feels good standing along Beaverdam Pond’s eastern shore in the southern Five Ponds Wilderness of the northwestern Adirondack Park. The wet and nearly uninterrupted forest portion of my bushwhack is now behind me, my focus now turning to find an acceptable campsite along the pond’s southern shore. The farther west the site, the better, as that sets me up for my hike back to the Red Horse Trail tomorrow. Luckily, from my current location the southwestern corner looks the likeliest to hold the old camp site that once stood somewhere along shore.
Although I want to stay near the shoreline for both navigational and wildlife observational purposes, the terrain has other ideas. The shoreline’s steepness proves to be too challenging in places, especially with the damp conditions from the earlier rain, compelling me inland and away from the pond. Also, staying farther inland allows me to bushwhack though more hardwood-dominated forests, avoiding the more treacherous thick coniferous forest near shore. Avoiding the shore decreases the risk of a twisting an ankle and/or impaling myself on a downed conifer branch, which is probably worth the reduction in wildlife opportunities, though, just barely.
A shiny object on the forest floor distracts me, sending me on a short detour along my route. As I suspect, it is another Mylar balloon; my second one for today so far too. I make my way through the dense forest and snatch it up, with the intention of disposing of it properly once I return to the frontcountry. Thankfully, it was not ingested by some poor creature, which would be catastrophic.
Section Stats:
Date: June 29, 2015
Length: 2.0 miles (4.4 total daily miles; 28.5 total trip miles)
Difficulty: Moderate
Ban the damn balloons already, would ya!
Continuing along Beaverdam Pond’s southern shore, I alternate between heading away and toward the waterbody, as the terrain allows. About halfway down the pond, when the shoreline is within sight, I take a break to enjoy the view, despite the cool wind and the threatening sky. Suddenly, my eyes catch sight of something large flying over the open water, and it appears to be carrying something too.
A mad dash to drop my pack and retrieve my binoculars soon follows. With the aid of the binoculars, the unidentified flying object turns out to be exactly as I suspected, an osprey, carrying a fish, which it apparently freshly caught. The raptor lands in a large snag at the end of a peninsula along the northern shore, where it enjoys its catch with much aplomb, tearing off parts and gobbling them up.
I gawk at the spectacle through my binoculars, with equal amounts of awe and disgust; such is the essence of nature.
When the urge to keep moving overcomes my voyeuristic need to observe my feathered friend enjoy his meal, I continue on my way west along shore. Unfortunately, a steep cliff halts further progress along the shoreline. The only alternative is trekking back inland to avoid the cliff.
This detour forces me to endure a nearly 100 feet climb to the top. An almost immediate descent follows, causing me to plummet even more abruptly back to the shoreline. It is a lot of effort just to end up along shore just a short distance west of where I began, but that is often the case while bushwhacking in the backcountry.
While along shore, I spot a female wood duck with two or more nearly adult-sized young. The ducks swim off away from the shore (and me), but do so in such an uncharacteristically lazy way, as if they find me less than a major threat. I know I should be insulted, but instead I just wonder about their lackadaisical manner toward me. Perhaps it is my ragged appearance or the young’s adult size that gives them such confidence, but there is no way to tell. I move on, so as not to disturb them further, and avoid any more feelings of inadequacies on my part.
After continuing my progress west, I cross a narrow open area that comes in from the south. The open lane is choked with ferns and devoid of trees. Is this a natural phenomenon, such as the remnant of a beaver path or an old stream, or something artificial, like an old road/trail? I presume the latter, as soon after I find a reminder of this pond’s past use in the form of an old metal oil drum on the forest floor.
My anticipation builds that the old campsite draws near, though that might just be wishful thinking.
Second balloon
Following the shoreline soon leads to a wide, flooded channel. It is too wide and deep to cross unaided, thus preventing any further progress toward my ultimate goal, the apparent open area in the southwestern corner of Beaverdam Pond. Luckily, a beaver dam is nearby, allowing me to avoid getting wet or backtracking. After crossing, I try to make my way back to the pond’s shoreline in a final search for a campsite.
As I approach Beaverdam Pond again, the forest becomes more open and the ground underneath thick in herbaceous cover, including plentiful amount of lush fern growth. The trees are mostly large and stately hemlocks; they are widely spaced, giving the area a more park-like vibe. The beautiful setting, including the view of the pond, makes this area ideal for a campsite.
Apparently, I am not the only soul who thought so.
Despite the thick ground cover, evidence of past human habitation is common everywhere. An old metal bed frame, a stove and an oil drum are just a few of the artifacts in the area, some buried in the vegetation, while others are under dense tree growth farther from the shoreline. While looking for these artifacts, I find a large pit, obviously dug by humans for some purpose, now lost in antiquity.
Luckily, I avoid falling in it. This is probably a good thing, as it could be an old pivy site.
Osprey Perch
Searching for a campsite is made all the more difficult with the thick herbaceous ground cover. After searching for a while, I settle on a flat area under a large hemlock tree. Although it requires crushing some vegetation, it is a little less vegetated than most of the places in the area, except for the thicker areas of young tree growth. Asking for the plants’ forgiveness before setting up is a requirement here for sure.
Once my shelter is up, food rope is hung and water is filtering, it is time to wander around the area and take in the sights. When looking over the open water, I spot a beaver lodge, with something tawny moving behind it along the north shore. I am pretty much certain what it is, but I verify its identity using my binoculars; a male white tailed deer. That is my second deer sighting on this trip, a rarity within the Adirondack backcountry based on my experience.
While observing the deer, I notice another oddity. Adjacent to the beaver lodge is an island of green grass. Now, this is not unusual in and of itself, but when combined with the lodge, the two appear in the shape of a beaver, with the lodge being the body and the green grass, the tail. I am not sure which is more bizarre, the lodge appearing like a beaver or me for interrupting it as such. Probably me.
Beaverdam Pond campsite
Beaverdam Pond’s dam is a short distance west from the beaver lodge. It is long and windy, shaped something like a long snake as it connects the southern shore with the northern one. The dam is thin and high, with a large open marshy area below it to the west. The contrast between the dark water to the east and the grassy meadow to the west is striking.
On my side of the dam, but across a mostly dry bay, is an embankment of exposed sandy soil. While standing nearby, I spot a male belted kingfisher flying around and acting agitated while carrying a small fish in its beak. The nest must be in the exposed embankment, but its location is not obvious. It waits until NOW, after I set up my tarp, to start acting out; if it had done it sooner, I could have placed my campsite elsewhere. Confirming my nest theory, the female kingfisher makes an appearance later too.
They will just have deal with their obnoxious new neighbor for at least a single night.
With a cursory trip around my campsite complete, it is time to tend to dinner. The insects are getting worse as the sun slowly sinks below the trees, so I do my best to make haste and cook dinner before preforming all my other evening chores. Getting under my tarp as soon as possible to free myself of the mosquitoes’ continuous onslaught is paramount tonight.
Beaver lodge
During dinner, a common loon appears in the pond near the beaver lodge. It completely ignores me as it goes about searching for its own dinner. If it was generous, it would share some of its fish with me, but then again, it would probably expect me to share my dinner with it, so it is good that we both keep to ourselves.
It lightly rains a few times while I am killing time around my campsite, with it starting and stopping before the rain ever reaches me near the ground. So it truly shocks me when the sky begins to clear around seven in the evening, with actual sunshine arriving and illuminating the windy dam in an orange glow. This is the first time the sun has made a lengthy appearance since I bushwhacked to Higby Twin Ponds back on my second day, three days ago. Hopefully, it lasts for a few rain-free days, but I am not betting on it.
As the sunsets and the biting flies begin their onslaught on my exposed flesh, I retreat to my tarp, climbing in while being thankful for the protection it provides. Although the mosquitoes are bad enough, the no-see-ums are completely intolerable. The little critters cause me to continual scratch my head in a vain attempt to rid myself of their presence.
Stove near campsite
Bullfrogs call out along shore nearby. Soon after, a red squirrel chatters too, most likely because of my presence. In addition, a beaver slaps its tail out on the open water. That is probably directed at me as well. Why they are waiting until after I sequester myself into my tarp to do so, I have no idea; the cowards.
I spend some time scoping out tomorrow’s bushwhack. My plan includes visiting the northern shore of Little Rock Pond and Witchhopple Lake, before heading back onto the Red Horse Trail. Before long, I start feeling drowsy and decide to it is time for sleep. As I lay my head down on my makeshift pillow, I notice a strange mechanical hum; its direction remaining indeterminate. Despite my fixation on its origin, the noise slowly lulls me to sleep.
Perhaps I will find out tomorrow where the sound is coming from. Then again, perhaps not.
Beaverdam Pond dam
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