Let’s begin this weekend with some joy, shall we? Goodness knows the world could use it.
I want to bring smiles today because the following three letters are the chapters revealing our visit to Mississippi in December. What had begun as a simple quest to William Faulkner’s home and grave in Oxford became the most profound days of our five months on the road. I was incapable of writing about it at the time because my head and heart had to come to terms with our experiences. Sometimes, we dive into experiences on the road that cannot be captured in an on-the-go post. After some time, however, I’m ready to tell the story.
But first, as several days of heat settle in on the Mount Washington Valley again, a slip of cool happiness.
We are enjoying being home. Five months on the road sends an introvert into hiding. Everything has become still and private. We slip away, avoiding the rush and thrum, especially this weekend, the busiest so far.
Bike Week is coming to an end tomorrow, but it’s busier than ever today. It helps that this is the first sunny weekend in three months, so it’s not only the motorcycles. The roads are madness, filled with the angst that the city folk drove north to escape.
We had to run into North Conway yesterday, and it was a nightmare of clogged roads, exasperation, and middle fingers. Ah, but before the madness began, it was a quiet work week here, and we were blessed by the best interaction with one of the natives.
We were on our evening walk and stopped where a bank eases into a calm, clear inlet along the Saco River. Samwise waded in to drink, and I tossed a stick for Emily to swim after. Soon after she dove into the inlet, separated from the river by a massive dune born of erosion during the December 2023 flood, there was a loud splash. Ten feet to our left, hidden by a steep embankment where the flooding had cut into the woodlands, a beaver had been among the exposed tree roots. We’d disturbed him, and he let us know with a slap of that massive, flat tail.
None of us saw him. But the sound was distinctive.
Emily returned with her stick, and the three of us climbed up from the tiny beach to search the inlet. But there was nothing to see. We settled thirty yards upstream, but there was no sight of the beaver. Then I saw another splash fifty yards away, still along the inlet, just before the calm water merged with the rushing river downstream.
It is our first beaver of the season, but we did not get a good look at him. Nevertheless, it was a fine evening for sitting among the black flies in the golden light.
A few minutes later, we were surprised to see the beaver had returned and was now approaching us. We were located twenty yards from where the inlet ended, and surely the beaver knew this. But he came anyway.
I like to think it was curiosity.
“It is quite possible that an animal has spoken to me and that I didn’t
catch the remark because I wasn’t paying attention.” ~ E.B. White
All three of us sat up, brimming with expectation. Just before the beaver arrived, though, he dove under the surface with another slap, and we did not see him again for more than a minute. He’d returned to where he’d come from.
A few minutes later, he was back. It appears he was as curious as we were.
I doubt it is one of the beavers we’ve met in the past couple of years because they are used to us, and this fellow was not. But that did not stop him from approaching, disappearing, and returning repeatedly. I daresay that in a month or two, he will be accustomed to us. He does not live along the inlet but most likely in another one on the far side of the pond.
There is no magic like beaver magic. I could watch them for hours on end. By the time they get used to us, our local beavers spend a great deal of time swimming near where we are walking. Last year, a family swam closer to watch Emily swimming after a stick. Neither dog nor beavers bothered each other. In other years, we’ve spent so much time with the beavers that they’ve taken apples from my hands.
We stayed with the curious soul for about an hour. Try as I might, I could not get a good photo or video of him, but the light was perfect for these other captures.
This letter is public. Please feel free to share it. The following three, our “Mississippi Chapters,” will only go out to paying subscribers. I hope to do them justice.
One of my favorite breakfasts
Okinawa purple sweet potatoes are so difficult to find around us that I recently had some shipped from the West Coast. These beauties are a little different than other sweet potatoes. They have almost a cake-like texture to them, and they are famous for the daily role they play in one of the world’s handful of Blue Zones, areas where more people live to be 100 years old. One of those zones is Okinawa, and purple sweet potatoes are a staple for them.
I bake mine until it is slightly caramelized (425 degrees for 75 minutes) and serve it with wild blueberries, bananas, walnuts, ground flaxseed, wheat germ, Ceylon cinnamon, and a kiss of maple syrup.
This makes a divine breakfast, rich in antioxidants, or even a perfect dessert.