Important though it doubtless is for those who get to enjoy
the myriad delights of Bigador for more than a day or two, the little building
at the end of the short northbound trail from the cabin attracts very little fanfare.
The floor, only 4’10” square, is too small to accommodate a party or dance or
indeed a gathering of any size at all but that is no problem since it never
need host an assemblage of more than one person at a time. Call it what you
will – privy, backhouse, outhouse, poop palace – the little building is the one
to which we travel whenever nature demands.
It has stood loyal almost as long as the cabin itself – close to 46
years and counting – and though we don’t say it often enough, yes, the little
building is much appreciated.
The little building – let’s call it LB hereinafter – has
undergone alterations over the years – a new roof a few years back, a ‘picture
window’ installed more recently when pal Garth demanded a view, a bright
yellow-painted floor more recently still – but its principal purpose remains
entirely unaltered from the very first days. Before the picture window was
installed the only way to admit a little sunshine into the LB and to enjoy any
view at all was to leave the door open. Once
in a while a curious bird – a junco perhaps, a rubythroat or maybe a
yellow-rumped warbler – stopped by to see what was afoot, but that was rare;
most of the flying creatures who came inside while LB was occupied were mosquitoes, and their visits were always
purposeful, never idle. I ought to have installed the picture window years ago:
with the door closed mosquitoes are hardly a problem at all.
One needn’t be bored during a visit to the LB. The building
holds reading material: a year-old issue of Vanity
Fair magazine, a back issue of National
Geographic, a fairly new picture book featuring images of fabulous toilets
from all over the world. There is even an attendant of sorts – an old cardboard
Mountie, only four feet tall, urging visitors to ‘Have a good one!
Given what goes on in the LB it should come as no surprise that
a certain kind of regular maintenance is obligatory: to put no fine point on it,
LB needs to be shoveled out from time to time. It is typically an olfactory
signal that lets one know the time is nigh. Strangely, despite the birding and
wildlife-viewing distractions reliably availed during a shoveling operation, no
one seems drawn to the task. Truth be told, I am customarily the only person who carries out this
important role.
Yesterday, in anticipation of Jan’s return from her
week-long adventure at the University of Victoria guitar academy, I thought it
suitable that my better half should be greeted by a freshly shoveled-out LB.
Without going into excessive detail about the task before me
I need point out that a first step is to excavate a reception area for LB’s periodic
proceeds. It was during that preliminary excavation that something
extraordinary happened. Something hardly slower than a speeding bullet shot
between my feet. It happened so fast I had no idea what I’d glimpsed or even whether
I’d actually seen anything at all. I extracted another shovelful and at that
there was instantly an eruption of small creatures. Beautiful creatures. I
didn’t know it immediately but afterward I learned I’d unearthed a den of the
extraordinary woodland jumping mouse – Napaeozapus
insignis, if you care to know its scientific handle..
Much smaller than the familiar deer mouse we often see outdoors
– and occasionally indoors too – the
body of a woodland jumping mouse might be only half the size of its relative.
Its coloration, a warm olive brown back flanked by golden orange sides, makes
it, in the words of Banfield’s The
Mammals of Canada “one of the most attractive of the small denizens of our
eastern woods.” This was a ‘lifer’ sighting for me: I had never before laid
eyes on a jumping mouse, let alone the five or six that scattered at the
prospect of what my shovel might do next.
In addition to its extraordinary athletic ability, my new
friends displayed a remarkably long tail – easily twice the length of the
mouse’s body. I learned this from Banfield: though not at all rare the woodland
jumping mouse is mostly nocturnal – the reason I’d never seen it. It has a
diverse diet: from various subterranean fungi, an array of seeds and fruit,
butterfly larvae, grasshoppers, dragonflies and beetles.
Somehow I managed to capture one of the little fellows so
that I might take its portrait before setting it free. Two are exhibited here
for my reader’s gratification.
Who knows how many fellow creatures – never heard or seen without
a shovel in hand – share the property around us not through land registry title
but by decree issued under the authority of Mother Nature. I do not expect that
reacquaintance with jumping mice will be an assured reward of my next LB duty
but I feel well enough rewarded by yesterday’s events that I will have no
reluctance to look after the chore again.
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