They’re Only Doing What They’re Supposed To

I looked forward to a second spring here on Boularderie Island and have received what I wanted: deciduous trees just beginning to leaf; bunchberries, Clintonia lilies, Solomon’s-seal not yet blown. Day by day wildflower blooms appear, giving me plenty to see and photograph on bended knee.

Ruby-throated hummingbirds objected that I did not put first priority on re-deploying the sugar-water feeders. When I got around to doing so a day or so later they did not wait for the prize to be out of hand before demanding access. Two feeders are in place; each heavily trafficked.

My name appears on the deed held at the county land title office at Baddeck but the right of ownership remains unrecognized by the fellow mortals who call the place home not just in the balmy months of June through October, but for the other eight when I prefer the comforts of central heating, running water and flush toilet provided at Victoria. 

Referencing the black flies, mosquitoes and deer mice that make a nuisance of themselves in and around the cabin I built a half century ago and persist in calling my own, Bob Nagel had great wisdom to offer: They’re only doing what they’re supposed to, Bob would say. Well, indeed they are, I concede, but concession is not accompanied by warm embrace. 

After a week I am still reliant on Chlorox, hot water and rubber gloves to deal with the proceeds of the deer mouse residency that flourished in my absence. Out of doors Peromyscus maniculatus is a delightful little creature. A. W. Banfield, author of The Mammals of Canada, rhapsodizes about “the bright inquisitive face”, and argues that given its trusting manner the deer mouse makes “an interesting, lively companion in many a lonely cabin.” Hmm. I am forced to wonder whether that rosy view was informed by having to spend hours dealing with the poop, pee and pestilence that go along with deer mouse companionship. 

Until this year I imagined that deer mice are perhaps like lobsters: they know how to get into a man-made structure but are less conversant with ways of getting out. ‘Turns out I’m wrong on both counts. Kevin Squires, lobsterman of vast experience, explains that lobsters do know how to escape a trap. And it isn’t just paper towel and sunlight soap that sustain my cohabitant mice during the dark cold months. I uncovered a massive nest containing a dense pantry of seeds the deer sweet things had harvested outside and brought into their cozy home here in the cabin.

As for the lonely cabin aspect, I admit from a selfish standpoint to missing Jan but otherwise I am glad for her she is not here. I try to channel my great-uncle Harrison, who did not allow black flies and mosquitoes to trouble him.  Jan has no such inclination; she would be appalled at the legions of black flies that harass me whenever I am outside. Meanwhile, summer still ten days away, the night time temperature dips to near zero; out on the sleeping porch I seek to stay something like warm under a density of duvets, afghans, quilts and blankets. Jan would not be amused.

Mice and black flies aside, nature affords plenty to divert and delight beyond the cabin walls. Squadrons of bald eagles course back and forth past the cabin, common loons yodel from the Great Bras d’Or. Warblers—magnolia, black-and-white, ovenbird, parula—sing out their territorial imperative, males seeking to induce their womenfolk into doing their bit for the continuance of their kind. I have a pair of breeding pine grosbeaks up by the big bend in the road, and count myself lucky.

Completely acclimatized to the presence of Homo sapiens, the black-tail deer of south Vancouver Island is a common sight even in the heart of the city, an unwelcome one in the eyes of many a gardener disinclined to share the proceeds of his labours with Bambi. Here on the east coast the white-tailed deer is something else entirely: for good reason it is averse to humans, keen not to be seen by our kind, even those of us who never have rifle in hand. Ordinarily the only sign I see of them is an occasional foot print along one of my trails. Again I am lucky: I have had two encounters to date, the first with a pair of fine-looking does who fled at the sight of me.

I keep busy clearing my trails of the blown-down spruce and fir accumulated during a windy winter. Soon the trails will be open again; in as slow and silent a pace as I can manage I will seek further sightings of white-tails and whatever fellow travelers might pass my way.