Beavers, fox skulls and February shadow stomping

Have you ever stomped on someone else’s shadow - and really laughed hard about it? Here’s a tip: It’s a lot easier late in the afternoon when the winter sun is well on its way to its night nap and our shadows stretch out farther.

We did shadow stomping last Saturday on a chilly February afternoon. It really can wear a man out, especially when the other stompers are 7 and 4, and you have them by about 60 years. You’re running and dodging, trying to keep them from pinning your shadow with their feet. No points involved. No touchdowns or home runs. Just lots of fun.

We were walking back from checking out fresh beaver activity along Freeman Highway. The new bicycle and walking trail edges up to a marshy area watered by the 16-acre White’s Pond that borders the new Showfield community. Could there be anything better to do on a Saturday afternoon?

The beaver, or beavers, that had felled three or four trees with just their teeth were nowhere in sight. But they had expertly dropped one six-inch diameter tree squarely across a shallow stream that was just barely moving. Fresh shavings from their work surrounded the stump.

Maisy and Ford were duly impressed, but Maisy was even more excited about the fox skull she found on the ground just a few feet away. She didn’t want to touch it but insisted I put it in my pocket so we could take it home to take its rightful place among a tabletop full of turtle shells and a variety of other skulls ranging from squirrels to deer.

Nature yields amazing treasures for those who get out in the thick of it all and look carefully.

This is the time of year, for example, when CJ and Ralph get out in the woods to look for deer sheds. Those are antlers that bucks scrape off their heads against trees to make way for even larger antlers to fight other bucks and impress does next fall when the mating season returns.

While we were admiring the work of the beavers and the fox skull with its sharp white canine teeth, Wayne and Mary Lou happened by. They were off on an afternoon amble.

“I spotted that beaver activity back in December,” said Wayne. “My first question and it’s still my question: Where did they come from?”

From the interior of Sussex?

We speculated for a while. They had to cross a lot of territory to come east from some beaver pond in the interior of Sussex. Did they grow up along Beaverdam Road, Route 23, that passes a few freshwater ponds - prime beaver territory - as it meanders southwest from Five Points toward Long Neck? Or maybe from Beaverdam Creek? Cave Neck Road and Round Pole Branch Road cross that creek east of Milton where it flows toward the Broadkill River. Beavers dammed it years ago.

We didn’t come up with any concrete conclusions.

Wayne offered to take our picture with the beaver activity. “It’s nice to see people out enjoying this kind of thing and showing kids,” he said.

It’s the kind of thing that makes you feel like a kid too.

He and Mary Lou continued their jaunt while we made plans for Maisy to take some of the shavings to school along with the photograph for show and tell. Then we headed back to the trail to continue shadow stomping.

We laughed and laughed whenever we succeeded, and then Maisy took a break to put her eyeball against a narrow gap in a fence to see the dog barking on the other side. Ford followed suit, figuring someone 7 years old surely knew what she was doing.

Just past that we came to Phil’s house and we stopped again.

Phil was getting out of his pickup, making his way toward his front steps, moving his tall frame slowly like a praying mantis, gauging each step carefully with the patience that comes with 90 years of life. I took in a deep breath to give some volume to my greeting.

“How are you doing, Phil?” Waiting for his response, I thought about 30 years ago when I occasionally dropped the kids’ mothers off at Phil’s house for his wife, Sara, to watch.

That was another time and Phil’s alone now. But his children and grandchildren keep close tabs on him. Still plenty of love.

When he reached the top of his steps, Phil turned to look our way and then smiled with recognition.

“Still kicking,” he hollered back.

That’s about as much conversation as the kids could stand. They haven’t quite discovered the reward of patience yet. They tugged on my jacket.

“C’mon Denbo. Start running again so we can stomp on your shadow some more.”

I waved to Phil and took off, still breathing hard from the previous round, feeling the joy of their laughter in my ears, appreciating people and the waning sunshine of a February afternoon.