Fishing Beaver Dams

This post was originally published on my first blog, "Dad's Corner." 

It was hot. It was humid. And every few feet or so, you had to protect yourself from being slapped in the face by willow branches. At the age of 11, they stood over me like a forest. Marching though the morass, I was sure my dad was crazy. Perhaps he was driven by the thought of pan-fried trout with lemon juice. I'm not sure. But we were doing something that other people could think was fisherman's excess. We were fishing in beaver dams.

Beavers are engineers that use the materials at hand to construct massive dams across small brooks and creeks as part of making their home. Their dams retain significant amounts of water. Some dams can achieve a massive size, sometimes filling up most of a small valley. In these small reservoirs, trout breed and grow, sustaining small, industrious beavers and large, crazed fishermen.

These dams that we were in were not so large and they were choked by willow bushes, their elastic branches slowing our progress. Long grass would cover up beaver channels, which would be 1 or 2 feet deep with water, providing a soaking for whoever is fortunate to find them. My dad and I were prepared for this with hip waders, long thigh-high rubber boots that kept your legs dry...when they didn't leak. They were heavy, and in the days before neoprene, hot and sweaty.

With my dad's approval, I went down to the dam below him and worked my way through the willows toward a point where I could fish it. I approached the water and tried to get down to what looked like the perfect spot. I saw my next step, a bank of darker sand and I took it, putting all my weight on what looked like a sand bank. My foot and a good portion of my leg plunged into the brown bank which was actually a combination of mud and silt. My knee sank in and I was up to my thigh before I could compensate and pull back. To my horror, my leg was stuck and I couldn't pull it out. I panicked. I thought for sure this was some obscure form of Rocky Mountain quicksand that would be the end of me. I could see my dad searching for me only to find my little fishing cap sitting on top of my muddy grave.

I yelled-no, screamed-for my dad. When he didn't respond in the millisecond I patiently allowed for a reply, I screamed again. Soon a far-off voice called, "What?"

"It's got me! It's got my leg. I can't move!"

"What's got your leg?"

"The mud! Hurry! Come quick!"

"Just a second."

I allowed two seconds before I screamed again. "Dad!"

"What?"

"Come get me!"

"I'll be there in a minute."

Oh great! We've gone from seconds to minutes. "Dad, I can't get out!"

"Are you stable?"

"Well...yeah..."

"I'll be there in just a minute. Can you fish from there?"

"Well...yeah..." I was now faced with the odd task of carrying on with life as normal while I balanced on my right foot with my left leg gripped by the mud of death. I tried to fish, half-heartedly, and didn't catch anything. But the panic began to subside and my hot tears dried up. I even began to feel an odd sense of confidence that I would be all right. By the time the willows announced my dad's imminent arrival, I was relatively calm. He reached down and pulled on me, slowly freeing me from my muddy trap.

Whether we caught any fish that day, I don't remember. But what I carried out of that beaver dam was much more valuable than what I had set out for. I found that what looks like sand can often be mud, that panic is normal but not helpful, and that my dad would always come for me when I needed him, but on his own sense of timing, not mine.

Oftentimes, God hears a panicked prayer and responds with less-than-equal enthusiasm. It doesn't mean he doesn't care or that he isn't concerned about our feelings. But what I feel is often different from what's really happening. He knows where I am and he is strong and able to save me. Then why doesn't he do it right away? Because I have to learn that panic is not the response that gets his attention. Fear is the root of panic and the opposite of the love and peace he so much wants me to know and walk in. I could not find it if he would fly to my rescue every time. It's only when I am quiet, when I put aside my panic and fear, that he can speak words of comfort and peace to me. I must wait on him; wait for him to rescue me.

Proverbs 3:25-26, Psalm 91:3