Two days before season closes and of course a snow storm has to move in and cover the entire state. I have been waiting all winter for the ice to melt so I could have a shot at another beaver. Can my luck get any worse?



I found an excellent looking series of ponds about an hour away. The only problem is that there is about 2 feet of snow expected for that area. I had some work out that way on Thursday, so I stopped by the ponds early in the morning on my way to the job.



There is snow on the dirt forest service road. I have two shovels in the bed of my truck and still have on snow tires, so I decide to chance it. My truck does surprisingly well in this particular snow. The beaver ponds look promising. They extend for miles, dam after dam. But I’m late for work, so I turn around.

I finish work well before dusk. I get back to the ponds, excited, hoping to see some beaver activity. To my luck, rain has melted all the snow off the service roads. I drive for several miles, deep into “no cell service” country, half watching the road and half watching each pond below it for any sign of moving water. I get to a darker area that still has a large amount of snow on the road so I turn around and park my truck.



I get out and start patrolling the ponds on foot. It’s starting to snow hard. I am dressed warm with heavy boots on. My feet are still cold. It’s April 27th. It’s probably hot now in Florida. I’m not seeing any activity at these ponds. It’s 7pm.





I decide to sit and watch the ponds from a ridge. I can see two ponds in each direction. I keep hoping I will see a wake in the water out of the corner of my eye. I see one! It’s a duck. I’m disappointed. I spend 20 more minutes sitting and watching, but see nothing.



This is a typical day of beaver hunting. It seems like it should be pretty easy, but the hard part isn’t shooting the beaver, it’s getting access to where they are, and seeing them while it’s still light outside. On this excursion, the second condition is never met. And these ponds seemed so promising.

I was supposed to go camping this weekend. My roommate and I were going to fish for lake trout and try to off a couple beavers along the way. Beaver season ends May 1rst so it’s now or never. I’ve been itching to get one since October. The ice and snow has made it impossible the last six months. Mountain roads are still closed and filled with ice. Sage flats still require snowshoes to cross. A tough prospect for someone with rear wheel drive.





I have lost count of how many scouting missions I have undertaken since the fall. I follow countless creeks on maps. I look at them from satellite images and see if they have beaver canals. I take days off to investigate them. I optimistically hope for better weather than there ever is. Some days I don’t even make it to the pond. My tires spin and I smell my transmission as I try to drive up a frozen 30 degree mud incline.





"Get any beavers?“ My roommate Bryon asks. I mumble something about the dang weather. The weekend is coming. We aren’t going camping but I still have the next three days off. It’s snowing in Denver. Bryon seems less than enthused about spending time in the current conditions. If it ain’t lightning, it ain’t a big deal. That’s my rule in Florida. Does it apply here in Colorado? Probably not, but I want a beaver dang it, so I’m sticking with it.





We decide to forget the mountains and head east. Things might be sunnier. Maybe there’s only one foot of snow instead of two! Optimism! Bryon knows some state wildlife areas where he duck hunts in the fall. We look at them from the satellite map and make a decision based on beaver probability.

The Platte River is a large watershed that runs through much of Colorado. It bisects Denver, from the south of the state, north beyond anywhere I have ventured. I happen to know there are beavers in town on the Platte, so why not in the wilderness? We set out for the Platte.





On the drive out, the weather alternates between rain, snow, and fog. Bryon is telling me about Eurasian Banded Doves, and how they swim through the air as opposed to flying. They are invasive, so you can kill them all year. He points them out as they sit on power lines.



After a solid hour and a half of driving, we make it to Brush Wilderness Area. It’s snowing enough to necessitate a hood. We get out of the car and assemble our gear. We are about to head down the trail. "There’s a Eurasian Dove!” says Bryon. He points it out in a tree. "Should I shoot it? I ask. "Shoot it!“ he says. "The sign says no discharging of firearms in the parking lot.” I don’t wait for his response. I quickly take several steps outside of the parking lot. "Where is it?“ Bryon has to point it out to me again. I steady my rifle against the metal frame of an old sign. I squeeze the trigger. I see the dove fall out of the tree through my scope. I move to collect the dead dove and Bryon goes to find something to put it in. We talk about the shot placement for a moment and Bryon tells me about how he likes to cook them. "Keep your eyes peeled for more of them,” he says.

We hike through the woods on a small trail. The plan is to investigate the creek system, until it reaches the Platte, and then follow the river to the border of the wildlife area. Along the way we see lots of ducks, pelicans and other fowl. Distant cattle are moaning in background. The creeks are more like large ditch canals than the mountain streams I am used to. We are in farm country. There are no signs of beaver except for the occasional felled tree.

We cross a small creek and see a doe mule deer. She takes off into the bush. We press on and start seeing turkey tracks in the snow. We both have turkey tags, but no shotguns, only .22s. We see some possible coyote tracks. After about a mile I begin to hear the sound of rushing water. The Platte is close.





We get to the Platte and I am surprised how wide it is. The current is moving fast and it seems at least 200 yards across. We stand there a moment and observe the river. Downstream appears to be some brush piles. They might be beaver lodges. We have to take a detour around some marsh to get a better look at the piles. We stand looking at the piles for only a few moments. A dull scraping sound is audible over the rush of the river. We look at each other and say in unison “That’s a beaver!” We both study the massive brush pile. "Where is he?“ Bryon sees him first. He is large, and sitting on a log. He is close enough to shoot, but too far into the river retrieve. We need a dog. The beaver disappears into his lodge. A moment later we see him on the other side of the pile. He is swimming across the river, away from us.



In short time we see another beaver swim up to the pile along the edge of the bank. I point it out. "There’s another one!” I start making clicking sounds, like how you would call a house cat. The beaver heads in our direction! He gets about thirty feet from us and then turns with current. He disappears into the bank. But he’s on our side, just about 50 yards down stream.

We have to circumnavigate another marsh to get to the general area where we saw the beaver go. I have my rifle ready and am following Bryon. We get to a small clearing. There is a small hill up, to get back to the river. Bryon tells me to go first since I have my rifle ready. I pass him, and less than five steps later, I see a dark brown blob in the flooded forest swamp, 30 or so feet to my ten o'clock. Immediately after seeing it I hear Bryon whisper “Is that a beaver?”

I shoulder my rifle. Through my scope I can clearly see the beavers head. It is facing me. There is a patch of bark stripped away from the tree it is next to. I steady my rifle and take aim. The beaver sees us and flinches once but remains still. I squeeze the trigger and feel confident I got a clean shot. We both run to the edge of the river. The beaver kicks a few times. A red cloud appears in the water. "We got it!“ I wait for a second to see if a follow up shot is necessary. It isn’t.



It’s almost dark. The beaver is floating about 12 feet from the waters edge. "Can you find a pole while I get some snatch hooks out?” Bryon leaves to find a pole. I watch the beaver to make sure the current doesn’t take him. Fortunately it is back in the flooded forest and not a main channel. Bryon returns with a long branch. I use paracord to tie a large treble hook to the branch. I finish tying and look at the beaver. It’s gone! No! Do not do this to me!

“I don’t see it!” I say desperately. "Where did it go?“ I rush down to the slippery, muddy bank. I thrust the branch out in the beavers direction, but it is awkward, and the treble gets caught in the branches of other trees. I muscle it out and thrust again. I get in the water a few inches. It’s just out of reach and I still don’t see the beaver. Bryon gives it a shot with the pole. "You might have to wade in there,” he says.



It’s 30 degrees Fahrenheit. It’s snowing. The river still has ice in it. It’s almost dark. But I want this beaver. Bryon continues with the pole, as I take my boots and socks off. I roll up my pants. "You goin in?“

I wade into the river. The bottom is muddy. It’s cold. My feet are instantly numb. I have to reroll my pants ever few moments. Bryon tosses me the stick and I start poking around. I’m feeling for it with my feet. I’m afraid it isn’t dead and I’m going to get a horrific beaver bite. I’m desperately dredging with the pole. "I think it’s more to the left,” says Bryon. I dredge to the left. I’m in the river for five minutes. The excitement of success has turned into an anxious regret.

I’m dragging the river bottom with the pole. There is resistance. I can’t tell if it’s an object or just mud being dragged. I abandon the stick. I start feeling around with my hands. I feel something squishy. It falls away from me. I reach again and feel the squishy thing again, this time I close my grasp. As I pull up a mess of brown fur comes with me. It’s the beaver. I pull it out of the water. It’s huge. "You got it!“

This is the largest beaver I have ever shot. It’s very heavy. As heavy as a medium large dog. I drag it up the bank and hand it to Bryon. We celebrate and take a few pictures. But the work is not over. I still have to pack this giant beaver back to the car. I had thought about this many times as I sat getting skunked at other ponds. I brought several zip ties in my bag. I put a zip tie around each leg of the beaver, and then connected each corresponding leg with arm using a piece of cord. I am then able to wear the beaver like a backpack.





By this time it is completely dark. Bryon takes my backpack and rifle and leads the way with a flashlight. I put on my beaver backpack. We begin the dark trek back to the car as some coyotes sing in the forest nearby.

