A Silent Encounter: Beaver and the Magic of the Finnish Wild
Mid-May in Kuhmo, near the Russian border, the wilderness is awakening. The river winds between forested hills, threading through dense woods and soggy marshes before releasing its waters into a lake. At the delta, a hardworking beaver couple is busy repairing dams and renovating their lodge—preparing for the arrival of their kits. Their work is more than instinct; it’s ecological engineering, creating wetlands that support countless species.
Ducks in a small river delta
As a nature photographer and guide, I’m always scouting new locations and subjects. While commercial hides offer convenience, the real magic lies in discovering fresh perspectives. This time, I’m accompanied by my husky, Pena, whose nose is already tuned to the scent of beaver.
We follow tracks from the river into the forest, where the beaver has been gathering timber. The lodge, built from logs and branches, stands out in elegant gray against the dark green forest. I hear the gentle splash of water—then a sharp crack under my boot. The beaver slaps its tail on the surface, warning its mate of intruders. I retreat quietly, marking a promising bend in the river for tomorrow’s shoot.
Into the Hide: Waiting for the Moment
The next evening, I return with my camera and a piece of camouflage netting. No photo tent this time—just patience and silence. I settle beneath a tree on the river’s outer curve, camera ready, senses alert.
A teal glides through the golden-lit grasses. I capture a few shots, then wait. An hour passes. Suddenly, a beaver swims silently past—so close I almost miss it. I fire the shutter, but it’s gone in seconds, disappearing around the bend.
A beaver swimming by quietly
Movement in the forest
A light brown figure emerges between the trees, moving slowly toward me. A bear.
My heart started pounding - a bear.
My heart skips. Bear sniffs the air, turns its head, and walks forward. I raise my camera, thankful for the silent shutter. I shoot carefully, aware of every breath and heartbeat. The bear is graceful, likely a female. Cubs might be nearby—perhaps even behind me.
She approaches the beaver’s dam, sniffs, and seems ready to swim. I decide to reveal myself. As I stand, she bolts into the trees. I feel a pang of guilt. I want to say: “It’s okay. I mean no harm.”
I pack my gear. As I walk away, she watches. I turn and take one last photo—her eyes meeting mine through the trees. That moment will stay with me forever.
This is the moment I never forget.
Reflections from the Wild
Encounters like this remind me why I do what I do. Nature doesn’t perform on command. It reveals itself in fleeting moments—if you’re quiet enough, patient enough, and lucky enough to be there.
Whether it’s a beaver slapping its tail or a bear stepping into view, these are the stories I live for. And they’re the ones I love to share—with you.