This commentary is by Walt Amses, a writer who lives in North Calais.

On a day that feels like a negotiated settlement — judicially mandated compensation for the deep winter and even deeper mud, some still clinging to the sides of the car — I meander upstream, through the twisting channels of Kingsbury Branch as it slowly makes its way into North Montpelier Pond. 

I’m paddling quietly, hoping to grab a glimpse of the abundant marsh wildlife that makes its home in this entanglement of shoreline vegetation, sodden fallen trees and the skeletons of ancient duck blinds, slowly being reclaimed by the elements.

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It’s been sunny and increasingly warm for a week, an unprecedented stretch in this part of central Vermont. On a morning walk we feel the first discernible humidity of the young season, and ahead, perched right above the road, one of the neighborhood bald eagles can’t help but look magisterial as he eyes us for a bit before dropping from the tree, unfurling his huge wingspan and soaring like a creature of myth over a hillside grove of maples as a chorus of distressed loons mark his departure. 

But he’s not the only winged creature taking flight this morning. The annual debut of black flies, as highly anticipated as that first juicy, sun-warmed tomato but for decidedly different reasons, is happening this morning as well — their voracious hunger well out of proportion with their diminutive size. 

We joke that, since their attraction to us is triggered by carbon dioxide, we’ll be fine as long as we don’t exhale. Of course we do, and they come. Not many at first, but black flies are economical; you only need a few. As the cloud grows, we pick up our pace and by the time we get home we’re both perspiring freely. It feels like summer.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that loading kayaks onto an SUV should be a Senior Olympic event with a bevy of judges evaluating performance based on degrees of difficulty contrived by a formula incorporating age, weight (of the boats), air temperature, humidity and number of biting insects. I see the mixed doubles of such a competition being particularly adventurous. 

But we manage the on-and-off without resorting to couples counseling, a minor triumph as we embark undisturbed on the first paddle of the year — or so we think.

After a leisurely float the length of the pond, we enter the first in a series of channels that wind their way upstream through the marsh, which seems to be awakening around us with a wide-ranging competition of birdsong, explosive wingbeats as a mixed flock of ducks and Canada geese take flight at our approach, and the constant subliminal trilling of horny toads, looking for a hookup. 

The Kingsbury Branch, flowing 12 miles from Woodbury’s Sabin Pond on its way to the Winooski, is a virtual conveyor belt of nutrients, delivering food enough to keep this diverse ecosystem of amphibians, birds and small mammals thriving. 

The first barrier we encounter is somewhat of a surprise: a fallen log wedged in perfectly, blocking our dependable egress to the next segment of river.

I inaccurately remember an alternative loop that eventually dead-ends in a weedy cul de sac with a hefty beaver rummaging through the remnants of last season’s cattails, a toothy harbinger we utterly fail to recognize until much later. Inspired by the Yogi of Berra — “When you see a fork in the road, take it” — we double back, the only choice we actually have.

Although it’s heavy and perfectly lodged between heaps of beaver snack food at either end, I manage to get hold of the one piece of vegetation not gnawed off at the roots, grab a bit of leverage and, painstakingly, the barrier slowly gives way, providing entry and a sense of accomplishment, albeit brief and eventually meaningless. 

The further along we go, which isn’t very far, the more we find the muddy banks increasingly marred by an extensive construction project. The Castor Canadensis Development Corp., claiming eminent domain, is well into creating the first gated community in the area.

As we move on, transitioning from Huckleberry Finn to Apocalypse Now with defoliated muddy banks, huge, formidable dwellings and myriad canals providing underwater access, the landscape is substantially changed. After a couple of more bends, we come upon a far more insurmountable barrier in the form of a dam, almost bank to bank, with only a narrow but fast-flowing (in the wrong direction) break on one edge. 

I decide to give it a shot while Helene begs off, content to ponder where she is. Using the bank and part of the structure itself, I drag myself through, relying heavily on my upper back and shoulders, which will remind me of this choice for several days.

The next dam is less than a quarter-mile away and could support a tractor-trailer. There is no way around and going through would require explosives, so I once again turn around, squeeze back through the first dam and try to remember all the good things beavers do for an ecosystem. I can’t think of anything. 

We explore a bit longer, discovering what appears to be a long, as-yet unblocked flow that may offer a work-around to the upper reaches of the river, but it’s narrow enough that a motivated rodent with the proper dental apparatus could block it during a coffee break. 

As we make our way back to the main lake, a lone purple martin, clinging to a small twig, bobs gently in the breeze. He’s all chirpy, condescendingly mocking perhaps. But I cut his attitude some slack since he’s new in town, having recently traversed over 4,000 miles between his winter range in Brazil and this small pond in central Vermont.

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