Aaron Kylie
“With any luck, we’ll find some salamanders today,” Michael Léveillé tells me as we crest a small mound and head down a worn dirt path. It’s a sunny morning and we’re surrounded by a grove of mixed-forest trees as we head toward Macoun Marsh. Léveillé’s nine-year-old son, Allan, and his friend Alex charge ahead of us and veer off the path almost immediately. They begin turning over stones on the rock-strewn hillside where Léveillé say the salamanders are most likely hiding. They clearly know the drill.
And well they should. Macoun Marsh, a small wetland on the property of the Beechwood Cemetery in Ottawa, Ontario, is like a second home to Léveillé. He lives a stone’s throw from the marsh and is a teacher at St. Laurent Academy, a private elementary school located across the street from it. He has been using the marsh for the past seven years as an outdoor classroom to teach basic science concepts, biodiversity lessons and the importance of conservation.
I met Léveillé’s last year in my capacity as publications director for CWF. The federation was honouring him with its inaugural Youth Mentor Award and, since we both lived in Ottawa, I asked Léveillé for a tour of Macoun Marsh, where he and his students have identified some 1,268 species. And since Léveillé uses the marsh as a classroom, it only made sense to me to bring my family — my wife, Genevieve, son Finn, 4, and daughter Savannah, 2. Little did we realize the surprises we were in for. Nor how fast we’d uncover them.
“Look how long and fat this one is,” Allan shouts. Surprise. It’s not a salamander, but a hefty earthworm dug from underneath one of the rocks. The older boys delight in scratching a few more chunky worms from the moist soil, and my kids quickly join in. “Let’s continue on down the hill and see if we can find some salamanders closer to the marsh,” Léveillé says.
As we walk, Léveillé mentions that it’s typical to see underwing moths in this area early in the year. Underwing moths are about the size and shape of a triangle you’d make if you put your index finger and thumb of each hand together. Their back or topside is a drab greyish brown, but their underside has a brilliant red and black pattern.
While talking about the moths, we pass through a small stand of aspen poplars as we head closer to the marsh. Aspens are unique because a stand of trees is typically derived from a single seed and spreads by roots that grow new stems up to 40 metres from the parent tree. Each individual tree can live for 40 to 150 years, but the root system can live for thousands of years, sending up new trunks as older ones die off. For this reason, aspen poplars are considered an indicator of ancient woodlands — which is all the more intriguing when you’re standing in the middle of a city.
City or not, it also feels a bit strange to come upon an open-walled, roofed six- by six-metre structure nestled next to the water’s edge in an otherwise non-descript marshland. But this is Léveillé’s outdoor classroom, surrounded on three sides by angled, plexi-glass covered “desktops” that feature paintings of the area’s wildlife by students and teachers. Léveillé is buzzing about the space, but the kids are off into the soggy soil next to the classroom turning over more rocks, still searching for the elusive salamanders.
As we follow them, I warn my son to be careful of a bee flitting around him. Léveillé grabs the camera hanging around his neck and closes in on the bee for a closer look. “It’s a bee fly!” he exclaims. “They’re extremely rare. I have to get a picture.” And he’s off, bird-dogging it through the tall grass, chasing the bee fly to snap a picture. When he returns, he shares the pictures and explains that bee flies are, as the name suggests, flies that look like bees. And while there are thousands of species of bee flies, no individual species is abundant.
With still no salamanders on our scorecard, Léveillé suggests we check out a painted turtle nest about 200 metres from the marsh “Unfortunately, an animal discovered it, so all the eggs are broken,” he says, “but it’s still neat to see.” Sure enough, as we approach the hockey-puck-sized patch of bare earth in a manicured section of grass, we can clearly see the white bits of broken eggshells. Léveillé, his son and his son’s friend stoop close to the small depression and start to pick up pieces to show us. “There’s a turtle!” Alex suddenly exclaims — and Léveillé instantly drops down on all fours, peering intently into the ground.
And then I see it. A small black head about the size of the end of a pinky finger poking up through the soil and shattered shells. Léveillé carefully pushes some of the dirt aside with his fingers, and then cautiously cradles the turtle in the palms of his cupped hands. The kids are going nuts, swarming Léveillé to get a closer look.
Léveillé’s first order of business is to calm the kids down. “It’s important we’re quiet and relaxed if we want to hold the turtle,” he says in a soft voice. “We don’t want to scare it more than necessary.” With the kids settled, each one quickly, quietly and gently takes a turn holding the tiny turtle, which is barely larger than a toonie. As the turtle is being passed, it’s obvious that each of these youngsters will remember this moment, probably for the rest of their lives. For that matter, it’s a moment I figure I’ll never forget, either.
Since the turtle would have been headed for the water anyway, Léveillé proposes we drop it off in the pond on our way back. The 200 metres between the nest and the water seem like a million miles when you consider the size of the turtle. When we reach the pond, my daughter — the youngest of the group gets the honour, according to Léveillé — slides the turtle from her palms, with my help, gently into the water.
As we climb back up the hill on the other side of the marsh, our tour comes to an end. But Macoun Marsh holds one last surprise. I point to a fluttering blur of brown, black and red. “Is that that an underwing moth?” I ask Léveillé. It certainly is. Then our guide, who you’d think would have seen it all, turns to me and says, “You’re good luck. When are you coming back?”