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Since we moved into a house on 10 acres of woodland with a river at the bottom, my husband and I have walked down to the river most days in the late afternoon. The ritual began partly as a way to explore our new habitat. It is also a lovely way to spend time with our two cats, jennifer and Zelda. Whether they are indoors or outdoors, they both respond to the call "Let's go to the river!" eagerly.
As we walk down the path that leads to the water, one cat will run ahead and lie in wait in the undergrowth to pounce on her sister. They will cavort and play, ambushing each other, leaping into the air, sometimes running up trees for 10 feet or so out of sheer exuberance. When we get down to the river, my husband and I often sit on a well-placed, large, horizontal root that offers a good perch only 10 or 15 feet from the river. To look farther up- or downstream, sometimes we will settle on one of several large boulders instead. The cats explore the riverside, poking their paws down intriguing tree holes, chasing dragonflies - there are several species in jewel-like tones on our stretch of the river - or watching toads, butterflies, and birds. Once an owl led me and the cats down to the water, flying ahead and perching on a branch to wait while we caught up. Zelda leapt into the air to take a swipe at the owl but missed by miles.
We never know what we are going to see down at the river. Some days, we see only dragonflies, minnows in the weeds, pond skaters waltzing on the water's surface, and the sudden silver flip of a larger fish. Other days we see turtles basking on rocks - often red-eared sliders - that slip shyly into the water if we make too much noise. Ducks and herons often fly up the river near dusk and herons, particularly, seem obligated to yell "CRAAAAAKKKK!" at us as they pass. Sometimes we watch a deer or two, wading in the shallows and drinking and eating the succulent weeds.
Once in a while, on very special days, we see beavers or otters.
The evidence of beavers is all around us: tree roots and trunks sculpted by broad, flat teeth, the occasional downing of a tree. We see them paddling determinedly along, making a strong V-shaped wake. They tend to swim in a straight line, as if they were following a pre-determined route. If they see or hear us too close, they slap their tails on the water's surface in alarm and disappear before we can turn to look. It is a treat to share their part of the world.
But the otters are even more special somehow. Recently, we have had two different five-otter days that leave me incredulous. Apparently the sizeable undercut on the bank opposite us - a hole disappearing under a thick tree root - is their holt or den. The five otters are a family: mum, dad, and three lively babies. I still shake my head in wonder, thinking about our five-otter days.
The first one came about when my husband happened to glance at the river out the large window of our living room and saw movement. He stopped, got the binoculars, and went out on the deck to see what was going on. It was two otters, sunbathing on one of the large rocks in the river. He called me and I watched through the binoculars as he slowly made his way closer to the river to try to take some photos. The otters lay on their backs, basking and grooming their fur, wriggling to scratch an itch, leaning against each other in familiar companionship, slyly shoving each other to claim a preferred spot, and scratching their chins (and scent-marking) on the rock's surface. They radiated contentment and quiet happiness, but also an impish good humor. Their muscular, long bodies were simply perfection, their fur thick and dense, their small ears neat and tidy, their whiskers ridiculously thick and spiky. They were enjoying themselves completely. We thought they'd probably been munching on the crayfish and clams that live in our river - confirmed by later inspection of the rocks they had been using - and were resting and warming up. After ten or fifteen minutes, they must have heard or seen my husband and they slipped into the water again. Glowing with the magic of such a good sighting, I waited for him to come back up the hill. And waited. And then I realized he was still watching something. I had to change position to see the subject through the trees that blocked my line of vision, but then I realized what the entertainment was: three lively baby otters playing in the shallows. They wriggled and wrestled; they dove and surfaced and jumped on each other and dove again. When one triumphantly came up with a 6" long fish crossways in its mouth, its siblings immediately began trying to take it away while he (or her) tried to rearrange the fish to be able to swallow it. I laughed out loud watching the otters, they were so comical. Something about an otter and its athleticism and playful attitude conveys a real joy in life. Being an otter is the best thing in the world, they clearly thought, and this stretch of river is the very best place to be an otter today. Why do otters give me so much more joy than beavers? I love being able to see beavers, having the privilege of living in a place by a river that is still sufficiently pristine to support wild animals. I admire beavers' cleverness in building their lodges and dams and I really don't mind a bit if they chew on one of "my" trees. Once when I was close enough I could actually hear the "crunch, crunch, crunch" of beaver teeth chewing away on a log. What I see in otters, though, is more accessible to me. Perhaps because humans are predators of a sort, like otters, and perhaps because many of us live with domesticated predators (dogs and cats), I "speak" a little bit of otter. As I watch them, I know intuitively from their body language if they are happy or tired or upset. I can feel what a pleasure it is to catch a fish and put your head up above the water to gnaw it into pieces and swallow it, all the while fending off your siblings. Like sea mammals do, otters swimming together like to porpoise along side by side, even in a shallow river. They are companionable animals. I don't think the synchronized swimming offers them any selective advantage. It's FUN and that' why they do it. And I think again about the animal connection, a theory I have developed about the very ancient, very important link between humans and the creatures around us. Our ancestors first began connecting with other animals in a new way some 2.6 million years ago, when the invention of stone tools first enabled our ancestors to act like predators even though we have the physical equipment of prey species. At that point, we began to pay attention to other animals, to study them, collect information about their habits and postures and calls. Our very survival depended upon knowing enough about other species. From that ancient foundation came many key developments in human evolution:our ability to empathize and understand others, our unusual and sophisticated means of storing and transmitting information (language). Part of my delight at seeing otters and beavers is that they show me that there are still wild places in the world. I am incredibly lucky to live in one of them. Humans have not destroyed this place and altered it unutterably to suit our selfish needs. We can share it with the birds, beavers, otters, crayfish, and dragonflies and enjoy that sharing. The greater part of my elation comes from being able to "speak" some otter. I canglimpse what it is like to be such an animal. It is a rare and precious insight into the world I live in. This insight brings a satisfaction and a reverence for other creatures that I know is part of my evolutionary heritage. Our connection to animals has influenced human evolution to make us the species we are today. Who knew a five-otter day was such a teachable moment?
