J Scott Shannon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
otterfamily) wrote2006-08-11 02:56 pm
otterfamily) wrote2006-08-11 02:56 pm
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First otter
I saw my very first wild otter 24 years ago today.
It wasn't at Trinidad, though. It was in Redwood National Park, on Redwood Creek, near its junction with Hayes Creek. I was camping out with Kent Reeves, a wildlife biologist from Humboldt State University, who had radio-tagged a young otter and was following the otter's daily movements. Close to sunset, I turned on Kent's radio telemetry gear and got a signal that the otter was nearby. We rushed to creekside in time to see something swimming upstream towards us. About 50 feet west of where we were standing, the otter hauled out onto a gravel bar and proceeded to take a shortcut through the willows. To my astonishment, Frederick (the name Kent gave the otter pup) trotted straight toward us. Literally 6 feet away, he suddenly saw us and stopped dead in his tracks. Frederick looked up at me, and for the first time, I gazed straight into the eyes of a wild otter. Realizing we were in his way, the young otter simply did an end-around and continued his trek upstream. For me, that first encounter was pure magic.
Unfortunately, as Frederick walked by us, we could see that the incision made in his side for the telemetry implant had opened up. Kent feared the wound was mortal, and he was right. Frederick died just two days later. Kent asked if I wanted to view the necropsy, but I declined. I wanted to remember Frederick alive, not as a carcass laid open for scientific purposes.
Since that day, I've seen wild otters 4,713 more times - probably more than anyone else who's ever lived. And over all those years, it's been more or less the same story repeated. Tremendous elation followed by eventual tragedy. But, like Frederick, I prefer to dwell on the lives of my otters rather than their deaths. On balance, I have known far more joy than sorrow during my long lutrine quest.
It wasn't at Trinidad, though. It was in Redwood National Park, on Redwood Creek, near its junction with Hayes Creek. I was camping out with Kent Reeves, a wildlife biologist from Humboldt State University, who had radio-tagged a young otter and was following the otter's daily movements. Close to sunset, I turned on Kent's radio telemetry gear and got a signal that the otter was nearby. We rushed to creekside in time to see something swimming upstream towards us. About 50 feet west of where we were standing, the otter hauled out onto a gravel bar and proceeded to take a shortcut through the willows. To my astonishment, Frederick (the name Kent gave the otter pup) trotted straight toward us. Literally 6 feet away, he suddenly saw us and stopped dead in his tracks. Frederick looked up at me, and for the first time, I gazed straight into the eyes of a wild otter. Realizing we were in his way, the young otter simply did an end-around and continued his trek upstream. For me, that first encounter was pure magic.
Unfortunately, as Frederick walked by us, we could see that the incision made in his side for the telemetry implant had opened up. Kent feared the wound was mortal, and he was right. Frederick died just two days later. Kent asked if I wanted to view the necropsy, but I declined. I wanted to remember Frederick alive, not as a carcass laid open for scientific purposes.
Since that day, I've seen wild otters 4,713 more times - probably more than anyone else who's ever lived. And over all those years, it's been more or less the same story repeated. Tremendous elation followed by eventual tragedy. But, like Frederick, I prefer to dwell on the lives of my otters rather than their deaths. On balance, I have known far more joy than sorrow during my long lutrine quest.