Lakeside Living 8: Otterly Ridiculous by Ruth Ross Saucier

      When I first moved to the lake, it took me nearly two years to sort out which critters were swimming in my little cove: otters or beavers?  Chance flashes of tails brought the answer: both. But their tails rarely showed above water and their heads were too close to call; I needed more evidence to reliably identify my neighbors.  Eventually, I discovered their habits and their seasons were different.

      In the spring, the otters would show up in the early morning and fish the little cove in front of the house, diving and swooping, traveling 50-70 feet underwater and only resurfacing for air or to nibble on a sushi snack that didn’t immediately surrender. Their long sleek lines would curl over smoothly as they dove and rarely if ever did they show their long, pointed tails. But their speed and fluidity were unparalleled. 

Otters getting a breath leave the ice pockmarked.

      At some point in late spring the otters would move out of my cove and wouldn’t return until winter.  The lake would rarely freeze; but when it did, the otters came out to play. One year the lake developed a thin skin of ice and snow.  Before the ice melted away, though, the cove was full of otter sign: the thin ice was pockmarked with holes where the otters had surfaced. Each hole soon began to skim over with ice, but the pattern was unmistakable.

      One winter morning I woke to a bleak vista. The lake was frozen hard, with only a few places where the water was still open. There was a bitter wind gusting out of the southwest, causing swirls and clouds of snow to scud across the open ice. But there was something weird out there, a large dark lump on the ice about 200 feet out. The binoculars didn’t help, the clump was unmoving; probably somebody’s stray tarp or … but wait!

      As I watched, the clump began to heave and disentangle itself into two large otters and three babies. The family started a wrassling match right there on the ice, heedless of the frigid wind. They dove and rolled like a frenzied ball of snakes, the orb seething and twisting over and over until one of the babies zoomed away from the pack and slipped across the ice and into the open water.

      A split second later he slipped up and out of the water, rejoining the family frolic. But the whole family got the message now. Running and slithering across the ice, they all took turns sliding and slipping into the water hole and resurfacing onto the ice as smoothly as they left.

     And then they were gone; lured into the dark water and its promise of sleeping fish. And I, once again, was left with nothing but the memory, seared indelibly by my profound joy.