An experience that was decades in the making
- John Lorson: The Rail Trail Naturalist
- November 6, 2020
- 978
In addition to great senses of smell, hearing and water-adapted eyesight, the river otter has a specialized array of super-sensitive whiskers called vibrissae around its nose and mouth. This enables the animal to detect the slightest vibrations given off by prey.
It’s safe to say I was more than a little excited a few weeks ago when my ride to work included an impromptu photo session with a family of river otters. That moment was all of 34 years in the making.
Way back in 1986, I was spending my weekdays on a university campus studying the textbook version of biology. To round out my studies, however, I’d make the drive home every weekend to do a little “field work.” A work-before-play guy from an early age, I’d dutifully report to the local grocery at 2 a.m. to turn my shift unloading trucks and sorting stock.
The moment my work was done, I’d rush back to my folk’s house, jump into my coveralls, pull on my chest waders, grab my shotgun and whistle for my Black Lab, Rex. Together we’d head for the local duck swamp, the Killbuck Marsh Wildlife Area. I was in love with the place. The largest inland marsh in the state, KMWA had nearly everything a young and impressionable wildlife geek could ask for. Before the end of that year, it would gain one more thing to love: the North American river otter.
The Division of Wildlife had chosen the Killbuck Creek as one of four sites in the state to receive otter, trapped for transplant from Louisiana and Arkansas, as part of a reintroduction project. A key element in the selection process was my own beloved KMWA, a well-managed 5,000-acre dreamscape of wildlife habitat purchased, preserved, enhanced and maintained with funding provided by license fees paid by hunters, trappers and sport fishers. The marsh provides the critical first link in the food chain that leads to the fish, amphibians and crustaceans necessary to maintain a healthy, sustainable population of river otter.
When I read about the reintroduction program back then, as it was taking place, it seemed an almost unimaginable leap. I’d dreamed of seeing an otter in the wild since our teacher showed us a film about an orphaned otter pup back in the fourth grade. Now I was about to encounter them on my frequent rambles up and down the Killbuck Creek. This simply seemed too good to be true, and as it turned out, that aspect of it (the part where I would simply spot river otters happily frolicking along the stream bank as I paddled by) actually was too good to be true.
Oh, there were times when I’d spot a muddy “slide” along the bank or occasionally encounter a mess of carp and suckers that had been systematically “relieved” of their tastiest parts and left along an otter-tracked sandbar, but I never saw an otter — not for at least 25 years.
My first actual sighting was so brief it left me doubting my own sanity. A full-grown otter popped out of the brush on the swampy side of the Holmes County Rail Trail ahead of my bicycle. It did its goofy, slinking, sniffing dash across the pavement and disappeared into the brush on the other side. There were no photos, no tracks, not even a stray whisker to validate my “supposed, alleged otter sighting” as my friends liked to call it. That was nine years ago, and I’ve been on high alert ever since.
This time around, the encounter was nearly 20 minutes long. I watched, completely undetected from a bridge above a small, clear pool, as a mother otter and her two pups methodically dove through the deepest water, spooking the fish toward the shallow edges where emergent plants and grasses from the banks created what the fish saw as shelter.
The otter benefits from incredible speed and agility and in the water, along with outstanding sensory perception provided by keen senses of smell and hearing along with an array of vibrissae, or large, stiff whiskers surrounding their mouth and nose that enable them to rapidly zero in on prey. Otter also have excellent paw dexterity — perfect for grabbing and holding. Another characteristic strikingly evident in some of the photos I snapped was the otter’s water-repellent coat. Water seems to simply sheet right off of the animal’s fine, dense fur.
Unfortunately for the fish seeking shelter along the grassy banks, the otter — given all of those specialized adaptations — has learned to exploit their “shelter” as a trap. I watched as the three dove again and again into the grass to come out with fish wriggling between their sharp teeth. Finally, as if bored with the game, the trio slinked over a low beaver dam and disappeared downstream. I’m hoping it won’t be 34 years until my next close encounter.
Remember, if you have comments on this column or questions about the natural world, write The Rail Trail Naturalist, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email jlorson@alonovus.com.