A Finger of Ocean and the Otter

The River Wick is tidal to a point, the sea pushing and pulling, exerting coastal influence as far inland as she can, often not far at all, unless the conditions are just right.

She is not a long river, the Wick, or wide, but she is full of character. Dark, peaty waters seep into rivulets, then tiny burns, becoming wider, deeper, carrying sediment laid down over thousands of years, becoming the River Wick and coursing into the North Sea.

Rivers are themselves undoubtedly liminal spaces: they cross boundaries whilst forming others, they excise and they deposit, they evaporate and they flood. Rivers will form a part of Edges and Entries at some future point—there is much we can discuss and I have many portraits of their faces and moods (along with ponds, lochs, lochans, swamps, marshes, and lakes).

For today, however, I am only concerning myself with that last part of the river, a part I know very well. When we didn’t take a coastal route, this was where I walked Orlando the sprocker, six days out of seven, often accompanying the dawn, sometimes before, sometimes after. In summer, the midges usually drove us out to the clifftops and their promise of air, in winter, the river exerted herself and flooded the path, tall boots essential and, often, not enough unless I felt the soaking and subsequent squelching worth it.

A tidal river is a finger of ocean and it is a widening artery of the land both. It is a highway between the two, sea birds pursuing fish, seals and otters likewise, the fish themselves avoiding all as best they can, heading upstream to spawn, or down to the wide open of the sea. In times of storm, there would almost always be a seal or two inland, smugly basking on one of the islets, or playing in vastly calmer waters. Sometimes, these arteries become clogged with sediment, reedbeds, saltmarsh, delta greys and vast flocks of waterfowl but the River Wick rarely gets a chance to spread these days, her banks contained within the town, flooding likely only upstream.

Usually, but for the wildlife, I had the river to myself for the first part of our walk, the 3 kilometres (2 miles) out to a small footbridge, where we normally turned back, to meet other dog walkers, who probably considered their own walks early—just not as early as ours.

Those walks were a time of productive thought for me, waking early and out the door before 0600, I would have the cool night to air my mind, to make sense of dreams or to consider puzzles of plot and character or my own development. I would think of the past and consider the future, all the while attentive to my surroundings. I accrued voice notes on my phone, a filtering of thought, meaning to transcribe them later—notes I still have and, for the most part, have no idea what they say, nearly a decade later.

As anyone who has ever walked a dog knows, they often give warning of nearby wildlife, a twitch of the tail, a snout lifted to the air, also twitching, nostrils flaring and contracting rapidly. A quick glance back at the other end of the lead—am I still attached?—then a minor tremble in the legs meant a deer, a sudden leap forward with no glance, a rabbit. We have been using dogs for this purpose for over thirty thousand years. Perhaps one thousand, two hundred generations or more, noses to the wind or the ground, excitedly pulling us along on paths we struggle to sense. Or, sometimes, we do—only we do not know what it is we are sensing. I spoke about this here, in my first season of Ancestral, Wild Empowerment (I’ve removed the paywall, made the whole of that post available to read and comment upon for everyone, regardless of your subscription), referring to it again in the post which followed: A Walk as an Ancient Child (also free to read for all).¹

Sometimes, the breeze would be in the wrong direction and I would see the deer before Orlando, sometimes he had no idea they were there, within a bowshot, even once we were past.

One thing Orlando never seemed to understand, or care about, were the otters, those lithe shadows of land and water, river and sea, and coast and bank. He would look puzzled, unsure whether they were doglike friends to play with, or something to chase. He wouldn’t bark, he wouldn’t growl, he’d just watch them, head tilted slightly, ears twitching, nose likewise.

Like the seals, there are many legends and myths associated with this animal, from all parts of the world. Similarly, the otter is often considered a shapeshifter, a creature between worlds, something not entirely of the waters or of the land, or even of nature, but a mix of these: lithe, beautiful, dangerous, and playful.

I have been lucky enough to have experienced several close encounters with otters, but one stands out above all others, one which I will share below in the spot usually reserved for fiction or poetry. Narrative non-fiction is something I love, especially nature writing, so it seems a good place to share a true story.

Tidal rivers are two-way routes, the traffic altering direction every so often, depending on the whim of the moon, the amount of rainfall, or the prevailing wind. Sometimes, the river flows both ways, the water at the banks going downstream, that in the centre up. I suspect it is the same below the surface, too, different currents, all tangled in an unfathomable dance.

This dance, this blending and blurring of edges, tendrils of water clawing one way, then the other, gives so much life to a place, bringing riches, food from the microscopic to the macro.

It is no surprise so many of our settlements, great and small, are sited on the mouths of rivers. And yet it is here that many of us will see evidence of the changing levels of our oceans first—a melting ice cap is removed from the vast majority of us, something we know is happening, yet not something we can witness. These places—these cities—will alter, and alter fast. They already are, and we can only build our walls so high.

Do you live by a river? What do rivers mean to you, especially if they are close to the sea? Do you prefer the swift flowing waters of an upland river, or those which are more sluggish, tired, and mighty? Have you been lucky enough to witness otters in the wild? Or what other animals do you see on your own walks, with a four-legged friend, or otherwise?

It was mid-October, and the nights were lengthening rapidly, the stars having returned from wherever they go for summer. Looking back towards the town from the river, the rising sun broached the horizon four fingers to the left of the church tower in Wick, that tower a marker of sorts, winter closer now. The midges were mere memories and the skies full of birds heading south, fleeing the northern cold. At that point of the year, I would see all manner of unusual feathered friends, down from Siberia, Scandinavia, Greenland or Iceland.

On the River Wick walk, there are places where the waters appear in view, and others where they flow invisibly, sheltered by high bank or reeds, a wide snake silent in the rushes. I would always check the water when I could see it, look for waterbirds, voles, fish jumping and, of course, otters. If I saw one, I could often run ahead to the next point, where the path looped closer to the river itself, and gain a better view (one day, I managed to time this to perfection after spotting an otter swimming upstream, running and then crouching by the bank, still and waiting, one arm over Orlando to ensure he did the same. Mere seconds after I was comfortable, the otter—a large male—popped out the water two arm spans away from me. I was not sure who was more surprised, me that it worked, Orlando at the remarkable trick I had pulled, or the otter. For a moment, we all froze, aware of each other, eyes locked, then the otter spun around and disappeared with barely a ripple. That, however, is not the story I wish to tell here.).

On this day in question, we had reached the footbridge and, as I usually did, I paused for a time to listen to the birds, watch the day brightening, sniff the air and study the clouds. Caithness has big skies, and it is relatively easy to work out what the day will hold by looking at them. I was just about to head off when I spotted the tell-tale V of something swimming upstream.

Standing on a bridge above the water is a surprisingly good hiding place, as long as you crouch or sit, so as to not let your own silhouette break the skyline. I sat down and placed my arm over Orlando. Then I waited.

The thing about watching nature is that you have to do it on nature’s time, not your own. You can’t rush things. Patience is key to excellent observation and this example was no exception. For me, I find sitting and waiting for an animal or bird relatively easy, the pause allows me to enter the right state of mind to pick up all the details whilst also blending into the background, unnoticed. It is a trick of breathing and a trick of staying still, willing others not to see you—I have sat in such a manner and people have walked past me, within spitting distance, unnoticed, unobserved. People are, however, usually wrapped up in their human thoughts, and ignore all the information their senses provide.

Keeping a spaniel still, when he knows an animal is near, however, that is a different matter.

We waited for what seemed like ten minutes, but was probably only two or three, then my own ears picked up a strange sound, at the same time as Orlando’s did. A squeaking, remarkably like the toys he was used to shredding as a puppy. There was more than one squeak, with accompanying splashes.

Around the corner, close to the shore, swam a mother otter, with three cubs, or pups, splashing around her. As with human toddlers and children, they moved with an abundance of energy, covering at least four or five times the distance their mother did, circles in three dimensions, under her, around her, and each other. All the while squeaking and calling.

They had no idea we were there. Orlando, once realising they were otters, feigned indifference, but he did not take his eyes off them and he kept looking at me with every new squeak.

I watched as they got closer, playing, enjoying life, a small family out enjoying the morning air. I could see bubble trails as they dived into the murky, peaty depths of the small river, flares of mud where they moved the bottom, sudden coming together of bubble trails where they played.

After some time—I had no idea how long—they reached the bridge. The wind was still in my face, blowing in from somewhere out on the North Sea, so there was little chance our scent would reach them until they passed below us. There has been recent research to suggest it is possible the Eurasian otter (Lutra lutra) can actually smell things even if it is below the water, which is remarkable.

That moment was one of those which seared itself into my memory, as with the time I saw my first Orca, or when a basking shark swam past where I was fishing one day, or stood on the edge of a cliff and had flights of vultures pass me at eye level, or when I first heard a wolf howl in the wild, or witnessed a wild boar leap downslope across a road, crashing to its knees two metres in front of us, then getting up and vanishing into the forest. There are others. Many others. Each memory clear and focused, my senses recording every detail and storing them away in a file for future rapid retrieval. How the brain does this is incredible and, the more you place yourself in situations where you might witness something wonderful, the more files you attain, each sparkling and clear, even after years of storage.

Eventually, of course, the family had to pass below us and catch a glimpse or sniff of our presence. However, when they did, the pups simply wanted to know more. They had no fear at all, perhaps the combination of Orlando’s scent and my own confused them, or perhaps they were too young to understand dog and man equals danger. I like to also think they simply knew I was not a threat.

All three pups swam up to the bridge, squeaking excitedly, looking at me with those dark eyes and scolding in their otter language, mother keeping a short distance, watching intently. When she decided they had had enough time to understand this strange human was not a worry, she raised herself in the water, then splashed loudly, diving and disappearing. The pups followed her lead instantly, vanishing from view and barely leaving a bubble.

I waited a little longer, but they were gone—gone that is apart from the memory, the adrenaline, the sheer joy of such an encounter then, as I rose to walk home, one single pup broached the water and looked back at me, before swimming into the reeds where the others were no doubt hiding. Whether the brave one, or the foolish, it made me smile.

Orlando and I stood and looked at each other. Then we began to walk home.

There is a little more to this story, what happened next on the walk home, but that is a tale for another day, one which is more human, more complicated, and one which strangely balanced that otter encounter.

I do not take such experiences for granted. I do not understand those who do, or those who do not derive sheer joy from watching the wilder portions of our world. So many stories entwine there, so many layers and levels of learning await us, if only we let them.

1. If you are interested in the topic of fisher-gatherer-hunters and, perhaps, would like to discover how we can learn from those ancestors, apply their skills and knowledge in the here and now, to bring a strangely wonderful sense of empowerment, there will soon be an announcement about the second season of Ancestral Wild Empowerment. It shall also explain more about how you can get involved.

As a part of the run up to this season (which will mostly be paywalled), there is currently a special offer: 20% off the usual price of both annual and monthly subscriptions, a price which lasts as long as you stay subscribed. The offer ends 1st of April, 2024.

Similarly, as Edges and Entries grows, each portion is paywalled after finishing (the first fifteen posts, on doors, are now paywalled), and a subscription also gets you access to the archives (and those of my monthly letter, stretching back more than four years), with other benefits to come.