I’d only wobbled out for some woodland air to soothe the winter cough. The trees’ chill breath gentled me, the soft-scented leaf mulch, pine needles and resiny bark enfolded my mind. This is home, I thought. These woods are enough, this moment is enough. But my dog, Dill, had other ideas, and shot all the way down to the River Dart. I was too weak to shout after him, so followed to the spot where I knew he’d be — his waiting place at the water’s edge. Usually I throw a stick and he bounds into the cold no matter what the weather.
But today we didn’t do that; the spate was too fast, and something quite different happened. The river was surging wildly from all the rain, roaring past at such a rate I didn’t want to go near. Then came a call; a watery whistle. In my low energy I wasn’t paying too much attention. At first I thought it was a kingfisher. The Dart is rich in kingfisher waters — clear and fast flowing over rock and shale — often shallow enough to see the little fishers clasping a low twig and then diving down for a catch. But this whistle was suddenly louder, more insistent. Something awakened in me. Not a kingfisher in flight. An otter on the spate!
These river-creature calls — the dipper, grey wagtail and otter — are sound evolved for contact, to fly straight over water; they muscle across like musical thunderbolts. But this call was urgent. There was a drama happening, carried to my ears in that loud, panicked shout. My creature-instinct whirled into place: a female otter! She’d lost her cubs! They must have been swept on the flood. I stood and waited, rigid, helpless, knowing that any minute an otter would swish past my nose on the current. But we were by a shallow inlet; exactly where she’d haul out if she could. Dill crouched still, watching me rather than the water. It all happened so fast my instinct was to remain still and quiet; the otter would be too busy to care. And she was. The calls came nearer and nearer, repeating, more and more urgent. Where was the lost cub? And there she came. A slim mother otter, her water-brown, water-smoothed face swivelling in the current, her whole long body from dripping whiskers to tapering tail calling and searching. She landed at the inlet, ignored me and the dog, if she even saw us, bounded up the bank and turned and called again, urgent and insistent. My heart was bursting in my chest. She was so close.
Join the cubs
More calls tumbled over the water and moments later a cub swooshed up behind her in a wave of whistles and squeaks. The youngster slithered out of the water to greet its mother. They curled around each other, nuzzling and bickering. The noise! She was clearly chiding the cub for having been lost on the flood water but also giving out such relief — an ottery cascade of anger, but congratulations for doing so well, maybe — or perhaps they were shrieking with laughter. Who knows what emotions otters have but there were so many compressed there. Otters usually have more than one cub — there is only a 50 per cent survival rate — and more whistling bubbled up. Another cub. It slid out of the water, smaller, but just as noisy. They bundled up the bank and tangled together, yickering wildly, joyful. I watched them disappear downriver among the trees, all three whistling boldly, so loud that I could track their progress.
The drama! I thought I should follow to see them some more, but exhausted from my cough I thought better of it. These creatures live on a knife edge at this time of the year — at any time of the year — so I let them be. Now more than ever, with extreme weather and increasing pollution events, these rare animals need us to know that the slightest disturbance can alter their fragile balance and cause them catastrophe.
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Webbed wisdom
The otters continued their journey, their contact calls carrying clearly over the water. My heart jumping, my spirit lifted, I made my way slowly back through the woods as if the whole bright, cold river were alive and flowing through me. Seeing otters is always exciting, but this was such a breathtaking moment, the greatest gift. Our ancestors knew to pay attention to the animals, and as the last turbulent year turned, flooded as it was with strife, heartbreak and grief, it brought new messages about our very survival. Things can be swept away, and we humans may not have webbed feet, but we can steer to the rudder of our intelligence — our wise, hive mind, if we can keep our sharp wits about us.
Miriam Darlington’s latest book, The Wise Hours, will be published in the US next month
