Otterly exciting!

It was early morning at our beach house. The watercan was filled, and I was on my way out the patio gate to give the plants a drink when suddenly — hello! — two otters sat on the bank of the salt pond less than 20 feet from where I stood frozen in my tracks.

Otters! In New Smyrna Beach! Right next to our house!

Although my friend and former beach neighbor once mentioned seeing otters in the salt pond, this was a first-time sighting for me at our Volusia County property. Over the years, I’ve encountered these semi-aquatic mammals several times but always in Lake County in or around freshwater lakes and marshes. Twice I observed them at Little Lake Harris in Howey-in-the-Hills, and I once saw an entire family of otters run across County Road 561 in Astatula.

Otter with fish photographed in Little Lake Harris 

However, most of my previous sightings have taken place at our own lakefront Groveland homestead, especially during a dry spell in the mid-2000s when water levels were low and turtle populations high. During those years, otters came to feed on the turtles. And feed they did. Anyone who imagines these web-toed, whisker-nosed critters as sweet little cuties hasn’t watched them chew through the flesh of a softshell turtle. It’s a sharp reminder of nature’s brutality.

Otter in our lake in the rain eating a soft-shelled turtle

But the two otters that I encountered the other morning by our beach house weren’t dismembering turtles or devouring fish. Their initial focus was on a small swath of unplanted soil beneath our perennial peanut patch. I quietly stepped back through the gate, turned around, put down the water can and ran inside to grab my camera. When I came back — yah! — they were still there.

Two otters alongside the salt pond by our beach house

For several minutes, I stood silently still as the otters, an adult and its offspring, rolled in the dirt and preened themselves before leaving land and returning to the water. During the entire time, the adult otter — my maternal instincts suggest it was the mother — emitted a series of chirping calls, sounds I’d never heard an otter make.

I didn’t realize until the two torpedo-shaped, brown-furred mammals slid off the bank back into the brackish water that a third otter was part of the group. Judging by its size and the way it followed the adult, I assumed this was another offspring out for a morning exploration trip with its mom.

Otters are found throughout Florida in rivers, lakes, streams and coastal marshes. They mate in spring and have an 11- to 12-month gestation period. The babies — one to three offspring called kits — are born in waterside dens called holts built into banks or in hollowed trees alongside shorelines. Although adult otters are adept swimmers, kits must learn this essential skill. When they are about two months, they are weaned and their mother teaches them how to swim and hunt for food.

Since the two kits I observed were almost as big as their mother, I assume they were already well versed in survival. But by the way the young patterned the adult, it was also obvious that mother otter was still very much in charge.

I don’t know when I’ll see otters again. Like most of my wildlife encounters, chance and timing — being at the right place at the right time — play a huge part in determining what I’ll see and when I’ll see it. However, I will be looking for otters whenever I step through our patio gate. And I’ll be listening, too, for the piercing ‘cheep-cheep-cheep’ cry of a mother otter letting her young know where she is and warning them not to stray too far from her or safe waters.

An island rises

In 2012, three turtles consider the emerging island of peat to be an excellent place to catch some rays on an April afternoon

Simply Living
April 9, 2012

An island is being born. I can see it from my kitchen window.

Beneath the shimmering surface of our 12-acre lake lie scattered mounds of peat left over from a mining process that ended a few years before we purchased the property. Some mounds are small. Others are big.

One of the broadest swaths of submerged soil sits smack in the center of the lake, only it isn't underwater anymore.

Day-by-rainless-day, the lake level gets lower and the island of peat becomes more and more visible. Last week I couldn't see the island at all. A mere seven days later it was large enough to support three turtles soaking up the midday rays. If the drought continues, it soon will be to the point it was 11 years ago when a pair of sandhill cranes chose the peat island for a nest site.

In 2001, water levels dropped so drastically it exposed a huge mid-lake island of peat. Although by then we had been living on the property for nine years, it was the first time we saw the peaty mass. Before, it had always been underwater.

We weren't the only ones to notice the change. The black mucky refuge attracted all kind of birds along with a variety of turtles, alligators and otters. Some came to perch, to hunt or to sun, but a pair of cranes staked a claim. They set about building a scrappy nest out of sticks and reeds and promptly filled it with two large brown speckled eggs. Predators arrived to case the situation but mama and papa crane were protective parents. They scared off or kept at bay any animal intent on devouring their offspring.

A family of sandhill cranes, one crow, an otter and a turtle took advantage of an exposed peat island in 2001.

As much as I worried about the low water level that year, I enjoyed the daily antics of the cranes and other critters. On one memorable day, I woke up to see not only the crane family (by then two babies had hatched) but also a crow, an otter and a turtle on the island.

It has been over a decade since the water level was that low but it seems to be happening all over again. I wake up in the morning and the first thing I do is look out the window. How big is the island today? What animals are on it? Will the cranes nest there again? If they do, will summer rains come and wash it away?

I have mixed feelings when I look out at the island.

On one hand, I want the rains to come. The drought is severe. Plants are suffering. Water levels have receded. We need rain to replenish our own supply as well as to satisfy the thirst of plants and animals.

On the other hand, wildlife is adapting. I see more turtles now than during wet periods and that means the otters probably will return to snatch easy meals. Previously submerged landmasses like our peat islands now provide safe harbor for birds. Plants are springing up in the recently exposed soil and more ospreys than usual have been hovering overhead in search of crowded fish in a decreasingly smaller pond.

Change is one of life's few givens. It happens whether we want it to or not. Rather than fret over possibilities beyond our control, it's sometimes best to accept the inevitable while focusing on the positives that accompany all situations.

It's not every day one is privy to the birth of an island. I'm excited to see what happens next.

Otters adorable? Just ask a turtle

Sitting on a slightly submerged island of peat in the rain, an otter makes quick work of a large soft-shell turtle.

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 1, 2009)

If you had asked me in 2001 to describe an otter with one word, I'd have chosen "playful." Not anymore. Thoughtful observation over seven years has modified my view of these semi-aquatic mammals with a penchant for sliding down slippery slopes and frolicking in the water. I now think "brutal" would be a more appropriate description.

I began observing otters in 2002, the last time Central Florida suffered from a prolonged drought. Our lake — created before we bought our property as a byproduct of a peat-mining operation — was down that year to the lowest level we had ever seen. Water was so low that a small island of peat appeared in the middle of the lake, about 200 feet in front of our house. We saw our first otter on that island, and it was to the very same spot — re-exposed because of the recent drought — that an otter returned.

The North American river otter is a member of the same family that includes weasels, minks, badgers and wolverines. Stretching about 40 inches long and weighing around 20 pounds, otters have sleek, black bodies, strong, short legs, webbed feet with five sharp claws and long, muscular tails. At first glance, a freshwater otter looks like a cross between a drenched chocolate lab and a fur-covered dolphin. At second glance, it looks like the well-conditioned predator it is.

There's no denying an otter's attractiveness. With round eyes, whiskered faces, small ears and diamond-shaped noses, these protected mammals are the epitome of adorableness. Try telling that to the animals on which these voracious carnivores dine. Crayfish, mollusks, frogs and fish might be the mainstay of an otter's diet, but that's not all they eat.

Recently I watched as a solitary otter perched on the slightly submerged peat island and slowly devoured a huge, soft-shelled turtle. Although rain fell incessantly, the otter's dining habits were not the least bit dampened. Raindrops rolled off his oil-rich pelt while he munched upon his meaty meal.

Watching the otter eat the turtle was an eerie flashback to 2002, when a pair of otters made fast work of the lake's hard- and soft-shelled turtle population. Over the course of three months, our shoreline became scattered with the hollow remains of many an otter meal. As otter sightings became more frequent, sightings of live turtles decreased.

Observing an otter chew its way through the flesh of a living turtle is nothing less than disturbing. In our Disney-ized view of the world, cute, cuddly animals aren't supposed to be vicious killers. They're especially not supposed to look like they're having so much fun while devouring their still-alive victims. That's exactly how these adorable critters look. Otters not only prey upon smaller animals, they seem to take pleasure in playing with their food.

As the otter in our lake consumed his oversized dinner, the rain-slicked mammal repeatedly changed position and refreshed himself with swims. He took breaks for grooming and breaks to rest, but he always returned to his partly eaten, still-moving entree as if he hadn't a care in the world. The otter had done what large predatory animals do — he had hunted for food and scored a meal. Success was in the proverbial saucepan, and if that saucepan happened to be my lake, well, such is life in the wild kingdom.

In order to survive, otters need to consume 15 percent of their bodyweight every day. They do that by hunting over a 50-mile territory. I'm happy that an otter has chosen our lake to supplement his diet with carapace-covered flesh, but I'm equally as unhappy to see so many turtles perish in the process.

The balance of nature is not always pretty. As the otter in our lake so ably demonstrates, sometimes the cutest animals can be the cruelest. Call them playful — otters are certainly that — but don't forget: The very same critter that looks adorable while sliding down a mud-slicked river bank isn't nearly as endearing when it tears into a turtle's flesh.

So much in life lies in perception, and first impressions don't always show the full picture.