With Mark Trail assuming the “Naturalist crouch” position while looking for/ at animal tracks, forearms resting on quadriceps, wrists allowed to hang loose, he wonders aloud (the only way he can wonder) where have all the otters gone (Long time passing) Where have all the otters gone (long time ago…)  OK, arcane and obtuse Pete Seeger references aside, I think Rusty has stumbled onto the next potboiler:  Otters who apparently can’t swim… film at eleven.

The poor little scamp!  The look of panic on his (or her) face.  Coming up for air, gasping for the breath that stands between life and death… Whatever could be pulling him down?  OK, it’s pretty obvious, and I have to just lay out the coming plot for everyone involved:  Trappers, poaching on Lost Forest property, will meet their comeuppance once it is determined that they have picked the wrong Nature Writer to tangle with!

It does give one pause, though to think about how many little woodland creatures meet their demise in this way…  drowning so that a guy earning a subsistence living, selling pelts into the fur trade, can feed his brood back at the shack… But lest I sound critical, I know that this is how my forebears made their living back in the early 1800’s…