Thursday September 10, 2026 Otters 1983

Hayes Lake State Park Saturday September 10th, 1983

 Excerpt From "Hot Coffee & Cold Beer: a Journal."

 

   I mentioned last week’s (Sept 3rd) camping trip to Mark, another friend of mine at the toy factory. He’s an amateur photographer; having a Canon 35mm camera and some great lenses. At the mention of seeing the otters, he became interested in getting some pictures of them and asked if I’d be  willing to show him where they might be this weekend. And of course, I was, as friends were far and in between for me about that time. Having learned we had similar interests, I thought I should make the attempt. 

   Over the course of the week we discussed various ideas of what to bring and where we would camp at Hayes the night of the ninth and look for the otters early in the morning on the tenth. I’d provide the food, the canoe, and camper. Mark would buy the beer and camping fee. Good enough.

As it turned out, even though I took the grocery list and other things to bring with me, I forgot several items (Ask the wife: I’m doing that yet in 2026) two of which were bread and plates … but bread was dismissed, and plates were carved from beer cartons in an example of pioneer resourcefulness.

Mark and I were new friends and he wasn’t sure of my canoeing abilities (judging by my inability to complete a list.); I get it. He had more experience canoeing with another person than I did; having brothers and friends to accompany him on camping trips. He didn’t want to risk swamping the canoe with his expensive camera aboard and said we should leave the cameras in camp the first canoe trip out just to test our compatibility.

With Mark in the bow we made a reconnaissance of the the lake with no cameras aboard and true to form overtook the otters near where I thought they were last weekend. Mark was amazed and confounded too that he didn’t have a camera! There were three otter in number, and upon seeing us, advanced their heads, shoulders, and chests above the water as before ‘Gruffing,’ at us threateningly but then pulling back and skirting around our perimeter.

    Mark, I’m sure, was excited but disappointed too. "Next time …”

   We climbed out of the canoe near beaver runway that lead uphill and disappeared over a wooded ridge that surrounds the lake for the most part characterizing the geography of the shoreline. Mark tied the canoe to a beaver hewn stump and from that first docking, of many in the coming hours of our new friendship, we scrambled quietly up the trail to see what we could see.

   The beaver had been busy there, felling trees on both sides of a small intersecting ravine and dragging the tops down to the hardpacked runway and into the lake below. It was evident the trees were fresh cut that morning as the leaves were still green and full. We envisioned catching the beaver at work,  in our viewfinders with the right setups; there were some real possibilities.

   We clambered back down the embankment, me with the canoe within grasp hesitatingly trying to maneuver it into position when, quite suddenly I was pushed from behind by a heavy falling body and plunged my left foot into the water up to the knee…

   "WHAT THE HELL?"

Laughing, unable to contain himself or regain his balance, Mark too thrust his left boot into the deep along the bank, and sat holding the beaver hewn stump aloft with the canoe tied to it in one hand, and catching himself somehow against the bank with his other.

   He had reached for the stump to hold the rope to the canoe close to the shore when the stump broke under his weight and caused him to lose his balance and pitch into me, muttering something about him being a clumsy elephant. No problem! I was glad to get back into the canoe with only a wet foot!

   We grilled hamburgers over charcoal, pulling up the picnic table there closer to the fire that was blazing from some firewood I had thought to bring. We drank beer and talked about wolves and bears as we looked into the glowing bed of coals. Marked proved to be an interesting guy; and had done a bunch of enviable outdoor activities I hadn’t done, but wasn’t full of himself. I liked the guy.

   A flurry of wind through the pines encircled us suddenly, and Mark broke from his side of the table saying there was something coming toward us in the darkness beyond us; he had heard it. Not knowing to believe him or not, surprised at his reaction altogether, I just sat there trying to decipher the sounds around us, for we were quite alone there that weekend at that end of the park; not another camper or tent or person around as far as I knew. There was just the light of our fire, and a 12volt light in the camper for light.

Mark seemed mildly agitated — nervous. He went into the camper, grabbed his lantern and lighting it, set it on the end of the table illuminating the darkness nearer us. 

I listened carefully but heard just the wind through the trees and crackle of the camp fire, watching their erratic ebb and flow. I wasn’t fearful. This environment was virtually my own backyard with, other than the loons, all the same wildlife, a little less water, and far less people. 

Mark gave it up, and headed for his sleeping bag; I guessed I should too but lingered on the picnic table bench, laying on my back looking at the stars when I saw a satellite wander through far above and ruined it for me. Time to go.

   We talked a bit from our bunks in the darkness. Quiet settled in.

   “Otters,” I said. 

 

   The wind blew through the pines. Rain began to pelt the camper, continuing through the night til dawn.