You see, according to Old One, the Earth was made from Woman.

High on the western slope of the Continental Divide in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, near the headwaters of those Great Medicine Waters known as the Colorado River , preparations are being made for the birth of one of Nature’s children to whom her life-sustaining force of water is most important.

It is the North American River Otter.

The prospective mother otter prepares the inside of her den with soft vegetation to cradle the new life she will soon bring into it. Because river otters do not construct or excavate their own dens, she may use a lodge or bank den constructed by beavers; or a den excavated by a larger animal, such as a coyote, or by a smaller animal, such as a muskrat, that she could then enlarge; or a natural area like a log jam, hollow tree, or a rock formation; or even a man-made structure, such as a boat house or under a boat dock.

The otter isn’t lazy, just very resourceful. After all, except for the first few weeks of her newborn’s life, she’ll probably not use the same den for a prolonged period of time.

* * *

With pen in hand and a curious mind, I was led in my professional career as a wildlife researcher on an exciting journey of discovery. For many years, I conducted non-intrusive behavioral research on a number of exotic, endangered species residing in an atypical captive state. I was fortunate to travel to the native lands of some of these extraordinary animals where I observed them in the wild for brief periods of time.

Now, nearing the end of my career, I yearn to contribute to yet one more species—this time completely in its natural habitat. With a move to Colorado , I choose the state-endangered North American River Otter.

Even though wildlife professionals tell me that the likelihood of frequent otter sightings is small, and my literature review endorses that fact, I fully expect to defeat the odds and perform an in-depth documentation of their natural behavior.

Professional goal aside, what I don’t anticipate is the unique journey that lies ahead. Perhaps what occurs at the onset of my venture should give me a clue:

During the beginning of my project, I meet a Native American medicine woman of the Blackfoot Tribe. Although we spend only a short time in each other’s physical presence, she bestows me with some incredible gifts.

She reaches deep into my soul with her childlike passion for discovery. Her excitement reigns supreme, whether we encounter an animal sign or the animal itself. We trek through the forest and along the banks of the river. There, she teaches me to listen to Mother Nature’s plea for her children.

I promise to heed Nature’s call.

While at the river’s edge, my Native American friend performs a special ceremony for me. When she returns home, she performs an additional secret ritual, and then sends me a gift: a small medicine bag.

She encourages me to keep it with me all through my project to guide me to otters and protect me on my journey.

Maybe my need to collect data clouds the meaning of those special gifts during the first year of my project.  Whatever the case, research reality sets in as I trek the river and its tributaries to find only otter tracks and scat, slides and tail-drags. At least, I know the otters were there.

Then, one day, my luck changes. I discover an otter den!

This particular den is located about 500 feet inland from a section of the Colorado River headwaters, where a small inlet empties into a large pond. This pristine environment is aesthetically pleasing to the human eye. But more importantly, it contains all the necessary elements for comfort and security of a mother and infant otters.

Can it be a natal den?

The den is externally well concealed. I desire to investigate its interior, but feel concern that someone may be tucked inside. I decide to wait and look later in the year.

But I picture what it may look like . . . and my educated assessment is later substantiated.

I find a system of tunnels and shelves, extending back into the Earth from the entrance. This offers the otters security and a venue for eventual exploratory adventures by newborn pups. The den is located in an area of good land cover. Natural camouflage includes vegetation, hollowed logs, and twisted roots—all providing protection for a mother otter during her daily foraging expeditions between the waters and the den.

My discovery occurs at the end of March, the time for otter births in this section of the country. Snow still carpets the land and a recent heavy storm adds yet more challenge to the forward progress of my small stature. Walking through stretches of willows with snowshoes strapped to my feet, I still sink—almost down to bare ground—through the softer snow surrounding these shrubs. Snowshoe leg lifts become physical energy vampires.

“Oh, to be an otter,” I mutter.

The river segment flowing through my study site is at the headwaters and not very wide. Typically, many headwater locations still contain a covering of ice at the beginning of spring. This section of the river, however, has fragments of open waters, and with some ambient daytime temperatures above freezing, I hear snow and ice crashing into its flow.

Slides, tracks, and scat near the river led to my discovery. More heavy snow predicted for later today will cover the otter’s signs. Nevertheless, for some peculiar reason on this particular day, I feel compelled to walk that segment of my study site’s forty-mile stretch of watershed.

Is a special newborn otter calling out to me?

I take measurements of the signs and their distance from each other and from the waterway. I then collect the scat, a clue to the otter’s diet, for analysis. Once completing this work, I sit down and try to sense the adult otter that leaves me this valuable information.

Moving my hands over the signs, strange feelings enter my being.

What is their message?

* * *

At the end of March, our denning female delivers two small furry pups. Although possible for her to birth six young, normally only two or three are born in the wild. Her blind, toothless, and helpless babies weigh 3 to 6 ounces, and from the tip of their noses to the end of their tails measures all of 8 to 11 inches. Soft, silky, dark-gray to black fur covers their bodies. This coat, along with their cozy home and the warmth of Mother Otter’s body, helps to keep them warm.

Following their birth, the young otters remain in their natal den for seven to eight weeks. In this secure environment, Mother Otter nourishes them with her rich milk and bathes them with her wet tongue. Their eyes will begin to open at four to five weeks of age; at that time, they can explore their den and play with each other.

Many adventures await them when emerging from Earth Mother’s womb. Both instinctive and learned behavior governs what lies ahead for them. But for now, sleeping, nursing, playing, and growing are their only requirements.

* * *

As the light of day concedes to the dark of night, I return to my own den and retreat into my cradle of down. I imagine the baby otters curled within Earth Mother’s womb as they also seek to rest from their day’s activities.

Soon, one of these two furry little animals will distinguish itself in a very different way. This special otter and I are about to enter two worlds: the real, with its accompanying life and death struggles; and the spiritual, with its accompanying comfort and solace.

But what will guide us together?