A FAMILY OF

OTTERS

Text and Photographs By

Bob Paty

The Otters Were Very Much Alive.





The wheels of my Olds dropped into a rut and I grunted when the springs bottomed out. I continued to back down the Powerline Road towards the old steel bridge. It was now mid-morning and I had made my routine tour, driving down Beehead Road passed Fishhole Road, finally cutting over to the Powerline Road at the last road to the left. Choosing a wide spot on the berm to turn around, I had backed the car the remaining twenty yards to its present resting place a short distance from the old bridge. I sat in the Olds contemplating my next move.

My morning had been occupied touring the Tosohatchee State Reserve in central Florida, searching for wildlife with one objective: to photograph whatever would pose long enough for a picture. So far, I'd drawn a blank. A fox squirrel decided not to cooperate, remaining on the opposite side of a cabbage palm tree, finally leering at me from one side of the tree. A tom turkey was displaying for a receptive hen, but did a turkey trot, disappearing into the woods as I approached. Even butterflies that had been so cooperative the week before, posing on thistles and blue flags, were no where to be found.

A Fox Squirrel Leered At Me.


It was getting hot, but as I swung the car door open I was greeted by a cool breeze from the southeast. Standing up, I stretched my legs and reached behind the seat for my plastic water jug. The water tasted good and I was glad I had remembered to bring it along.

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