Family matters...

It was 40 years ago today that I first visited Humboldt county: an event that ultimately changed the entire future course of my life.

Back then, I published a national newsletter that focused on the conservation of river otters. For the next issue, I wanted to write a lead article about otters in California, and the only person studying them at the time was a grad student at Humboldt State University. I'd actually met Kent Reeves at a research workshop in Florida two years before, so when I wrote and asked him if I could interview him for this article I was planning, he said come on up!

Long story short, I fell in love with Humboldt at first sight. Everything about the place was a revelation. Only disappointment was that I didn't get to see any wild otters, but Kent said you'll just have to come back this summer and we'll camp out on Redwood Creek and we'll see otters then for sure. I did, and we did! And only 14 months after that first visit, I made Humboldt my new home. Ended up studying wild otters myself here for 25 years, and living happily ever after. 🙂

 

23 September 1989

If I were simply on holiday for leisure's sake, I probably would have stayed an extra day or two on Skye, but now having seen my wild otter, and being near the end of my trip, it seemed a good idea to start tying up some loose ends.


K6 telephone kiosk near Doirlinn, Scotland, taken this day in 1989. Gone now. Photo ©J Scott Shannon.

One thing I definitely wanted to do was to visit Jim Conroy – the colleague from the otter colloquium who had offered me a Ph.D. position at the University of Aberdeen. He was stationed at the Institute of Terrestrial Ecology in Banchory, which was on the complete other side of Scotland, so if I wanted to spend more than a cursory amount of time with Jim, and secure lodging in the area, to boot, I would have to leave Kyleakin at the crack of dawn.

Being so early, there was barely any queue for the car ferry to Kyle of Lochalsh. I didn't know it at the time, of course, but this ferry crossing was to be rendered obsolete after the opening of Skye Bridge. This would be my last ride on the good ship Kyleakin.


"MacBraynes ferry at Kyleakin, Isle of Skye" ©tangosierraone on Flickr.



Taking the A87 east from Kyle of Lochalsh through Glenshiel, I arrived at Fort William in time for breakfast at Nevisport.



When I phoned Jim Conroy from Fort William, however, he told me this "would not be a good time" for me to visit. I was puzzled, because when I rang him just two days ago from Glenelg, he seemed eager for me to come a'calling. Now, all of a sudden, he doesn't want to see me? I didn't quite know what to make of that, but if Jim said don't come, that was it. I would now have to come up with a Plan B for today, and it took maybe all of a few seconds for me to think of one. I would pay a visit to fellow otter conservationists Jim and Rosemary Green at their home in Strontian, just a stone's throw from here. I'd already met Rosemary at the recent otter colloquium, and she'd extended an open invitation to me to visit afterwards.

Unfortunately, I did not have the Greens' phone number or address. Once in Strontian, I inquired at the local post office and got directions, but when I finally found the place, the Greens were not at home. *sigh* Nothing I could do. Strike two.

So now what? Well, I hadn't yet checked out all the places that Chris Mason had told me I might see otters, so... (looks down list) maybe I should try this place called Glenborrodale, on the Ardnamurchan Peninsula. Going there, I'd be backtracking a little to the general area where I started out on the 19th, but I was fine with that. Maybe I could stay the night at Fergie's Hotel Clanranald again? Speaking of which, that sounded like a good place to have lunch!

Unfortunately, it being Saturday, there were no vacancies at Fergie's, nor were there rooms at the Clan Morrison Hotel in Glenborrodale. I was beginning to fret I'd be sleeping in my car this weekend when the proprietor at the Hotel Salen found me a room at the nearby Loch Shiel Hotel in Acharacle. Whew! Once settled in, I gathered my gear, then set straight out to take some photos of that splendid vista I'd beheld on my first evening here.


Castle Tioram and Eilean Shona, Highland, Scotland, 23 September 1989. Photo ©J Scott Shannon.

And on my way out, I took that snapshot at the top of my post of the lonely phone box near Doirlinn. It's one of my favorite photos of my entire trip!

Then, in the late afternoon, it was back out to Glenborrodale to search for otters. Although I was very pleased to have seen an otter at Kylerhea, that was really too easy for my liking. I wanted to actually use my skills to track the animals, find their sign, locate a den (or a "holt" as they called them here), and study them the good old-fashioned way like the experienced field biologist I was. It would be a challenge, but I knew I was up to it!

Once again at the Clan Morrison Hotel, I spoke to the proprietor, Alan Morrison, and got his permission to explore the shoreline of his property to look for otters. I dictated my explorations to audio tape, but I won't bore you with the details, nor subject you to photos of otter spraints (it ain't pretty), but suffice it to say, I did find sign of the animals' presence and what I suspected was a path to a holt. However, no thanks to some water skiers nearby, I concluded there was no chance I'd be seeing otters here this evening. So, at sunset, I gave up my search and headed back to my hotel.

I wish I had made note of exactly where I had supper that night, because it was by far the best meal I had during my entire time in the West. I might have eaten at the Loch Shiel Hotel, but in my mind's eye, I dined at a roadside pub on my way back from Glenborrodale. Referring to my trip expense ledger, I ordered scampi, and for liquid refreshment, I had a long draught of McEwan's beer with my meal, topped off with a dram or three of Whyte & Mackay Scotch whisky. Absolutely top notch. And it turned out I had dinner with an otter that night, too, though unfortunately, as you can see, he was unavailable for conversation. ;-)


The one-and-only photo of Your Truly in Scotland, 23 September 1989.

My thanks to the friendly bartender for taking this picture. If ever anyone reading this recognizes this pub or bar, please let me know!

 

21 September 1989

This is another tale of origins and inspiration: one even more momentous to me than yesterday's.

Ring of Bright Water by Gavin Maxwell was the first book I read after finishing college. An acknowledged literary masterpiece, it utterly captivated me, and my resultant newfound enthrallment with otters set me on a path of destiny that I followed with an almost religious zeal for the next four decades. In retrospect, it's clear to me that no one – not even my own parents – had a greater overall influence on my life than Gavin Maxwell.


Maxwell and his otter Mijbil in 1956. Photo by James Watt, courtesy Gavin Maxwell Enterprises and The Independent.

An attentive reader will recall that I've posted previously about this day's events, and the introduction I wrote here twelve years ago is just as apt now as it was then.

In 1989, I had the opportunity to travel in Europe, so I planned my itinerary such that I would be able to visit Maxwell's Camusfeàrna in Scotland on my 35th birthday. As otters are the center of my world, it seemed appropriate to make a pilgrimage to this Mecca of otterdom at the precise midpoint of my "three score and ten" lifespan...

Indeed, it seemed to me that everything that happened to me since I first read Maxwell's books had led me inexorably to this place at this time. Fresh from my triumph at the otter colloquium, I was at the apex of my career, and thus it was the perfect moment for me to finally come to this fabled cove and pay my respects to the man and the otters whose inspiration had made it all possible.


Camusfeàrna in the mid-1950s. Photo by Robin McEwen, from Ring of Bright Water by Gavin Maxwell, Longmans, 1960.




My special day began with a pre-dawn search for otters over Loch Duich, which, although fruitless for a sighting, was rewarded with this auspicious glowing pastel sunrise over the Five Sisters of Kintail.


View from Duich House, Letterfearn, Scotland, 21 September 1989. Photo ©J Scott Shannon.

Everything I was to do today would be following in Gavin Maxwell's footsteps, or in this first instance, in his car's tyre tracks. A little after 1100, I set out for Maxwell's former homesite at Sandaig, taking the same route he must have driven hundreds of times: the "Old Military Road" from Glenshiel over Mam Ratagan and down through the valley of the Glenmore River.



As I drove the mostly single track, I noted considerable earthmoving operations underway in the higher elevations. It appeared to me that they were in the process of straightening or bypassing some of the curvier stretches. Seeing this, I considered my timing fortunate, for likely soon, the road's original 18th century trace over the pass would be no more. I've recently viewed a couple of videos showing the Old Military Road today, and sure enough, much widening is present now that was not there during my visit, and one set of memorably narrow and acute bends over the crest of Mam Ratagan no longer exists at all. Even looking on Google Earth, this stretch is nowhere to be seen. All sign of that portion of the old Georgian roadway has been obliterated by forestry plantings.


View from the top of the Old Military Road, looking toward Glenelg. Thirty years later, the little pines in the foreground have grown up to completely obscure the view today. Photo ©J Scott Shannon.

Further on, at Glenelg, I stopped for supplies at a small store at the south end of the village. Upon entering, I cheerfully told the proprietress about my intention to visit "Major Maxwell's" at Sandaig. The older woman's expression turned from a smile to a frown in the blink of an eye, and the look she gave me... well, as they say, if looks could kill, I would have dropped to the ground dead on the spot.


The old store at Glenelg. Click here to go to Google Maps.

I wondered what I might have done to upset her, then it occurred to me that a local woman her age probably had known Maxwell personally, and that her change in mood might suggest a lingering enmity for the man. But the Major had been dead for 20 years now, so it surprised me to see this level of ill will apparently directed toward him, and in turn towards me; the latter seeming particularly out of place, considering people just like myself had doubtless contributed not a small amount of money to the local economy with our journeys here over the past two decades.

Not wanting to trouble her further, though, I kept mostly mum as I completed my shopping. I actually bought a small bottle of whisky for the Major, but decided the gesture would only result in the spilling of perfectly good Scotch; the waste of which I concluded Gavin would not approve. Before departing the store, however, I asked the lady about how best to get down to Sandaig. I had no idea; I had only a road map, which would not help me once I was off the beaten track. The woman replied that I should keep my eye out for a line of power poles, and those would lead to a path. Duly noted.

Once past Eilanreach, I kept glancing down in the direction of the coast, looking for the Sandaig Islands. Not seeing anything even remotely suggestive of my destination, however, and perhaps distracted by my search, I ended up passing completely by the site of Camusfeàrna at first, not stopping until I was well past and spotting the Sandaigs in my rear-view mirror. Returning, I then noticed the bridge over the burn and the power poles that the woman at the store had mentioned. I parked by a rusty old quonset hut on the west side of the road at just past noon.


Top of the track down to Camusfeàrna. The view today is much changed since the logging of the forestry plantation. Photo ©J Scott Shannon.

Sure enough, the power lines pointed straight toward the burn, where a small open gate beckoned. Following the forestry road that roughly paralleled the waterway down the slope to the sea, there was no possibility I could get lost.

The hike to Sandaig took about 3/4 of an hour, and I finally set foot on its open meadow at 1300. As I walked toward Maxwell's grave stone, suddenly, the landscape that was depicted and described so vividly in the books became familiar to me, and I was instantly smitten by the magic of the place. At last, I had arrived at the legendary Camusfeàrna, and beheld the storied ring of bright water with my own eyes.





Maxwell's croft at Sandaig in the mid-1960s. Upper photo courtesy Rex Features; lower courtesy Alchetron.

It wasn't too much longer after my arrival, however, that I was made acutely aware of something decidedly NOT magical here: the swarms of biting midges! I had first encountered the little bastards at Kinlochmoidart and Eilean Shona three evenings ago. They had been pesky enough there, and a bit more bothersome on my way down the track today, but here on the open meadow, the midges were downright hellish! All the time I was subjected to their maddening presence, I had a recurring thought that maybe, just maybe, Maxwell's choice for the name of his mischievous first otter, Mij, might have been a homonymous reference to the tormenting midge hordes of Sandaig.


Maxwell in his study at Camusfeàrna, perhaps keeping the midges at bay with tobacco smoke. Photo by Camera Press, courtesy telegraph.co.uk.

After paying my respects first at Maxwell's grave then at Edal's, I headed out to explore the islands. To my relief, I found the midges were far less bothersome on the beach, so I decided to stay out there for the most part. When I'd first arrived and saw it was near low tide, I imagined I might be able to hike out to the lighthouse. After being there awhile and noting that the tide was rising, though, I thought better of the idea, and ended up going no further out than the first island. Better safe than sorry. I was all alone out here, with no one to call for help were I to become stranded.

But I wasn't alone for long. About 45 minutes after my arrival, while I was out on the beach, another party of visitors arrived, then another about a half hour after that. Being a Thursday, and after the end of the summer season, I had fully expected to have the place all to myself. On my hike down, the only other tracks I'd seen along the way were those of red deer. But thankfully, the other visitors were also respectfully quiet, and they didn't stay as long here as I did, either. Years later, though, I was to learn that, at any given time year-round, Sandaig is seldom lacking visiting pilgrims like me, and even still in the present day, a full half-century after Maxwell's death.


Panorama of the innermost of the Sandaig Islands. Photo by J Scott Shannon.

I found the beach to be quite remarkable. I knew from reading the books that, instead of sand, the substrate consisted of sea shell fragments, but I wasn't prepared for the astonishing quantity and variety of the shells that comprised the beach. I collected quite a few interesting specimens to take home with me; perhaps most notably a whelk that bears a close resemblance to one drawn by Maxwell on page 46 of Ring of Bright Water. I also took away a sprig of heather, some soil from the base of Edal's grave, and even water from the burn which I intended to pour into my own ring of bright water: Trinidad Bay.


An assortment of sea shells collected at Sandaig. I believe the flat rock at left to be a fragment of Torridonian sandstone, age approximately 1,000 Ma.

After gathering some geometrically-pleasing stones and placing them on Edal's and Maxwell's graves, and once again being tormented to madness by midges, I decided to stay out on the beach from then on, and to take my lunch there. It consisted of two pre-buttered rolls from my breakfast at Duich House, and from the Glenelg store, a Marathon bar and two cans of warm Diet Coke. Bon appetit!

The night before, I had prepared a message that I intended to leave here. It consisted of a hand-written note of thanks, a favourite picture of myself holding a tame otter inside my shirt, and two photos of my otters at Trinidad. All the time I was at Camusfeàrna, I had been thinking about where I would place it. It was sealed in plastic, so I considered burying it, but not wanting to disturb what I effectively thought of as sacred ground, I finally decided I would place my message in a gap in Edal's cairn, with a portion of it left visible so that future visitors might be able to find and read it.




FOR
 MIJBIL,
  EDAL,
   TEKO,
    and
MAJOR MAXWELL

    thank you for your inspiration, and
     thank you for my life

  One man
   for otters
    for ever    Scott Shannon
                The Otter Man of Trinidad Bay

  Signed at Sandaig this 21st day of September, 1989,
   the 35th anniversary of my birth.

I departed somewhat wistfully, taking one last look at Camusfeàrna at 1620, and arriving back at my car at 1700. My pilgrimage was over. Mission accomplished.

I do have one significant regret, though. I did not get to see the famous waterfall of Allt Mòr Shantaig, where Gavin Maxwell actually wrote most of Ring of Bright Water. How could I have missed it? I can only guess it didn't come to mind when I was there because the burn did not have much flow that day, so I didn't hear the sound of the falls and be reminded of it. So in a way, my pilgrimage was incomplete, for I missed visiting the singular place that Maxwell called "the soul of Camusfeàrna" itself. Alas...


Gavin Maxwell at the waterfall. Screen capture from the documentary "Memories of Maxwell", BBC Scotland, 1999.



But my Maxwell-themed day was not quite done yet. The croft at Sandaig was long gone, but his last home still stood: the light-keeper's house on Eilean Bàn at Kyleakin on the Isle of Skye, and that was my next destination. At the time, however, there was no public access to the White Island, so I had to settle for viewing it from a distance.


Eilean Bàn, Kyle Akin, Skye, 22 September 1989. The view today is significantly and irrevocably altered. Photo ©J Scott Shannon.

Coincidentally, when Mother and I visited Scotland from 4-6 August in 1969, Gavin Maxwell was living his final days here on Eilean Bàn. He would die from complications of lung cancer in Inverness almost exactly one month later at the relatively young age of 55. It gave me pause to think that, had he not been a smoker, there was every chance Maxwell might still be alive and living here now when I visited again in 1989.


Gavin Maxwell on Eilean Bàn, 1968. Photo by T.V. Times from The White Island by John Lister-Kaye, Longman, 1972.

I seem to recall that Mrs Scott-White at Duich House made the arrangements for my accommodations on Skye. In any case, when I told my B&B hostess at Kyleakin (a Mrs R Branson of 3 Crowlin Road) the reason for my visit, and what I'd done this day now passed, she replied, also with no obvious cheer, that whilst out walking one day many years ago, she had had her new hat blown clear off by mad-driver Maxwell speeding past in his roadster. Made me wonder if every older local here had their own story about the colorful and evidently still controversial Maj. Maxwell. Clearly, he made a lasting impression on countless others besides myself. Had to hand it to him. The man had reach!

 

17-18 September 1989

One of my earliest inspirations to become a field biologist was a 1983 TV nature documentary entitled "On the Tracks of the Wild Otter," by filmmaker Hugh Miles. He did his work in Shetland, and after I, myself, started tracking wild otters, I resolved that, if I ever returned to the UK, I would go to Shetland like Hugh Miles. By his and most other accounts, that seemed to be the best place in all the British Isles to find Lutra lutra.

So when I started planning my 1989 trip to the otter colloquium, Shetland was at the top of my original itinerary. I intended to spend a whole week there, which I felt was the minimum amount of time to get a feel for the place and do some serious otter spotting.

Unfortunately, after I started finding out how expensive overseas travel had become, I had to trim my original six-week itinerary down to only four, and eventually, I realized that I had to cut Shetland out of my plans altogether. Although disappointed, I was consoled that I was still going to spend 8 days in the Western Highlands, and there were lots of otters there, too, especially on the Isle of Skye, which was my principal destination.

Skye was also immediately adjacent to the place where Gavin Maxwell had lived with his otters and written his books in the Sixties, and he being an even bigger influence on me than Hugh Miles, I very much wanted to make a pilgrimage to Maxwell's "Camusfeàrna" on my upcoming birthday. So, off to the West I would go!



My long, sad train trip from Skipton to Glasgow came to an end at 9PM on the 17th; too late to do any sightseeing, which was perfectly alright, because there is little if anything TO see in Scotland's grim, gray, most-populous city.

I stayed overnight at the Blythswood Hotel, which was just a stone's throw from Glasgow Central Station. In its heyday, the Blythswood was doubtless a grand place, but a century of wear-and-tear had taken its toll, and it was now relegated to the status of a budget hotel. But, that was all I needed for one night, and actually, except for an oddly-buckled, sloping floor in my room, the Blythswood was more than satisfactory.

Breakfast in the hotel's old high-ceiling Victorian dining room was a treat, with yummy greasy eggs, bacon and sausages and all-you-can-eat toast. (I'm serious, I love that stuff!) Then I went to a nearby store to buy some wellingtons and a raincoat, checked out of the hotel, rented a car, and hit the road just before 10.

I'd driven a little in England during our 1974 visit, but this was the first time I would be taking an actual road trip driving entirely on the "wrong" side of the street. I don't know why that idea seems to intimidate a lot of Americans, but I had no trouble at all reorienting my driving habits. Within a minute or two, it felt like I'd been motoring like that my whole life.

It had been my intention to drive north out of Glasgow following the same route Mother and I took on our first day in Scotland in 1967, but I soon discovered that the highway – though still numbered the A82 – had been entirely redone and was unrecognizable, at least the portion of it that was in the city. Once in the vicinity of Loch Lomond, however, the country road looked much like it always had, though I noted that some much-needed bypasses had been constructed on the stretch of it leading up to Fort William.

It was there that I had a quick lunch and bathroom break, then headed west on the A830 toward my initial destination of Arisaig. Mother and I had stayed at a wonderful Bed & Breakfast there in 1974, and I hoped to be able to reprise my visit with Mrs. Pringle and her husband. Honestly, though, I had no idea where I'd be staying on any night for the next week. In terms of accommodations, I was totally "winging it" here in Scotland.

It's always surprising to me how good my memory is for roads I haven't traveled in ages, and the A830 was no exception. I seemed to know what lay ahead around every curve, and the vistas looked almost as familiar to me as if I had actually grown up there.


Half-way to Arisaig, looking west on the A830, about a mile west of Glenfinnan. The view today is obscured by dense overgrowth at left and a matured forestry plantation on the right.


From the same vantage point, now turning to the left and facing southeast. Photos by J Scott Shannon.

In particular, the portion of the road from Lochailort into Arisaig had changed hardly at all. So amazing. Everything looked exactly as it had 15 years previous. It really felt like I was returning home.

Upon arriving at Arisaig, I was disappointed to see that Mrs. Pringle's was no longer a B&B. The house next door was, but the sign said no vacancy, which surprised me. I thought being a Monday afternoon, I wouldn't have any trouble at all finding a place to stay.

Oh, well. It was still too early to really start worrying about where I'd be spending the night. Perhaps I'd find a place up the road in Mallaig, where I planned to take the ferry over to Skye the next day. And actually, I did find a place there, but I decided I wanted to try and do some otter-spotting before nightfall. Chris Mason at the colloquium had told me that nearby Eilean Shona was a likely place to find otters, so I headed south with hopes held high.

A couple of miles past Loch Moidart, I passed a small hotel that had a vacancy, so I thought it might be a good idea to get a room there now rather than chance waiting until evening.


The Clanranald Hotel in Mingarry. The view today. Photo by J Scott Shannon.

Upon checking in, I told the proprietress, Fergie MacDonald, that I was in the area to try to find otters, and she told me that she had seen some before at an old pier on Loch Moidart that I had passed by on my way here. With that recommendation, I headed back in the direction that I came, but the skies opened up at that point, and with the car windows all steamed up, it seemed to me that I'd be better off heading to Eilean Shona, after all. Strike Two was finding the footpath gate there locked. Drat my luck. So I headed back yet again to the ruined pier Fergie had told me about, and with the rain now over, I was prepared to wait there until nightfall.


Looking east on the A861 at the ruined pier on the north shoreline of Loch Moidart. The view today is remarkably unchanged. Except for the removal of some crossbeams (probably to prevent climbing and injuries), the old pier has withstood its twice-daily tidal onslaughts relatively intact over the past three decades. Photo by J Scott Shannon.

Although the rain had stopped, I decided to stay in the car to do my otter-spotting, owing to my discovery of one of the area's least appealing features: the Highland midge. My god they were an annoyance. Five seconds outside and they were all over you, biting, thirsty for your blood. In the days to come, I noticed that almost every store and petrol station sold little bottles of DEET insect repellent next to the cash register. No doubt they were top sellers!

I was to make another discovery that otterless evening: the powerful tides in the Sound of Sleat. As I sat waiting at the ruined pier, I was amazed to be able to actually watch the tide rise in Loch Moidart, inch by inch almost by the second. It was just like a bathtub filling, only faster! I'd seen films of the tide coming in like this in the Bay of Fundy in Nova Scotia, but had never seen such a rapid rise in person. Later, I was glad I saw this on my first day, as I believe it kept me from making what could have been some serious mistakes of judgment in choices of lookouts from which to base my observations.

As just alluded to, though, I did not see any otters that evening. Both the tide and general poor visibility had been against me. I returned to Hotel Clanranald, happy to see that Fergie had kept my supper waiting for my late return. After serving me, she left me alone to finish while she retired for the night, and I did likewise soon after.

 

10 September 1989

Next stop on my itinerary was The Otter Trust: a conservation park in Earsham near Bungay in Suffolk.

I was really looking forward to this. I'd been informally affiliated with The Otter Trust for 11 years already; first as a dues-paying member, then as a delegated representative at previous otter meetings. So, naturally, when I traveled to Europe for this just-concluded colloquium, I wanted to finally visit the place and meet the man who had so inspired me in those earlier years.



I was particularly anxious to become better acquainted with the Trust's founder: Philip Wayre. He was one of my 'otter heroes'– one of the very few who had taken up the cause of the animals' preservation, long before most were even aware that they were in trouble worldwide. I very much wanted to follow in Mr. Wayre's footsteps, and I did to some degree, starting my own conservation group for North American otters in 1980.

I had only recently come to understand, however, that Mr. Wayre was something of a controversial figure. In all innocence, I'd told several people at the recent meeting that I intended to visit the Otter Trust. Each time I did, though, I received uniformly negative reactions. Many expressed overt disapproval of Mr. Wayre and his work, with one woman even exclaiming, "That man!" Oh, dear. I had no idea. It seemed no one at the colloquium had a favorable opinion of Philip Wayre.

The main complaint against Wayre seemed to be that he had released otters from other parts of Eurasia into British habitats. As a biologist, I understood this objection. While it is always desirable to translocate local genetic stock if possible, the fact was that British otters were so close to extinction that there really wasn't a surplus population anywhere in the Isles that could stand being trapped and relocated in any significant numbers. In a case like that, you almost had no choice but to go with whatever was available. So I rather sympathized with Mr. Wayre's way of doing things. I knew that, in America, often otters from Louisiana were relocated to places like North Dakota, where they were very much a non-native subspecies. Notwithstanding what was ideal from a genetic point of view, you did what you needed to do to get the animals back. And maybe, it occurred to me, if the British otters' gene pool was so inbred, as it likely was, maybe it could benefit from a little outbreeding with more genetically robust populations elsewhere.

But whatever, I wasn't going to judge someone without meeting them. I'd written Mr. Wayre in advance, of course, giving the date for my visit. I knew the Wayres lived on the premises, too, so I didn't anticipate any problem in that regard.



I took British Rail from my ferry embarkation point of Harwich to Stowmarket, thence to Diss, the nearest station to the Otter Trust at Earsham.





I arrived by taxi at 1045, not long after the park's opening, and introduced myself as an expected guest of Mr. Wayre and his wife. There was a kindly lady there named Audrey who was very solicitous and attentive to me. Word was sent to the Wayres that I'd arrived. However, as lunchtime came and went, I began to harbor doubts that the hoped-for meeting would take place.




Photos by J Scott Shannon.

In the meantime, I walked around the park. In general layout, it was very similar to the Otter-Zentrum: otters in naturalistic enclosures, singly, and in groups. One big difference I quickly noted, though, was that many of the otters were displaying repetitive behaviors typical of zoo animals that had become neuroticized due to a lack of environmental enrichment. I didn't see any of that at the Otter Centre. To a layman, this stereotyped behavior looks 'cute' and 'playful', but to my trained eye, it was a rather distressing sign. It indicated to me that these otters had been kept in captivity for too long. I doubted any of them were releasable, frankly. Behaviorally-stunted animals such as this wouldn't last long at all out in the wild. I came away from the pens at the Otter Trust having a distinctly different opinion about the place than its counterpart in Germany.



Anyway, after four long hours passed, I finally got the word that the Wayres had regretfully declined to see me. No specific reason was given. No begging my pardon due to illness, or because it was lunchtime, or naptime, or that they had other engagements. None of those things. They had simply turned me away. I was dismissed.

How discourteous. I'd corresponded with this man for over 10 years, even been his personal representative, and yet he refused to even come shake my hand and say how do you do? I was incredulous, and very disappointed. I left thinking that my colleagues' opinions were apparently justified. Philip Wayre was, indeed, a less-than-agreeable man.



When I returned home, there was a letter waiting for me from The Otter Trust. I anticipated it would contain at least an explanation for what happened when I visited, and perhaps an apology, but instead, it was a screed from Mr. Wayre decrying the fact that a statement he'd wanted to be read to the attendees at the V.IOC about his efforts in England hadn't been read at all, and enclosed herewith was said statement for my attention. Needless to say, I didn't reply, nor did I ever contact him again.



Philip Wayre lived another 25 years and died in 2014 at the age of 93. The charity he founded still exists, but the sanctuary that I visited at Earsham is no more. It's now the home of another conservation trust.

The Otter Trust's Facebook page contains no current photos of otters, so I'm supposing they no longer have any. For all intents and purposes, it appears Mr. Wayre's work did not survive him. Such a shame. Perhaps if he had possessed a more congenial and cooperative nature, this fate could have been avoided. An object lesson for those who imagine they are a world unto themselves.

 

6 September 1989

Before this colloquium, relatively few of the people working in the field of otter biology had ever heard of me. After yesterday, though, that all changed.

There was definitely a buzz in the air. Word was getting around. For instance, during the morning session today, I overheard one lady say this in conversation:

"If you see anything at this meeting, you MUST see [my] video."

And as the day progressed, apparently enough people had expressed a desire in that regard that the organizers arranged for me to give my presentation yet again this evening to the whole conference. (Much bigger television this time, too.)

During this third showing, I noticed that some people were so intent on seeing the details of the otters' behavior that they were actually watching the TV monitor from the back of the lecture hall with binoculars. Truly remarkable.

From my trip diary:

"another triumph -- gave evening presentation to over 60 people 'by popular demand'! Some had seen it tonite for the third time! Praise left & right. It's a bit dizzying!"

Indeed it was. There was no doubt about it. My work had totally stolen the show at the V. International Otter Colloquium.

 

4 September 1989, 1315h

I've posted this here before, but this is a much larger and color-adjusted version of the group photo of the participants of the V. International Otter Colloquium. And there I am at the very tip top!


Click image for 1920px enlargement.

So many of these faces are still familiar to me, but I can't put names to most of them anymore, alas. Some I do still recognize: C. G. van Zyll de Jong, Addy de Jongh, Paul Polechla, Liam Sullivan, Pat Foster-Turley, Ralf Röchert, Shiela Macdonald, Jim Estes, Chris Mason, Claus Reuther, Clarence Wright, Adrianne Faber. A handful more names are on the tip of my tongue, but they're just not coming to mind.



There was also this slightly different photo that appeared in the local Wittinger Kurier newspaper on Thursday the 7th. Despite the picture and headline, though, the article is mostly about a national politician who gave a speech at the colloquium on its opening day. Neither the topics discussed at the meeting nor its attendees are mentioned at all. Strange.


Photo by Jörn Kirchner, Wittinger Kurier.

 

3 September 1989

This was actually the fourth meeting that I'd attended on the subject of otters. My first otter research workshop was at the Florida State Museum in Gainesville in March, 1980, the second was a Sea Otter Symposium in Arroyo Grande, California, in January, 1981, and the third was the IV. International Otter Colloquium at U.C. Santa Cruz in August, 1985.

At the first two, although I had studied animal behavior as an undergraduate and had been active in otter conservation in the years following, I attended those meetings not as a professional but more as just a 'fan' of otters. At the time of the Santa Cruz colloquium, I had been observing the otters at Trinidad Bay for a couple of summers already, and although I gave a brief slide presentation at the IV. IOC, I was still just a layman.



At the Hankensbüttel meeting, however, I now had an academic affiliation, and was formally studying my otters as a masters thesis project, which meant I had actual professional standing in the field. So, despite being my fourth meeting on otters, this was the first time I would be presenting real findings to a meeting of my peers.

As a consequence of all my past experiences, though, I really felt in my element here. I truly relished these getogethers! There was nothing I enjoyed more than being around dozens of other people whose working lives were also centered around otters. It was the best company and the best fun I could imagine, and here, finally, I had some really important work of my own to share.


"My card."

Now it was time to set up my poster presentation. I wasn't scheduled to give an actual paper at the conference, so this (along with my video) was going to be the only way of presenting my findings here. Everything had to be perfect, and I was very pleased with how my poster turned out.


Click image above to enlarge.




Annnnd...voilà!

The rest of today was spent touring the grounds of the Otter Centre, and the research facility which was not open to the public. I was really amazed at how popular the place was. During the summer, they typically got over 1,000 visitors a day!

 

1 September 1989

The V. International Otter Colloquium was sponsored by the International Union for the Conservation of Nature/Species Survival Commission's Otter Specialist Group, and hosted by the German conservation organization "Aktion Fischotterschutz" ("Campaign for Otter Protection"), founded in May, 1979, by forestry biologist Claus Reuther. In 1988, the group established its headquarters and research facilities – the "Otter-Zentrum" ("Otter Centre") – at a former corporate retreat on Lake Isenhagen in Hankensbüttel, Lower Saxony. The V. IOC was the first major scientific gathering held at the organization's new home.

Tragically, the Otter Centre was destroyed by fire in December, 1993, so these are rare photos of the original buildings. (It has since been rebuilt, but completely anew.) At first, I intended posting only a few of my pictures here, but after thinking about it, I decided to share them all, as some may be the only surviving images of these spaces and objects that no longer exist.

I had been a dues-paying member of Aktion Fischotterschutz for a couple of years by this time, and had seen some small photos of the Otter-Zentrum in their newsletter, but nothing prepared me for what I was about to witness when we arrived at the place in person.

"This is heaven!," I exclaimed out loud. Basically this was a theme park devoted almost exclusively to the conservation of otters and the education of the public about their plight: something that had been a passion of mine for the entire past decade. To see this huge building and acres of surrounding grounds all dedicated to this purpose was nothing less than breathtaking to me. It was truly a revelatory experience.




Views from the parking lot. Flags flew for each country represented at the otter colloquium.


Main entrance.

I was like the proverbial kid in a candy store in the "Otter-Shop." By the time my visit was over, I'd spent at least $200 there in otter-themed books and merchandise.


Inside the front lobby.



The Otter-Zentrum had a full-service cafeteria and dining room, all bedecked with splendid otter art, sculptures, statues and posters.



This bronze otter was truly magnificent. I experienced extreme covetousness gazing at this majestic beauty!



More art on display in and around the dining area.





This standing otter sculpture had a slot in his chest for donations!



And why would I take a photo of the "Damen und Herren"? For the artwork on the wall and doors, of course! Unfortunately the latter were obliterated by my camera's flash, but they were cute anthropomorphic drawings of a German-clothed Dame und Herr Otter.



I was particularly smitten by this splendid fellow, who appears to be a mascot design for the Olympic Games ("O.S" standing for "Olympische Spiele." I confess, when I heard about the Otter-Zentrum burning down, the first things I thought about that must have been destroyed in the fire were the bronze otter above and this fanciful drawing.



This was, I think, intended ultimately to be a diorama of the Otters of the World, but at this point, it only depicted Europe's Lutra lutra.



Upstairs, outside the entrance to the lecture hall, were many interpretive displays. I'm surprised I didn't take a close-up photo of "Systematik," since otter taxonomy and phylogeny were academic specialties of mine.





Colloquium attendees jawboning in the conference room.



View of the Isenhagener See from the balcony of the Otter-Zentrum. It really was a lovely setting.



I have even more photos of the original Otter-Zentrum, but I will present them in later posts in this series.



After checking in at the Colloquium office, picking up my registration packet, and meeting more fellow attendees, I finally got taken to my accommodations for the week: Pension Eichenhof in nearby Räderloh. I'll be devoting a whole post to that wonderful place after I finish with the Colloquium. First things first. :-)

 

30 August-28 September 1989

Just as I finish one travelog, here begins another! Thirty years ago this very minute, I began an epic journey to attend the V. International Otter Colloquium in Hankensbüttel, West Germany. At the time, I was a 'rising star' in otter research, and this would be my professional debut at an academic meeting on the subject. After the conference, I would venture on to the Netherlands, England, celebrate my 35th birthday in Scotland, then return to England and home. This was the first and only time I traveled abroad on my own, and in many ways, it was the peak experience of my entire lifetime.



My basic trip itinerary was:

Transit: 30-31 August 1989
Celle, West Germany: 31 August
Räderloh, West Germany: 1-8 September
Rotterdam, The Netherlands: 8-9 September
London: 10-14 September
Skipton, Yorkshire: 14-17 September
Glasgow, Scotland: 17-18 September
Mingarry Park, Scotland: 18-19 September
Letterfearn, Scotland: 19-21 September
Sandaig, Scotland: 21 September
Kyleakin, Scotland: 21-23 September
Acharacle, Scotland: 23-25 September
Glasgow again: 25 September
Manchester, England: 26-27 September
Return: 27-28 September

As in 1969, I kept mementos and a diary of my travels, but unfortunately, with the latter, my scribblings were written in a ledger book and were comingled with all of the financial transactions I recorded while I was away. Thus jumbled, they don't form a contiguous narrative like the contents my little spiral notebook from 20 years previous, and consequently, I've judged them not worthy of reproducing here. (I will transcribe them verbatim from time to time, however.)





30-31 August 1989

Took off from Arcata Airport at 1110 on 30 August, flying United. After a long delay at SFO, I flew British Airways to Heathrow and Frankfurt, then Lufthansa to Hanover.



My most distinct memory of the air leg of my trip was the layover at Frankfurt am Main Airport. Terrorism was apparently already a major concern, as I saw guards repeatedly patrolling the terminal carrying military-issue automatic weapons. That was a lit-tle scary. Also, when I briefly left my carry-ons to go look at a kiosk that had actual spy equipment for sale, an elderly man nearby *freaked out*, raised his voice at me and gesticulated at my belongings. Fortunately, I understood a little German, so I got the message that I mustn't ever leave my baggage unattended. Security might suspect it contained a bomb, and confiscate and destroy it. Yikes! We didn't get paranoid about things like that in the US until after 9/11, but strict anti-terrorist procedures were in full force in Germany even back in the Eighties.

After arriving at Hanover, the taxi driver took me for a doubtless intentional roundabout ride to my destination of Celle. I had looked at a road map ahead of time and committed the most direct route to memory, but that's not the way the cabbie went. What should have been a 40-minute drive tops on a highway took almost an hour on some very twisty, dark (and smelly) rural roads. Despite the fact that he inflated the fare like that, I gave him a good tip, anyway. He was a friendly chap and impressed that I could converse a little in German.

I really liked my room at the "Ringhotel Celler Tor." Very modern and well-appointed. I turned on the TV to relax before bedtime, and saw on the news a story about "Televangelisten Jim und Tammy Bakker." I was surprised and a bit dismayed at the now-obvious fact that I couldn't escape US tabloid shit-reporting even in rural Germany! Then, finally, after 27 hours of travel, I climbed into bed for a long, well-deserved sleep.