This week on Nature, we have a love story.
It's about a man and an otter.
When you meet one of these fellows, like these sea otters, you understand right away how
easy it is to fall in love with them.
Hi, I'm George Page for Nature, and the sea otter, or Enhydra lutris, lives only in the
northern Pacific Ocean.
Sixty years ago, it had been hunted to near extinction.
Thousands were slaughtered for their beautiful rich fur coats.
Another reason for killing them was because they liked to eat one of man's favorite seafoods,
that expensive delicacy, the abalone.
The sea otter is a protected species now, and its numbers are increasing off the waters
of Canada and California.
There are many species of otter, and they live in most parts of the world.
The otter in our film is of the species Lutra lutra, and it lives about 130 miles off the
coast of northern Scotland in the beautiful and remote Shetland Islands.
The man who loves our otter is Hugh Miles, a superb and very dedicated natural history
filmmaker.
Miles went to the Shetlands with an almost impossible goal, to film this rare and beautiful
animal through all the seasons, to record the major events of its life cycle.
The Shetland otter is especially elusive and rarely allows itself to be seen by man.
But Hugh Miles achieved his goal, and you'll hear his thoughts and feelings as you watch
his extraordinary film on the tracks of the wild otter.
A wilderness of wind and waves, the most remote of the British Isles.
Long before explorers ventured here, this land was invaded by ice.
Eventually, the great glaciers melted and the sea level rose, creating the Hundred Islands,
which today we call Shetland.
This was the scene of Hugh Miles' search, a remote, lonely shore, a headland, far from
the haunts of man.
This coast is Britain's most northerly land, isolated by centuries of ravaging winds.
It's still one of nature's last retreats, especially for one animal, the wild otter.
Now rarely seen here, it's a shy, secretive creature.
Starting at dawn with his camera, Hugh Miles searches the empty shore for his mysterious
quarry.
These elusive, sometimes coming out only at night.
While Shetland sleeps, the otter hunts, but Miles watches and waits.
He lives with the tides and hunts the otter as did his ancestors, the Picts, 4,000 years
ago.
Their fortified house, called a brock, stands much as it did when the first Viking ship
sailed into the bay, but now it's inhabited only by otters.
In the ancient walls, Miles discovers their burrow, or holt, as it's called in Scotland.
The Picts and the Vikings are gone, as are its more recent inhabitants.
For a hundred generations, the otter was trapped for its valuable fur.
It's no longer hunted, but still inherits the fear.
Wary of Miles' presence, the otter hides.
Hugh Miles recounts his experience.
Suddenly, I find a clue, footprints between the tides, just an hour or two old.
A rabbit burrow, widened and smoothed by the otter's soaking fur.
At a streamside holt, fresh scratches in the peat, cobweb broken, I wait.
And suddenly it's there, and gone.
It moves silent and unseen, downstream perhaps.
Otters announce their passing by marking prominent rocks, the strengths consisting of the remnants
of previous meals.
The fish bones are dried up, at least a week old.
For Hugh Miles, the early spring days pass quickly, but he keeps learning more about
his quarry as he begins to see it more frequently, especially one particular animal.
I'm not yet close enough to be sure, but I suspect it's a female.
She's likely too small to be a male.
This is the same species of otter as that which inherits all of Britain, a hunter of
fish in both river and sea.
It seems she has favourite rocks on which to rest, but she's always cautious when coming
ashore.
I am hidden, undetected, but not by a curlew.
Despite the increasing familiarity with my presence, instinct tells it to flee.
Wearing the same clothes each day, moving in the same way, perhaps she recognises me
now.
But she still disappears.
Two days go by with no sign of her.
On the third day, he spots her again.
She's unaware of his presence.
The otter's eyesight is poor, but her nose and ears are sensitive.
Miles has to keep downwind so she won't detect him.
She's about three feet long, like most full-grown females, but Miles is able to recognise her
by the white spots on her top lip and the crab bite on her nose.
Miles have a broader muzzle, bigger nostrils, larger ears and a darker pelt.
This one is a stranger.
I'm uneasy.
If he sees me, he may try to warn the female and frighten her away.
He does alert her, I'm not sure how, but she trusts me now.
The male does finally alarm her, but instead of hiding, she actually comes ashore.
She's just a few feet from me, nervous, like me, but determined to mark her territory.
A significant action, for the strength she leaves are highly centred.
In this way, she communicates her presence to the other otters.
She stays close to me.
I'm tempted to give her a name, but I feel I would rob her of her dignity.
This wild otter trusts me.
As the stormy winter nears its end, life becomes easier for all fishermen.
Otters return to their cliffs to pair up, and the female otter looks for a mate.
Their approach is cautious.
The male has a territory of at least four miles, overlapping the areas where two or
three females live, including the female who now accepts me.
Now it's spring, he will try to mate with her, and play seems to be an important part
of the culture.
They're cautious as they leave the safety of the sea, and the male checks the air for
hostile scent.
The traditional roles of culture are reversed.
It's the female who encourages the male.
Another fisherman is starting its courtship, the red-throated diver.
They gather on freshwater locks behind the shore, the arrival of new pairs stimulating
bizarre rituals from those already present.
Many pairs gather here to display, but they prefer saltwater for feeding, just like the
otter.
The whole history of Shetland and its wildlife is bound up with the richness of the surrounding
seas, which ever since the Ice Age have provided ample food for colonists, including the otter.
The ancient coastline is now ten feet below the surface.
It was flooded by melting ice, and it's still sinking, so it provides large areas of shallow
water rich in fish.
Otters feed largely un-live fish, mostly catching slow-moving bottom feeders, like this lump
sucker.
She uses her whiskers to help locate prey in the dense beds of kelp.
A good fishing spot will attract more than one otter, and butterfish are a favorite prey,
small enough to eat without coming ashore.
There is seldom competition between otters, they're not as territorial as black-headed
gulls, which will soon establish their breeding sites close to those of the otter.
No two will be reamed plover, known locally as the Piri Sandaloo.
Mid-May is a time of plenty in the Shetland Islands.
The sun warms the sea and the plankton blooms, supporting a profusion of life.
Pitiwakes return after a winter spent at sea, recolonizing their breeding cliffs.
Ritualized display has evolved to enable pairs to breed with a minimum of violence.
This is especially important here because Shetland seabird colonies are among the largest
in all of Europe, and competition for space is intense.
It may be the noisiest time for the seabirds, but it's the quietest time for the otter.
Courtship is over, and she won't give birth for another two months, by which time most
of the birds will have completed their breeding season.
The arrival of the Arctic tern heralds the brief Shetland summer.
A male offers a sand eel to a female who lands in his territory, but he doesn't give it to
her immediately.
A tug of war appears to be essential before they become a pair.
Otters will very occasionally raid tern colonies, not for the eggs, but for the adults.
This is a time for grooming.
Otters molt twice a year, the full molt being in July.
Their thick coats keep them warm in the coldest of water, but now the seas are comparatively
warm and at their most prolific.
The
magnificent gannets, gathering food for their growing young, crashing into the sea at 50
miles an hour, one of the world's greatest plunge divers.
In the late summer, the seabirds begin to disperse.
The Arctic terns are restless, gathering like swallows before their departure.
Just as their arrival heralds the start of summer, their departure indicates its passing.
They'll wing their way south to the sun, leaving the Shetland shore to the otters and approaching
winter.
The shore seems empty, my otter missing for several days.
I hope she's inside a halt with her cubs, but there's no way of knowing.
Autumn is usually the time when the cubs first appear on the Shetland shore.
I search all day, finding her in the late afternoon.
She swims purposefully.
I follow, hoping she will lead me to the cubs, which she may not have, hidden in some secluded
hold.
She moves with fluent grace, so beautifully adapted to life on land and water alike.
She's caught my scent, but continues her travels, climbing the cliff with ease.
She's aware of my presence, but allows me to follow.
The halts are nearly always close to the sea, in fallen boulders, old ruins, in cliffs,
or at the top of a stack like this, high above the sea.
A safe place for cubs.
I wait, tense, then disappointed.
She leaves her spraint to notify others of her visit.
The halts are evenly spaced, about 500 yards apart, and are for the use of any otter who
passes by, with or without cubs.
I follow her towards the next boat, but she disappears and is lost until nightfall.
In found again, she's very nervous.
Are they daring to move?
Rarely checking for danger along the beach.
Tension in every move.
She's never behaved like this before.
I begin to suspect she does have cubs.
I search again at dawn, she suddenly appears, carrying a fish she would normally eat offshore.
Surely she must have cubs.
I wait all day, hidden, downwind of a haute.
Six hours pass with no sign of her, and resolve is weakening.
She may not even be in the haute.
But a resident family of wrens becomes alarmed.
Perhaps they sense an otter.
She checks the shore, alert for danger, nervous.
A familiar human scent, mine.
The wind has changed, but she doesn't realize, and is looking for me in the wrong direction.
I think I'm going to be successful.
At last, two little fluffy bundles.
A moment of delight, excitement, and relief.
They're about two and a half months old, but this must be one of their first expeditions
out of the haute.
They're hesitant.
Otter cubs don't take to water naturally, and have to be encouraged.
One is not keen at all.
It's smaller than the other cub, so probably a female.
And umbragely prefers the warmth of the haute to the cold of the sea.
Otter and cub return to collect the little female.
The spiky fur acts as a life deco.
They can hardly swim yet, let alone dive, and their mother provides all food.
Their father still shares the territory, but has no part in the family's upbringing.
He's not welcome now that the cubs are out and about, and whenever they meet, the female
would drive him off.
They get to say hi to each other and
The other mother will still suckle them in the holt.
The cubs have started eating solid food, but like an inexperienced human child, this one
eats too fast and is sick.
The female will hunt for up to half a minute under the water.
The cubs lack confidence when separated from her.
They're vulnerable to man's persecution at this age, and I surmise that this is why they're
brought out in the evening.
The winter nights are long in this northern land, so the cubs are able to develop their
hunting skills protected by darkness.
Sea trout return to their spawning grounds, a delicacy for the fish-eating otter if she
Trout are usually too fast for the otter, but other inhabitants of the burn are great
favourites and easier to catch, eels found hiding under boulders.
The female can now leave the cubs on their own for short periods.
They're three months old, and competition for the food she leaves them is hotting up.
She will only be away for an hour or so, and takes advantage of undisturbed hunting whilst
the cubs feed.
The cubs will eat anything they're given, but the mullet is particularly fond of sea
scorpions and keeps them for herself.
Otter cubs play frequently, perhaps such as a means of developing muscles and reflexes
for use in later life, but clearly they enjoy it too.
After a couple of hours the feeding expedition is over, and the female leads them towards
an inland hold.
I follow quickly, but they've disappeared.
Only the cubs whistling betrays their presence.
Stream runs underground.
It's a game of hide and seek for all of us.
I'm looking for them, they're looking for them, mother.
After several minutes, the family finally gathers together on the stream edge.
My scent is downwind.
And perhaps I moved.
Shetland is a wet and windy place.
The islands are drenched by frequent storms sweeping in from the Atlantic, but miles bundles
up and continues to film.
Early winds bring snow, transforming the islands from brown and gray to black and white.
Even in the coldest weather, otters are out hunting.
There's still plenty of fish in the shallow water, thanks to the warming influence of
the Gulf Stream.
The snow makes it easier for Miles to track his otter.
I find the family's fresh tracks and follow across the headland.
The tracks on the beach are very recent.
They crouch instinctively, just in time.
The cubs are now six months old, and to sharpen their hunting instinct, are given live prey.
Their mother will catch them a continuous supply of food for two hours or so, but the
little female cub still tries to share the live place with her brother.
Instead of place, the female cub is given a large lump sucker.
Both cubs are now capable of catching small prey themselves.
Large fish like this are seldom eaten completely.
That back-back gull knows the otter's habits well and will soon get a meal.
The family frequently play and roll in an otterry tangle.
They will still be together for several months and travel widely.
They sprint to mark the route of their journey and drink from the freshwater burn.
As early as March, there are signs of spring, even in the far north of the Shetland Islands.
Eider ducks are one of the first birds to display.
The males are encouraged by the drab-looking female.
Though both otters and common seals are fish eaters, they don't compete much and live
amicably on the same shores.
In the warmer weather, they bask as the tide ebbs, leaving them high and dry.
Shetland is the windiest place in the British Isles.
There are many gales, the sea is turbulent, and the wave action immense.
Nevertheless, it's these same powerful forces of erosion that through the ages have created
so much good habitat for the otter.
There is danger for the cubs.
They could be swept out to sea or dashed against the rocks.
Their anxious calls carry far, penetrating even the thundering sea, though unheard by
their mother, who fishes offshore on the teeth of the gale.
Adult otters seldom use their voices, but the cubs call continually if separated.
The cubs are still dependent on their mother after nine months, even though they're capable
of swimmers.
They can catch their own fish now, but their mother still provides large items, like this
octopus.
The little female is given the prize, but the tentacles and their suckers are a problem.
The cubs first breed when they're three years old, but we don't know how long they live.
Scientists are only just beginning to unravel the mysteries of the otter's life, and Hugh
Miles, through his patience and dedication in filming his otters, has contributed to
the development of the otter's life.
The family stays together for a year, after which the female will drift away from the
male, re-establishing her relationship with her male, in preparation for a new family.
The males always seem shy, whenever warning the family of my presence.
My otter is unconcerned, and can afford to be.
The islanders now love their otters, and Shetland is one of their last strongholds in Europe.
They seem to be permanent here, watching whole civilizations pass by.
Perhaps they'll survive to witness the passing of ours, too.
Their life will continue as before.
In its change, enriched by a wild otter, and the trust she shared with me.
Animals and plants are the main stars of our films on nature, but as in the case of Hugh
Miles, the people behind the cameras are stars, too.
With their expertise and almost unbelievable patience, most of us could never experience
life in the wild in such intimate detail.
I'm George Page for Nature.
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