
Last year, my husband and I set off on a camping adventure in Montana. We canoed to a remote site on Cliff Lake, an expanse of water that formed atop a geologic fault. The sun shone. The water was an impossible shade of aquamarine. Eagles perched atop dead trees. It was pretty damn perfect.
That evening, after we pitched our tent, we took the canoe out for an evening paddle. Not fifty feet from our site, I spied something in the water. Something brown. Something furry. Something mammalian. It took my brain two more oar strokes to ID the animals. Otters! Three of them. Playing in the water near a large rock. I had never seen otters in the wild. Even spotting otters at the zoo had proven surprisingly challenging. Yet, here we were, gazing upon otters in their native habitat.
I was awestruck. My husband and I aren’t the kind of people who hold hands, but had we not been at opposite ends of the canoe, we might have clutched our palms together and gazed meaningfully into each other’s eyes.
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