This young otter thoroughly believed that he was the king of the river!

He was superior to everything in his world of woods and water. He could outswim the broad-beamed beaver.

He could outmaneuver the mighty mink.

In his river realm, the otter had no limitations. His streamlined body could slice through the whitewater and the most treacherous of rapids.

Karen Wils photo A view of the otter king's riverside.

Logs and limestone and sheets of ice were no obstacle to the otter. They were simply play toys, put there for his pleasure.

Sun, rain, snow and ice, it was all the same to the otter. He had no weakness like his fellow fisherman the bear, who had to spend his winters hibernating. The majestic eagle couldn’t catch fish when the ice covered the river, either.

But the river king could fish and hunt year-round. He was the greatest and strongest creature in this entire watershed.

He owned the river. His royal highness perched up on his favorite fallen cedar that lay on the river’s edge. This was his throne. His long, rich, chocolate-colored body stretched out comfortably on the snag.

His pointed, seal-like face slowly looked the river up and down. Something out there was making him restless. When he looked at the ice-covered water, he felt challenged, though he saw no predators around.

The river king chirped and barked excitedly when he saw Molasses, the little female otter from up at the beaver pond.

Molasses slid her beautiful brown, nearly-black body through the patch of slushy snow that still remained on the riverbank. To the otter king, she was sweet and silly and usually meant fun. But lately Molasses wasn’t in the mood for play.

The otter king couldn’t even entice her onto the ice for a game of tag. Something was in the air, King could not understand it.

Little silver snakes of water now moved on the surface of the ice from yesterday’s rain. King’s stubby legs loped over the dark blotches on the river. The falls were a churning, frothing mass of open water.

An eerie groan seemed to come from the watery world below. King left the riverbed to hunt for mice in the hardwoods.

The muddy earth now was visible around the bases of the big maples, smelled of wet foliage. Here the swift otter was able to catch a few mice.

After King finished brushing out his luxurious coat, he returned to the river. Just before the otter slid down the riverbank, something told him to stop!

He gazed down from the embankment, twitching his whiskers in the breeze. He hissed and whistled at his unseen rival. “I’m the king here,” he scolded.

He watched what looked like a peaceful scene. Large cakes of ice began to build up along the open rivulet. The ice mounds grew quickly. King barked at the strange mountains growing on “his” river.

The mounds grew into a dam spanning the river from side to side. The voice of the mysterious predator growled and groaned at the otter.

All at once the otter’s kingdom crumbled. Crevices shot across the ice. The pent-up water exploded from the ice dam, roaring like thunder. Huge chunks of ice went crashing down the river, splitting limestone and snapping off tree ­branches.

The otter’s cedar throne tumbled downstream like a tiny twig.

High up on the bank, the otter king bowed his head in humility, now he had met the real river king — only she was a queen named “mother nature.”

The spring breakup was proof of her awesome power!

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Karen (Rose) Wils is a lifelong north Escanaba resident. Her folksy columns appear weekly in Lifestyles.