Part One: Why Birds Fly South In Winter.

TTTTT - Being quite comfortable in the Pickup truck (it wasn’t a working duel-ly) the Aussie was now prepared to share some intelligence of his own. “In the land down under,” he began, “we have long known of the Chinese affinity for Otter Fur. They like it because it has the densest hair count per square inch of any fur on earth, and this is how the Otters stay dry in the water. If they ever get wet, the water conducts heat (like an electric wire) away from the body, and the Otter gets cold. Otter’s hate shivering so they evolved a tight coat as soon as the Evolutionary Timeline would allow. Us Aussies like Otters because they eat lying on their backs, using a stone as a hardened tool, to break apart the outer shell of see-food. We lay awake at night, gazing up at the stars and dreaming of them. There are only two places on Earth that don’t HAVE otters: Australia and Antarctica! The stories I could tell you about otters…” the Texan was not about to be misled: “Spit it out quick. I want to hear one!” he verified. The Aussie laughed for a whole minute. “Do you know how long it’s been since anyone fell into my trap?” he asked. “I guess NOT,” the listener answered still unbelieving. The Aussie took a deep breath. “When I was out Missouri way, I had so many people ask me that, I had to memorize one just to keep from going stark raving mad! It’s a long story though…” The Texan interrupted yet again: “I’ve got TIME!” he stated. Without further ado the Aussie began his recitation: [I was exploring in Iceland in 1978, where the spring verdure made for a jealous play on frigid Greenland's name. I had made my way up as far up as the finger of the fjord could reach, and found myself in a valley between twin peaks. The soil was soft and giving, and I began to mount the left-hand promontory almost before I knew what I was doing. Imagine my excitement when I came upon a spring fed creek with a romp of small otters gamboling in a pool. I took a breather, enjoying the remarkable flexibility of their bodies twisting and turning impossibly quickly in the water. It truly seemed as if there was nothing but cartilage within the agile swimmers. It was obvious which one was the dominant male, as he was using a rock on his chest as a hard protrusion to beat open shellfish, feasting intently on the soft flesh within. He dove repeatedly, always coming up with the same tool. Misfortune turned to serendipity. I lost my footing and composure simultaneously, sliding down the slippery face and into a lower pool. I had been expecting cold, but the water was warm and quite inviting; clearly the spring was the result of an old geyser. Behind a small waterfall, there was a mysterious (and to any spelunker inviting,) cave. I was already quite wet, so I took the next few minutes and explored it thoroughly. I came away feeling like my very soul had been refreshed. These will always be my memories of Iceland.] It was the Texan’s turn to reevaluate. “Pretty good yarn,” he affirmed, respectfully. “You know anything ELSE about Otters?” he asked. “Well I’ve heard they eat alligators,” the Aussie ventured without affront. “I’ll tell you about that for a FACT,” the 5t promised, then went on. “What on earth did Texas housewives take in trade when their husbands sent all the aquatic-life off to China for exchange back then?” The Aussie had had enough of being belittled. “Why CERAMIC TABLEWARE you Texan clown,” he said. “Haven’t you ever heard of CHINA?” There was silence in the vehicle for 37 seconds. In person this is a long time. On radio or television media it is so fatal to attention that they call it “Dead Air.” The listener remembered his manners. “What kind of work were you doing in Iceland back then?” he asked. “I was working as a Naturalist, but I want you to understand that I actually like nature, it’s not just a job.” “You still like nature?” the 5t asked, verifying. “Yes,” replied the Aussie. “What kind of WORK brings you to Texas then?” he asked. “Educational Research,” was the reply. The arbitrarily appointed listener of the records for the Podunk 5ts took a moment to collect his thoughts. His Southern pride had been nettled, his Southern hospitality had carried him, but now he was on the trail of a long standing mystery to him: Southern roots. “I’ve got time,” the Texan reiterated, but in a less challenging vein. He didn’t care how long the story was anymore; he wanted answers.