Streaming Now....

Jan 25th 
2024

It is a lovely, light morning and we sit on the large rocks in the stream, munching our sandwiches (apricot jam is the filling plus some cheese).  As I look up at this cascade at this time of late winter, I know that today will test my climbing and balancing skills (in reverse order).  Some people - like Dinesh, our fabulous tracker-cum-guide-cum plant encyclopaedia - are naturals at this: they climb easily, skip lightly on rocks and move like they are on land.  If you can think of an opposite to this, picture me there, huffing my way up, slipping on dry rock, planting my stick in sand for dear life and holding everyone back at half their pace. 

But there is nothing - nothing - that I love more than walking up a stream.  Every step and turn is picturebook pretty and the morning rays lend an ethereal glow to the drooping canopy which, in this stream, is rich and intact.  

When I walk up a stream, Life rocks (it isn't a pun you would take to though).

We do this study, of course, to search for spraints (i.e., poop, for the uninitiated) of the small clawed otter, a reclusive, almost furtive, animal, which is, despite its tiny size, possibly the apex predator in the streams of the Brahmagiris.  Also, it does poop a lot, most of it being crab remains, mixed with the scales of tiny fish and bits of the odd mollusc. Crab remains, for the large part, though (it's tough belonging to the Brachyura family, if it isn't an otter, it's a jackal or a waterbird. Oops, we forgot humans and there's even a crab-eating mongoose).

Spraints (for now) are the most reliable method of assessing the density of their population, and, when friends wrangle that information out of me, it excites some conversation (“You actually do that?  You follow, what’s that called again, yes, spraint? Go get a life, Gops.”).   

I disagree. On a scale of 1 to 10, if Private Equity were 4, this would be a 10. Perception is everything.

Sandwiches washed down with stream water - crystal clear, fast flowing and with a light chill - we begin our climb.  

Almost immediately, on the soft mud on the banks, we see fresh paw prints of at least one otter: a sort-of recessed thumb, light claw marks and an elongated middle finger (now, don’t read too much into that).  A few hours ago, they were here, waddling their way into the stream. And it’s a thrilling thought and reminds me of the things we used to do in college, putting up posters that said, Kilroy Was Here.

We see fairly regular signs of old-ish spraint (which is defined as more than two days old) and only a couple of fresh spraint sites as we climb the 1.5 kilometres upstream over the next four hours.  At one point, where there’s fresh spraint in front of the rock formation by the stream, a smell of fish exudes and Dinesh and I speculate if, in those small, yet deep, crevices in the rocks, a couple of otters are watching us, waiting for us to go.  

We move on, of course.

Is kilroy here?

The climb is peppered with Dinesh’s commentary on trees, flowers and bees.  He is a local, has lived a hardy life by this stream and knows it better than any other. 

Take a look at the canopy and fruits of this beautiful mid-sized tree by the stream. This is a sub-species of Myristica, M. beddomai, and the tree, as is often the case, along densely forested streams, leans over the stream, shading it from the sun, the fruits resembling the sapotas that I love so much (drool....)

The seeds of this fruit (which Dinesh calls Chandrakai) have an outer coating called the aril. He collects the arils occasionally from the fallen fruits.  It gets him close to a thousand rupees a kilo.  We learn later that the aril of this sub-species is often added to stocks of Myristica malabarica, which is the one in big demand.   

I immediately offer to help him set up a small nursery with the seeds, yet wonder if coffee planters will have the patience to wait the years out till these trees yield.  

We live in a world that has forgotten to wait.  Even for trees to grow.  That rush isn't just to get things done, it's dopamine release as well, yet at the end of the day - or year or decade or, well, one's life - we'd wonder what we got done.  

So much for philosophy. 

This climb forces slowness, a happy slothfulness.  Us, the stream and our mascot.  

A bit later, we come across fresh spraint, but, no, this isn't spraint at all.  Spot the difference. 

You otter know.  This is me.

This is fresh spraint (from an earlier survey) and the pellets are, well, distinctive in a way.  Contrast that with the photo below.

Another predator cum crab-tormentor.

Another nocturnal, reclusive creature.

The brown fish owl isn't kilroy.  But he/she was here.  

Do you what this utterly beautiful flower is?

This belongs to the Jamoon family, the Syzygium laetum, a small tree, found along streams with edible fruits.  A book lets us know that the flowers host numerous insects, including bees and butterflies and wasps, which fact is endorsed by Dinesh.

And then he points out another nondescript tree by the stream with an unusual ringingly pretty name in Kodava - the Nenjd-kanda mara - named after crab ('Nenjd') because the bark - in their lore - smells of crab.  This tree too, he says, is one that the bees love to frequent for the nectar of the flowers.  

Hey, did I climb up that?

And look at this! 

Another member of the Syzygium family, this one is the S hemisphericum

This giant mango tree - straight as an arrow, reaches into the canopy and do you know what it reminds me of?  Harry Potter. Those branches - gnarled and twisted and knobbly and...well, you know what I mean (hopefully).  

I am dreaming now.

A kilometre and a half done, we are at the end and a waterfall, about fifteen feet high, greets us.  Time to take a dip.  

As always, I convince myself that I have earned this.....