Destination: Ice Holes
By MCHT Land Steward Kirk Gentalen
Every winter is different, but some winters are a little more different than others.
For the last four to five years, the chatter around Midcoast Maine has been, “This wasn’t a real winter.” The consensus usually came from a lack of snow, cold days, and—let’s be honest—a big lack of snow day cancellations. And I think it’s safe to say, nobody likes a phony winter.
But this year, people were singing a different tune.
Winter bummin’
In fact, the winter of ’25 was the complete opposite of the winters we’ve had since 2020. It was a wild ride (slight exaggeration).
Here’s a brief recap of this past winter (as I remember it):
- Early December: We had nice snow that stuck around for over a week.
- Early January: A warm spell, with lots of winter mushrooms thriving.
- Mid-January: A big freeze led to superior ice, perfect for skating.
- February: Snow, snow, snow, and cold, cold, cold.
A timeline even I can fall in love with!
I don’t know, maybe it was the ice holes?
Behind my house is a marsh that I love to visit in the winter. The ice there had been solid since January’s cold snap, and that’s all I need for a great winter—well, solid ice and a hot coffee.
Even better, once the snow fell, covering the early-January ice, the annoying skaters—and the non-annoying skaters—disappeared. This left the snow-covered ice to me, a handful of walkers, and of course, the ice-holes.
Ice holes
Have we talked about these before?
Even if we have, it’s worth revisiting the concept.
Over time, I’ve come to terms with it: I’m an ice-hole guy. In winter, it’s all about mammals and ice-hole hopping.
My respect (and avoidance) of ice-holes was once driven by my strong survival instincts. In my early ice-exploration days, I viewed ice-holes as perilous spots to avoid at all costs. But with time, perspective, and a bit of courage, I realized the worst I’d face would be a boot full of stinky marsh water. The smell wouldn’t bother me (I’m from Jersey, after all), but the cold foot? That’s a different story.
Getting “cold feet” is one of three things that’ll make me cut my winter stroll short. Here’s my full list (not necessarily in order of importance):
- Sweating – Not into this activity. When your clothes get wet from sweat in winter, the chill that sets in is uncomfortable. People who like to sweat in winter are doing something called “exercise,” which isn’t part of my Nature Bummin’ lifestyle—more like a bycatch.
- Breaking Through the Ice – In the terrain I explore, this usually just means a soggy foot. It happens every year, and if it’s cold enough, the water may freeze up again.
- Running Out of Coffee – Plan ahead, and this never happens.
How I learned to stop worrying and start loving ice holes
Tracking animals across a snow-covered pond is fun. Some critters, like deer and turkeys, cross the ice to move between habitats. Others, like coyotes, foxes, and bobcats, use it for hunting, moving between patches of vegetation to sniff out prey.
Then there are river otters. As a true “otter-head,” I have a soft spot for mustelids. I think part of my fascination is that otters break the rules when it comes to ice. They’re unbothered by it, possibly enjoying the belly slides. Much of their activity, however, happens beneath the ice—hunting, traveling, and accessing dens.
As an over-the-ice observer, I only catch glimpses of otter action through their signs in the snow, like trails leading to latrines, which often start or end near ice-holes. So, with the help of otters, I quickly got over my fear of ice-holes.
A spectrum of ice holes
By mid-January, after snow covered the smooth, clear ice, it felt safe to get back out there. The snow provides a barrier over the slippery surface, making it easier for boot-wearing, non-skating folks like me to manage. In reality, with the snow on top, I had no idea how thick the ice was, but ignorance is bliss.
If you’ve got ice, you’ve got ice-holes.
But even in cold weather, ice-holes still exist. Always.
If you’ve got ice, you’ve got ice-holes.
What’s that famous saying? “Ice-holes are like otters—every frozen pond’s got ‘em!” Even in the coldest temps, some ice-holes stay open, or are just a thin layer of ice away from being a full-blown hole.
Ice-holes form where water flows faster, creating a bottleneck under the ice, often leading to an opening or thin patches of ice. Beaver dams can also cause similar openings. I avoid walking near beaver dams or the junction where two bodies of water meet.
Beaver holes
A large beaver dam separates the upper and lower parts of the marsh behind my house. To get to the ice-holes, I have to pass by the beaver dam, always aware of the open water nearby. Even in the cold January of 2025, I kept a safe distance.
That morning, fresh snow had fallen overnight, and critters hadn’t had a chance to leave many tracks, the trackin’ was a lackin’. So, I took my time, moving cautiously around the dam, when I was pleasantly surprised to spot some activity near the beaver lodge.
I knew the beavers were in their lodge, but seeing one on the ice near an opening in the ice—about 5 to 30 feet wide—was unusual. The hole hadn’t been there a week earlier, but now it was.
I pulled out my camera and began snapping pictures. Within moments, the beaver turned into an otter. And then another. And another. And another. Thank you, ice-hole gods!
The holiest of holes
It turns out the beaver didn’t actually turn into flour otters (or even just one otter!). The beaver was still there but was now in the water eyeing the otters as they walked along the edge of the hole. They were running and chirping and slapping their tails.
The beaver had kept the hole open, but it appeared it was unwilling to share the opening in the ice with the otters. Without anthropomorphizing too much, the beaver appeared agitated, and the otters appeared to be stirring things up. “Spraint stirrers”, one might say. But perhaps they were just curious. Might be giving the otters a little more than just the benefit of the doubt here. And then, after a few minutes of activity the scene fell silent.
After waiting for some time, I approached the beaver hole and stood silently appreciating it. It didn’t take long for two beavers to pop up in the water (as if checking if the coast was clear) and begin breaking up the thin ice that was forming over the opening.
Two days later…
After a morning of zoom calls and computer work, I ventured onto the ice for a post lunch stroll. And sure enough, when I reached the beaver hole, there was an otter. Sitting, running, and looking down at the water in the hole. And sure, enough there was the beaver. Watching the otter and seemingly agitated.
The interaction between the two again didn’t last long. After racing about the ice and causing a commotion, the otter moved on, because nobody wants to deal with an angry beaver.
Lost track
Maybe maintaining the hole was too much of an effort, or maybe the otter neighbors were too much of a hassle (we’ve all had those neighbors), but as abruptly as it appeared, the beaver hole closed back up.
So came February.
Some days, luck is on your side. The early February light catches the snow at just the right angle, revealing something unexpected—a lesson. Like invisible ink, it was always there, hidden in plain sight. And when you’re fortunate enough to notice it, the experience feels like a dream—a humbling one at that. That, in itself, is a lesson: countless others are waiting to be seen, scattered all around us. You just have to keep your eyes open.
Some days, luck is on your side. The early February light catches the snow at just the right angle, revealing something unexpected—a lesson.
Until one day in February.
I hadn’t come across any otter trails in the marsh so far in 2025—just the occasional signs near den and dam openings. Aside from that January encounter, of course. But by now, weeks had passed—an eternity, really.
Then, on this particular day, I stepped onto the ice, blanketed in snow once again. A thin, frozen crust had formed on top, and, comically, the crust was dusted with a fine layer of snow.
As I walked, the sunlight struck a raised, frozen snowbank, revealing a faint trail in the thin layer of snow atop the icy crust. And that trail was heading straight toward me. There was no time to react—nor any need to. This was a history lesson after all.
The faintest slide
Turns out, I wasn’t looking at just one trail—I was looking at three. Three distinct paths of belly slides, tracks, and breaks in the crust. Otters!
This was a new otter track for me—or at least one I don’t remember noticing before. As always, the conditions dictated the movement. The thin ice crust, resting atop inches of snow, was just strong enough to support the otters’ belly slides with ease. The result? The faintest slide track was etched into the thin layer of snow covering the icy crust. It was remarkable.
The other trails revealed something else: whenever the otters tried to bound, run, or stand, the crust would break beneath them. That meant slower travel, more energy spent, and—if I dare anthropomorphize—a far less enjoyable experience. The moment the crust gave way, the otters switched back to belly sliding. Their bellies, acting like built-in snowshoes, distributed their weight across the surface, allowing them to glide where the crust couldn’t support standing or bounding.
It seemed like the otters wanted to run—judging by how often they tried—but with so little snow, sliding was the only option. Running might have been their preferred method of travel, but in the end, the crust called the shots.
HAT – How about that?
Some quick detective work allowed me to see that the trails weren’t coming towards me but actually away from me—towards the ice hole (of course!). This ice hole was a new discovery to me, but clearly not to them.
This ice hole was created by a small stream that was feeding into the larger marsh system. Remember, holes are often found around the meeting point of two bodies of water. The unofficial term for these openings is “flow holes”. Go with the flow as they say.
How Could I Not Notice?
How could I tell the otters had used the flow hole before? More like—how couldn’t I notice? The snow was only a few days old, yet the edges of the openings were as dirty as dirty gets. Otter fur was smeared everywhere. They’d clearly been rolling and cleaning themselves here.
Now, I’m no expert, but I’ve been observing otter trails and rolls in the snow for years, and I can say from experience—not every roll and not every trail is filthy. Sure, there’s often a dirty spot where an otter emerges, maybe a few muddy footprints. Dirt levels depend on water conditions below the ice—dirty water equals dirty otter, to an extent—but this much muck? There had to be more going on under there.
The next night, a fresh snowfall covered everything, so the following day I headed back. Sure enough—fresh tracks, fresh dirt. And then, just as quickly as they had come, the otters were gone. No more visits. The holes gradually cleaned up, but the dirt was not forgotten.
Mystery Holes
That particular flow hole scene ended almost as soon as it started, but the otters hadn’t gone far. The den I keep tabs on showed fresh signs of activity. It’s a cool den—one with an under-ice entrance that connects to a hole in the ground (the ‘ground hole’). The otters usually access it from under the ice, but they’ll sometimes pop out of the ground hole, take a few steps, and, well…latrine it up.
(Unofficial terms, by the way, are the official term for things I make up while writing.)
So, the otters were still around. And sure enough, the closest ice hole to my house showed signs of their presence. This hole is where water flows beneath the beaver dam, so, unofficially, it’s a dam flow hole. It’s also an ice-hole that never fully freezes over (at least, not in my time), so it’s also called an eternal hole. Otters rolled there, sprainted there—not clean rolls, but not nearly as muddy as the ones above the dam.
But something else was happening.
The dam flow hole expands and shrinks with the weather, and in late February, it had contracted to a minimal size. Ducks—Hooded and Common Mergansers, Black Ducks—frequented the hole, doing their ducky things. An adult Bald Eagle had also been hanging around—drinking water, scaring up the ducks. And now, the otters had joined the scene. What a hole!
As the main hole shrank, two new openings appeared nearby—both within 30 feet of the original, clearly dug by otters. And from the looks of it, filthy otters.
At first, these mystery holes made no sense. Why go through the effort of digging when the eternal hole was right there? But the answer was in plain sight—all I had to do was connect the dots. Or rather, connect the spraint to the dirt to the holes.
Groove is in the Heart, Truth is in the Spraint
One thing I’d noticed this winter? A distinct lack of fish scales and bones in otter spraint. Coastal latrines (latrines with a view) still had the usual crab and lobster shell fragments, but even there, fish remains were scarce.
Most winters (in my limited experience), latrines at the freshwater marsh are packed with fish scales—good ice fishing for the otters. Not this year. Instead, the spraint was mostly dark, slimy (not the right word! I didn’t touch it, I swear!). Amphibians. It was all amphibians.
And where does one find amphibians in winter? Under the ice, of course. More specifically, deep in the muck—where tadpoles and frogs burrow into the siltiest, murkiest waters.
An otter hunting amphibians has to dive deep, rooting around in the sludge, wedging itself into spaces where breathable air is…questionable. Digging a new ice-hole would mean less backtracking, easier breathing, and access to new pockets of murky habitat without having to revisit already-picked-through areas.
I can’t confirm this is exactly what the otters were doing, but between the dirty bodies and the amphibian-heavy spraint, the pieces fit. The path to the mystery holes was getting clearer.
The Story Continues
You might be surprised how long it takes to write a Nature Bummin’ post. Some might find it downright alarming. There are times when the words fall into place, the stench of closure (good stench) is within reach—and then I go for a walk. And suddenly, the story isn’t finished after all.
This was one of those times.
The last Saturday in February, I revisited the mystery hole zone. Even from a distance, I could see it—a blood-red patch at the water’s edge.
It was going to be a good day.
Is Duck Better Than Frog?
The blood was in the middle of a small belly-slide run in the snow, where the otters had been moving between the dam flow hole and their trails. If it wasn’t a kill site, it was at least a bleed-out site. Whatever prey had been taken wasn’t eaten there—no blood trail leading away, no scattered fur or feathers. And no sign of coyotes, foxes, bobcats, or eagles. Whatever happened, it came from the water.
And who had been hanging around that hole for days? Otters. Had to be.
A closer look at the blood turned up about ten small, bloodied feathers. Bird, obviously. But one piece of evidence stood out: a fragment of a lower jaw. Not just any jaw—a Hooded Merganser’s jaw. Mergansers have serrated bills to help them grip fish, and this was too dark, too small to be from a Common or Red-breasted Merganser.
There had been eight Hoodeds at the ice hole just days before. Now? None. And it might be a while before they return.
Blood in the tracks often raises as many questions as it answers. Where did the otter take the carcass? Under the ice? Back to the den? Stashed somewhere? (Gross.) Will I see feathery spraint in the coming days?
Only time will tell. But for now, I was glad the otters were getting a little variety in their diet.
Chasing Holes – Ritual de la Habitual
And so, that’s been my winter in a nutshell, chasing ice holes.
But just like the ice-holes themselves, winter is slowly letting go. There may be more snowstorms ahead, but spring is on the horizon. The ice has given way to the thaw and the seasons are shifting beneath our feet.
So, I bid a tentative farewell to winter. There are likely more cold days to come, but the signs are clear, spring is near. And the ice-holes will be memories, as I follow new trails and see what’s next!