Questing for otters along the shores of the Mon

At dawn, the sun rising above Pittsburgh’s Monongahela River is nothing short of serene.

Pink hues bounce off the river’s mist and sharpen a bright orange reflection along its still waters. Hobbyist boaters are just beginning to rev their engines in the distance. The roads and bridges above are free of car traffic. It’s an otherworldly end-of-summer tranquility that’s perfect for finding a river otter, says Alexandra “Min” Schultz.

Since July earlier this year, Schultz has ventured out daily, she says, hoping to spot and photograph an otter within city limits, all while documenting the process through her TikTok account. She says it would be “more special” for the otter to be within the boundaries of Pittsburgh, she tells Pittsburgh City Paper, adding that she is especially drawn to urban ecology.

Schultz begins the search dressed in neutral safari pants with wading boots cinched up past her calves. With her jacket tucked in, she’s straight out of a nature show.

For this excursion, Schultz has elected to look for the elusive otter near Duck Hollow — otters have been spotted here before. Schultz says, revealing the exact location of her hunt might encourage others to follow suit and inadvertently lead to ecological damage.

She begins her search by scanning the waters of the Mon with binoculars from a vantage point. Schultz says she is looking for “triangles” in the water — the shape an otter’s head makes while it swims.

Schultz was first spurred into her otter mission through research for her master’s in wildlife conservation from Miami University’s Project Dragonfly program. The program led her to Namibia, where she studied the country’s ecology.

As Schultz peers down at the river’s waters, backup arrives: her longtime friend Danielle Petrelli.

Petrelli is never featured in Schultz’s TikToks, and is completely absent from social media. But Schultz says she plays an essential role in their collective mission to find an otter.

“This is my actual ChatGPT,” Schultz says of Petrelli. “Moms remember everything.”

Petrelli has arrived with some Amazon-sourced essentials: granola bars in case the two get hungry and citronella-infused bracelets to ward off mosquitos. The duo have known each other since they met in 2017 working serving shifts at Rivers Casino. At that time, Schultz worked there and at the Pittsburgh Zoo and Aquarium.

“When I would come into the casino, there would be a trail of hay behind me, because I’d be running in with my zoo uniform and stuff.” Schultz says, laughing with Petrelli.

Petrelli fondly remembers taking her then-5-year-old son to see Schultz work at the zoo.

“The thing about Min is [that] the kids thought she was so cool,” Petrelli tells City Paper. “She’s as short as them, you know.”

With their necessary supplies, the two clamber down a trail and head for a river bank. There, Schultz says, they hope to find one of two things: tracks, or a latrine, both of which are indicators that an otter is near. 

Latrines are otter bathrooms, a private spot where they do their business, Schultz says. Tracks are more difficult to distinguish.

“I see tons of tracks constantly,” Schultz says. But otter tracks are less common.

“I’ve seen a few [otter tracks] around in the area … There was one that I saw; the webbing was clear as day. It was in one of my videos.”

Another indicator of an otter, Schultz says, is dragging marks behind potential tracks. If the webbing can’t be properly distinguished, Schultz says she knows the tracks are an otter’s by their drag marks.

She soon spots what look to be drag marks on a bank and beckons Petrelli to come and see. In the same moment, Schultz prepares her phone to record the marks for her TikTok.

Schultz’s method of identifying otter tracks “could be” accurate, says Allegheny County Game Warden Tyler Castronova. Finding an otter, though, might be a stretch.

“Within city limits might be difficult,” he says. “I do know for a fact that there are otters in the Mon, as well as the Yough[iogheny].”

And while they might be in there, Castronova tells CP that noise pollution from boats and traffic above could scare them away.

Because of regular boat traffic along the Monongahela, “the otters themselves don’t really have a lot of space to go,” Castronova says. “So, they’re probably going to try and stay more towards the outside of [Pittsburgh] city limits.”

Castronova added that the winter time, with fewer boats and less noise, might be a better time to search for otters.

Schultz is undeterred by this and humble about her ecological expertise.

“Everybody who wants to be a naturalist and scientist, they want to know everything,” Schultz says, “They want to be the expert. [But] there’s times I come up to shit and I’m like … What the hell is that?”

Most of her know-how, Schultz says, comes from her time working at the Pittsburgh Zoo. She grew close to otters while working in the Children’s Zoo, part of the reason why she’s so dedicated to finding one of the critters in the wild.

She worked there when the zoo first took in Oakley the otter, who, at that point, was named Pretzel. He came to the zoo from Oklahoma with severe heartworms that had killed his brother prior to his arrival in Pittsburgh, Schultz says.

After helping him through a year and a half of recovery, Schultz says she grew close to Oakley and was especially fond of what she called his “man boobs.” Oakley was young when he initially came into the zoo, she says, which helped him get used to people.

“Before we know it, this otter’s eating meatballs in my lap,” Schultz recalls. “He’s crate trained, and he paints.” She says she still has some of the canvases Oakley painted.

Schultz has since left the zoo, and Oakley is adjusting to his new roommate, Squirt.

Many river banks have yet to be checked, and the journey continues for a bit. Schultz is immersed in her method: find a bank, check it for evidence of an otter, and then wait. She sits and scans for otter triangles while Petrelli does the same above her from the trail.

The two get through about five banks in roughly two hours. Before long, Schultz is ready to summarize the expedition with a TikTok.

Schultz says she got a taste of virality in 2022 when she was still at the zoo after she documented what it was like taking care of sloths. That video, for more reasons than one, is why Schultz does what she does — she says her candid description of sloth “shit” cost her the job. 

A major part of her otter project, beyond her love of the semiaquatic mammal and her master’s research, is a hope of one day going viral again. Schultz says the community’s reaction to her otter project has given her new motivation to continue, and she’s branded her TikTok as “adult environmental education.” 

“[Adults aren’t] sitting and reading signs when they go to a zoo,” Schultz says. “They’re not stopping and reading them because they’re either A, on a date, or B, they have their family and they don’t have fucking time to sit there and read through … So there’s this whole audience that’s missed.”

So, with a finished TikTok and knowing otters are near, Schultz and Petrelli pack up unfettered, ready to hit the trail again next week. Neither of them really seem to care when exactly they will find an otter. They know that day will eventually come.

“Day 50 will be more special,” Petrelli says to Schultz.

“Day 50 will be special,” Schultz replies.