Otter Creek the river confused

Eriol had never seen a beaver before. Ever. Where he had come from, the short time he'd been there, no such thing had existed...to his knowledge. He'd been alive for a whole year, as of recent, and the word had never been spoken to him once. Except by Mahler. So at least once, now, but still. The point was that he had no idea what a beaver was and he had not asked before taking off and seeing to his task. Which he could not complete. Because he had not asked...what a beaver was.

As it turned out, Eriol was not actually far from the typical habitat of such things as beavers. As he followed the river, admiring the alder trees, he might have stumbled upon one. He would not have known that, of course, and to simply find a beaver wasn't his task. Still, his intuition was strong despite his ignorance - the creek glittered beautiful in the cold sunlight. It would have been a great place to find a beaver.

He made great time, following the wind of the stream. He had no real destination in mind and though his mind flitted quickly from subject to subject, problem to problem, he was not bogged down with anxiety on this fine day. He was happy as he trotted along, the breeze sweet and the day ahead of him.