Differences

Cave Run Lake, Kentucky

They sped past us on the lake—a handful of boats, each filled to capacity with young men, engines full throttle, voices above the roar, laughing.
And, sharply turning Red Canoe to ride their wild wake face-first, we waited and watched, buffeted by waves as they drove on into the distance, as a group.
The open water, theirs to write upon—
in sweeping curves carved across its surface.

baby Map Turtle

Once past, we softly glided along still water, tracing the shoreline for hours as it dipped and jogged into hushed coves and quiet fingers, the other boats-- all but forgotten. And we lost ourselves in the curious faces of baby turtles, a bounty of dragons and damsels riding atop the gunwales.

Before we could discern the source, loud rumblings from engines struggling against unwilling water suddenly drove several large birds from the lake to the sky, and we rounded the corner to find the boats nearby again. This time, maneuvering wildly in a small area just ahead of us, back and forth across the narrow channel, bearing down upon the one who had not flown off with the rest, to safety.
Hoping to drive over it, devour it with their engines and swallow it beneath the churning water, the pursuit of this desperate, unfortunate bird had become their afternoon sport.
And, although every part of me wished to scream out against them, “Stop it!”--
I held my hand to my mouth in silence.
And we backed Red Canoe slowly away.

I am reminded daily, of our differences—
as I walk the narrow lane past the homes of my neighbors, who, on one side of the street are dismantling their wooded lot, one tree at a time to achieve perfect green,
while on the other, they are planting a forest.
Shared place means nothing more.
We share a space, but not a purpose.


The next morning in our campsite beside the lake, we woke again to the song of the Wood Thrush, this time just inches beyond our tent wall, resounding in the dampness left from a night of rain—a private dawn concert for two.


And as he sang beside us, a chorus so loud and clear, repeating each phrase again and again until we knew the pattern perfectly, in that place between sleep and wakefulness, I found myself singing his same song.

Eastern Box Turtle,
Terrapene carolina carolina

As I walked the camp roadway toward the bathhouse later that morning, past the constant commotion of radios already tuned to the rambling pre-race commentaries, I found a box turtle crossing the blacktop pad of an empty site, his shell bright with color, eyes watchful of me and my curious approach.
Then, before another could stumble upon us and wonder what I found so beautiful in this slow-moving form—his questioning neck raised, each small step so deliberate.
I tucked him beneath the dense brush in silence.
And backed slowly away.

Time for Turtlenecks

A dark morning catches Orion on the western horizon. And in the 30-degree morning chill, I am reminded of how soon it will be that we’re standing out beyond the grass, upon the pond. Skating--on a similarly cold night, the Hunter watching from above.

A stack of turtlenecks has replaced the t-shirts in my drawers.
And this colorful box turtle I found out walking in the August heat has disappeared beneath the covering of the woods.

Taking his turtleneck with him.

Eastern Box Turtle, Terrapene carolina carolina

For more Camera Critters, look here!

Crossing paths

Out from the cover of the woods, where her brown and gold-flecked shell would have hidden her well in the filtered sunlight, the warmth has awakened her.
The knee-high green of the pasture barely parts as she moves through. Only here, at the trail’s edge, would I ever find her—brilliant yellow markings of sun and shadow on her head, an orange scaled foot not yet withdrawn.

A perfect little camouflaged box—protection from intruders.
Her wary eye wonders why I stare.
And wait.










I see them so seldom now, these memories from my childhood—when turtles were common and roads fewer.
Our world has changed.
She cannot.


I came across a male not far from here last fall, larger and more yellow.
He disappeared into the golden leaves of last fall’s drought.
I hope he finds her too.

Turtleneck

A turtle (fish) story

This morning’s rain was inviting—
partly, because it was a light, misty moistness that felt good to breathe in,
and partly, because it freshened the colors that had become dull and lifeless in the summer’s heat.
I chose breathing over photography, and went out to walk, leaving the camera behind—safe and dry on the kitchen table.
For almost an hour, I lingered along the trails, my shirt becoming fairly damp, my hair absorbing the humidity to the point of a drip finding its way down my forehead. Just as I was ready to start back to the house, I encountered a box turtle at the green, grassy edge of the woods.
He was large and beautifully yellow, more so than any I’d ever seen. Brightened by the rain, he almost glowed. Motionless, poised at the trail’s edge, he peered up at me with bright red eyes. And didn’t move.
I weighed the choices before me, carefully. I could take this treasure with me, back to the house, snap a picture, and return him to this spot…or I could leave him here, run quickly and return with the camera. How far could a turtle go in a few minutes? And, how hard would it be to find a large, yellow turtle, anyway?

I ran…and so did he, for when I returned to the spot, he was gone.

And as I scoured the ground around me, I noticed what I hadn’t seen before. The leaves have begun to fall, turning the woods…yellow.

The greatest gift

The day was supposed to be sunny and cool.
Our half-finished project of cleaning out the grape vines seemed to be the perfect match for the day. Badly neglected over the years, the concord vines had been overgrown by every opportunistic, snarling, thorny plant imaginable—and wrestling with them was both tiring and dangerous. The leather gloves, heavy jeans, and long sleeves, made this quite a production. Thankfully, the bulk of the work had been accomplished in early spring. Now the cleanup was needed.
Piles of blackberry brambles and wild rose lay all around, tangled into the now knee-deep grass. Woody vines which had been slumbering peacefully, now sent forth reaching, wrapping tendrils. Tony headed out for battle, pitchfork in hand.
I, equally dressed for some serious branch wrangling, headed into the wooded area just beyond the grapes. The pines that had been planted on this hill years before, are now almost 30 feet tall. In the midst of southwestern Ohio, this area most reminds me of my northeastern home. A hot summer day's heat makes it smell of the north woods. A deep, soft pine needle cushion makes it a quiet spot—a place to seek refuge from the sun, beneath the dense pine branches.
By noon, our cool day had warmed to hot. Steamy and sweating beneath heavy clothes, I abandoned my task of clearing a trail and rested in the woods.
An object, partially buried in needles, caught my eye--probably another one of many cast-off pieces of trash, thrown away, out of view, to litter the woods. It resembled the mouth of a sneaker, white-rimmed, oval, and a few inches across.
When I picked it up, I discovered it was a box-turtle shell, bleached white bone, the edges uncovered of their scales, but otherwise a perfect, oval bowl.

Box turtles have a special place in my heart. On the roads, whenever I safely can, I stop the car and cross them, or whisk them to safety to our property, if I have the time. Too often, though, in the time it takes me to turn around and go back for them, they’ve been hit. Perhaps it’s the memory of my dad’s stopping to cross them, or the summers spent as a little girl growing up at a biological station. For as a child, I was given the appreciation and understanding of the world and our place in it.

I wonder which turtle left their shell for me to find, for it is magnificent. Such beauty in such a humble creature, its translucent scutes –an amber and black stained-glass window. If others could only see them as I do….
To see a world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hand, an eternity in an hour.
~William Blake