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.

Painted Faces

Turtles basking on log across pond

A warm day brings us both out.
The shy turtle I spy from across the pond, from her log, instantly tumbles—a splash!
While I, too, crawl out onto my log of sorts, the small wooden dock extending into the water,
under the warmth of an afternoon sun.
Loving its warmth, we are not so different,
basking on this sunny afternoon.


Beside me, binoculars ready—to scout noses that break the smooth surface of the water.
One by one, each, so quick to turn with a flash beneath me, rises to float in the safety of the open space, far beyond my reach.


We crossed paths just yesterday,
walking slowly as we do, the warm ground soft beneath our feet.
And I stopped to wonder where she might be going,
her cumbersome steps barely forward.
That painted face I so seldom see, hidden within her muddied shell.
I think she thought me rude to sit and wait with her.

“May I help you?”
“Just looking.”

Painted Turtle, Chrysemys picta

From Wikipedia:
"Painted turtles bask because they cannot generate heat or regulate their own body temperature. Instead, they rely on heat from the sun to raise and maintain their body temperature at a level high enough for food in their stomachs to digest efficiently; about 65°F minimum."

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!

Jewels

The weatherman's forecast is written in bold, sizzling red letters--HOT.
I'm thankful that the woods have grown dense.
Within, they are still and cool.

We glide quietly upon water.
Far beyond the sunny beaches and the boaters.
Past thickets of horsetails.
Until the vines grow everywhere and it looks as if we should stop.

It is there, in the stillness of a shady bank, they rest.
Ebony jewelwings--bright bodies below black.
Cool and lovely.

American Lotus

Horsetails along bank

Cowan Lake backwater

Ebony Jewelwing

Where have you been all my life?

Perhaps it’s the warmer days.
Perhaps it’s the softer earth.
Whatever the appeal, the turtles sense it.

In the course of the last week, I’ve crossed paths with four—all different species, yet all on the move for the same reason.
It’s egg-laying time.

I’ve come across box turtles, painted turtles and snapping turtles on our property many times in the 15 years we’ve lived here. Its pond and wooded areas, the habitat they enjoy. Each time, an opportunity to stop and watch the event—I mark the location for future reference.
All too often, to find that raccoons have found buried treasure there, soon afterward.

And, although Ohio is known to be home for 12 species, I’ve never found any the remaining 9, here, on this 15-acre property.


Until last Friday.
When I found this very large Red-eared slider in the grass.
She was huge.
And very slow-moving.


Her shell, not much to look at from above, but intricately decorated on its interior edges.


And at about the 12-inch maximum of their size.



Could she be older than I?
This turtle that lives 50-70 years?
And I’ve never seen before?

Perhaps that’s how she does it.

In reading about Red eared sliders, I found that they were extensively used in the pet market. Now, there are turtle rescue organizations that give these gentle, thoughtful creatures homes. Part of the application process for rescuing a Red Eared Slider includes a "Turtle Will"--provision for its care after your death, as they are likely to outlive their human caretaker.

Time for turtles

She lumbers through the yard.



Her speed is nothing on land.
In fact, were it not for her quick turns to snap as I approach, she’d be an easy mark. Her shell barely covers her muscular legs and long tail. But her relatively long neck aggressively lunges forward—the accuracy of her sharp, powerful jaws, nothing to be tested.



She may well be one of the five I saw in the pond just a few days earlier. Now, dragging her heavy body, full of eggs to the perfect spot to dig a hole and leave them.


I remember, years ago, when this time of year meant softball for my girls—on a neighborhood team that held its games at the township field.
It was game night, and we gathered with all the other parents to watch our home team and cheer them on. A “real” game, with real umpires and… bleachers--
when, in the middle of an inning, the field Ref all of a sudden stood tall, raised his arm and suspended play.

While onlookers puzzled at the pause, he pointed off into right field.


A very large lump was marching determinedly across toward a little girl, absorbed in the game, in center field.
Play resumed when she decided to leave.
The snapping turtle, that is.

It was 2 days earlier. last year, that I also found a large snapper in this spot.
I wonder if she chooses the same path each year.



Thanks to Mrs. Nesbit for hosting ABC Wednesday!

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

Wild Saturday Night

Sometimes I scare myself, walking in the dark around the pond.
At night, it becomes a very different place, filled with different sounds,
illuminated only by the moon—and my flashlight.

Back in a shallow corner, the toads are trilling again. I can see their small bodies in the distance, sitting on clumps of algae—projecting their songs across the water into the night.


And, at the shoreline, a pair of steady white eyes that are caught in the beam of my light, as I scan the surface. Probably deer, unsure if they should bound into the safety of the woods--for I know they drink at this shallow, and follow the many prints they leave on these trails.

The water is already lower than I had hoped, for April. Spring rains that filled it to bursting a few weeks ago, have already found their way to a muskrat hole and emptied a foot of depth. But the edge areas are walkable now, and nighttime hides my stalking figure from what lives here.

They seem to have no fear—at least of me—as they summon others of their kind. American toads.


Or is it, that the force that has drawn them from land to this water is stronger than fear.
I dim my light, and unseen figures raise their voices, joining the appeal.


A splash...and a swirl startle me.
Probably, the muskrat, who crosses these shallows underwater, is equally alarmed--
surprised to see my large spotted boots so close to her watery front door.
Little ripples disturb the smooth surface,
as last year's bullfrog tadpoles
and small fish scurry past my toes.



In the reflected light of the full moon, I can see now that the water beside me has been interrupted -- a large mass of algae protruding above the surface. Almost as if I wasn't standing there at all, a huge snapping turtle, barely identifiable beneath her mossy shell, drifts closer--her feeding, the swirling I thought to be the muskrat.
This enormous turtle, that, in daylight, plunges beneath the surface when I approach from yards away, now, calmly searches the muck around my boot for dinner--or perhaps, intends to snag a distracted toad.


An unusual sound, muffled and throaty, draws my eyes to the opposite bank. I watch with my light as she leaves, the dry grass rustling as her small form moves away from the pond toward the oak woods.
She pauses often to look back at me as she trots off—
her glowing eyes, amber.

Animals of the night have eyes that have a mirror-like surface, the tapetum lucidum, which intensifies what little light there is available. When a flashlight or headlight of a vehicle reflects off this surface, the eyeshine of a characteristic color is sometimes seen.

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.