Snapping turtle winter

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist

I think of her often this time of year, which is curious, for this is that time of year when I never see her. I wonder how she is doing, even though I realize there is no need to worry. She is not that old, by turtle standards, though she has quite likely known 50 creek summers and slept through 50 creek valley winters. It is her battle scars, as well as her serving platter-sized shell, that make her easy to recognize.

I really don’t know, but I imagine that she gained her most distinguishing scar when she was a small snapper, perhaps only 5 years old. I imagine that it was hot and humid that late summer afternoon, and that she had decided to take a nap in the creek's backwater shallows. I can envision a valley raccoon, who had woken early that evening, and gone down to the creek to hunt crawdad. The turtle still lay sleeping in the warm shallow water. 

I imagine the raccoon approaching up-creek from the turtle, and then beginning to work his way down stream along the rock ledge that jutted out over the slow-moving water. He'd reach back under the ledge feeling for crawdad, and then with his quick fingers closed firmly around one, he'd sit contentedly on the dry ledge, sucking out the sweet crawdad meat. The young snapper continued to sleep. The raccoon drew slowly nearer.

In my mind, I can see that the raccoon was finally only a few feet upstream from the slumbering snapper. "Why not?" thought the hungry raccoon, as only raccoons can think, and with a lightening quick grasp, caught the snapper in both hands. The raccoon held on firm. The snapper’s eyes flew open, and for an instant they were frozen there, face to face, their noses almost touching.

The raccoon drew back his lips, opened his mouth, and bit down on the snapper's nose. The now wide-awake turtle shoved herself backward, pushing against the ledge with all her might, but the raccoon held on, his teeth buried deep in her nose. She turned, and swam with all her might out toward the deep creek water. Now it was the raccoon’s turn to be startled, but the heavy bodied creature held on, as if for dear life. Only then did the turtle use her powerful front feet to push against the raccoon and free herself, but curiously, the raccoon never loosened his bite, and as the turtle swam off, a good-sized piece of her nose remained clenched in the raccoon’s teeth.

The raccoon swam back to shore, vowing to never hunt for snapping turtles ever again. The snapper also learned, and would never again nap in shallow water close to the shore. Rocks mid creek would be far safer napping areas. In time, her gaping wound healed, but she had a hole where her nose had once been.

In truth, snapping turtles must be doing something right. They can live to be over 100 years old, and they have been doing their turtle thing on this earth for over 90 million years. This is really an amazingly long time when considering that people have only been around for the past forty thousand or so years. Snappers are also quite intelligent, learning all they need to know about the world around them as they live their long turtle lives.

They are amazing creatures, and grow all throughout their long lives, and easily attain weights of over twenty pounds. The heaviest snapper ever recorded weighed in at a whopping seventy-five pounds, and they attain this prodigious weight by enjoying a varied diet of fish, frogs, unwary birds, and small mammals. They fish by lying on the creek bottom with their mouths open, gently wiggling their tongues. When a curious fish investigates, dinner had been served. They hunt other creatures by lying in wait just under the surface of the water, with the tips of their noses barely showing, so they can breathe, and then, when their prey comes within striking range, they extend their long necks and grab dinner in their strong jaws. They also dine on vegetation that grows along the creek valley banks. I have noticed that they are particularly fond of tender orange daylily shoots. 

So, the old snapper and I have come to know each other over the years. I greet her each spring when she comes out of hibernation, and then all throughout the summer we cordially pass by each other, creek valley neighbors that we are. I do however, maintain my respectful distance. When she is out of the water, she is more aggressive, and prone to attack, and I know that her bite is powerful, but when she is in the water, she feels safe and is really quite docile. Once she even bumped into my leg when I was taking a dip in my favorite swimming hole. I had not realized that she was there, until I saw her swimming away.

In the fall, as the weather cools, every time I see her, I bid her sweet dreams, wondering if I won’t see her again until spring, and in the winter, when the creek flows fast and furious and swells well beyond its banks, I worry about her. I know that she has buried herself in a muddy spot at the bottom of the creek. I know that she is not breathing through what used to be her nose, and is rather absorbing oxygen through her skin. I know that her body temperature has dropped and her heart is gently beating, ever so slowly, but still I worry.

The creek water runs rough and wild. I can hear the thunder of the huge rocks that tumble along in its fast current. I know that I wouldn’t be able to cross over it for love nor money, and I fear that one of these massive rocks will crash down on her and trap her. Or what if her safe muddy hollow is washed away by the torrent and she is carried helplessly away, tumbling downstream in her hibernating stupor?

Then I remember that she has wisely survived all these many years, and has really only just reached her middle age. The creek rushes past, and I imagine her safe and sound below its torrent. Sleep tight dear snapper. I’ll see you in the spring.