Turtle Karma

I drive along County Route 100 when Paul shouts, “Stop!” I check the rear-view mirror, hit the four-way flashers, and pull over. Paul bolts from the car. He grasps a spotted turtle who sits in the middle of the road and advances the turtle into the grass, the direction it was headed. Turtle season begins as various species emerge from the river and ponds to lay eggs. Our roads apparently intersect prime nesting grounds. 

The sensible way to move a snapping turtle is with a plastic snow shovel, carried in the bed of our truck for that purpose. A snapper can be 18 inches in diameter and weigh around 13 pounds.  A foot long snapper can stretch its neck 9 inches to bite.  

When turtle eggs are buried on our property, our sense of responsibility deepens. Every year a snapping turtle makes a nest along our driveway. She arrives before dawn and excavates a cavity. For several hours, she tilts herself over the hollow depositing eggs. Then, she scrapes the soil completely over the egg chamber and returns to the water. The eggs incubate for about two months. 

Last year a predator raided the nest within the first twelve hours. So, this year Paul had a coil of wire fencing and metal posts ready to build an enclosure around the nest. Last Saturday morning the mother snapper arrived and fulfilled her mission. By noon Paul and I had the area enclosed and securely staked. No raccoon, fox, skunk or coyote would prey on the eggs this year. 

Sunday morning, I found a pile of loose soil and broken eggshells inside the secure enclosure. The fencing had not been disturbed in any way. The predator had squeezed through the two-inch by four-inch openings. We hadn’t accounted for a mink, that can squeeze through an inch-square opening. We had failed the turtle.  

We dismantled the pen. I tried imparting wisdom. We are not supposed to interfere with the patterns of nature. Other nests might be successful. Only 10% of turtle eggs hatch. 

Paul was not hearing it. He wasn’t giving up. We could see undisturbed eggs deep in the chamber. I raked the soil back over the cavity. Paul flattened the same fencing into about six layers so openings would be less than an inch. Over top of that we placed a campfire cooking grate. We staked the thick mesh rectangle over the nest and weighed it down with bricks. I marked our calendar so we could uncover the nest a week before hatching. 

Monday morning, I found a three-foot tunnel dug from outside the barrier to the egg chamber. The remaining eggs had been destroyed. Now we felt dejected and outsmarted. I read that a snapping turtle is at the top of its food chain. Evidently, turtle eggs serve the broader purpose of feeding night prowlers. We disassembled the barricade and accepted the fate of turtle eggs. 

I had one more lesson to learn. After resolving the turtle egg episode, Paul took the truck to run errands. I returned to the house to take Goldie for a walk. My phone, used to measure steps, was nowhere to be found. I had the sinking feeling that I left it on the bumper of the truck after I snapped pictures of the egg carnage. Using the land line, I reached Paul, who returned to the house. We drove slowly along the roads while I scanned the ground, in tears over the lost pictures I never backed up on my computer.  

The local greens keeper drives the mower on our roads, so Paul pulled over so I could ask him if he’d seen the phone. I stepped out next to a pond. I looked down. Not two inches from my foot was my phone, screen side up in perfect condition.  

“You won’t believe this,” I said to Paul. I picked up the phone and showed him. “It was the turtle! She led me here.” 

Dedicated efforts don’t always conclude the way we expect. But I guarantee that virtuous intentions return as good karma. In this case turtle karma.