It is spring in New England, which means that the turtles are on the move, emerging from wetlands to find a good spot to dig into the loamy soil and lay their leathery eggs. I learned long ago from my mum to look out for turtles craning their necks on roadside edges, watching for a futile chance to cross as four-wheeled monsters rumble past. I always stop, like mum does, to give them safe passage by carrying them across, keeping them pointed in the same direction. We live near several wetlands in Littleton, MA, and turtles are common here. It is heartbreaking to come across the ones that don't make it. Two nights ago we saw a crushed painted turtle just several hundred yards from our house, which was especially disheartening as I was so close and yet still not in the right place at the right time.
Which is why yesterday at noon, when I took Pumpy out to the yard, my heart leapt as I saw the craggy outlines of a snapping turtle in the manicured lawn of our neighbor across the street. I sat on our porch and watched her, wondering if she was intending to lay her eggs there. She crouched down and lowered her head each time a car barreled past, which was every minute or two. But, during a brief lull in the traffic, she raised herself up and began walking closer to the road, until she was impeded yet again by the rush of a lumbering truck.
It was then that I felt a whole body reaction--heart pounding, eyes blurring--as I watched her steadily come closer and closer to a cruel fate. I think it was an emotional reaction to the unconscious certainty that she was one of so many turtles about to do the same on countless roads. Cars go so fast on this particular road that even if someone wanted to stop for a turtle, it is unlikely that they'd swerve in time, even for a decent-sized one like her. I know full well, as a biologist, that death is as natural and necessary as birth in a well-functioning ecological network -- but so often unnatural death casts a pall over birth and life for many creatures now, all because of us. I am heartbroken by the brutality of cars and the senseless destruction of life that occurs because we're too impatient to watch and wait for a turtle to cross the road. The madness of modern life has conditioned most of us to be unseeing and unswerving in our devotion to getting somewhere fast.
I waited until the very last second, giving her a chance to turn back of her own accord, but she didn't and finally she reached the verge in plain sight and crouched down again as yet another car whizzed by. So determined to move bravely forward, so unaware of the cruel apathy, the oblivion that would likely kill her if she continued. I put on my rubber gardening gloves, ran over to her, and safely picked her up by her craggy back. Her gray shell jutted out on either side of her thick, spiked tail, and I held on firmly as she tried to push my hands away with her muscular legs and sharp claws, hissing and snapping at me -- her head moving incredibly fast as she lunged out. Picking her up from the back is essential since she could reach around fairly far with her bulging neck to teach me a lesson with her formidable beak. I carried her across and set her down; she immediately turned around to face her well-meaning foe. We stared at each other for a moment, lost in untranslatable worlds, and I admired her fierce, angular face and patterned eyes.
I was so glad to have potentially saved her, but it felt wrong to then get in the car and drive to a cousin's graduation party. What if she turned back? What if I wasn't around to help her back across? Why do I participate in the act of driving a car if I hate the consequences so much? On the way back from the party on route 150 in southern NH, we passed two, then three, then four, then five crushed and mangled turtles. It's hard to see once you start looking. "And there's another," I said grimly to Dev as he tried to remind me of the ones I have, hopefully, saved.
There was no sign of the snapping turtle when we got back, and I was relieved to think that she's alive somewhere, hopefully depositing her eggs safely into the earth where a raccoon or fox won't ever find them. This morning, on Memorial Day, I came across two more impressive snappers at Newtown Hill Conservation Area, this time heading into the safe haven of surrounding meadows rather than the hazardous road. Such beautiful, fierce creatures of an ancient lineage and life form -- their slow life threatened by our fast madness. I often drive a few miles below the speed limit on our suburban road, Harwood Ave, and it is laughable and sickening when an SUV overtakes me and storms by, as happened just the other day. Why are we so impatient? I know I can at times be guilty of the same reaction when a slow cyclist is in front of me.
Recently, a friend and colleague from work posted online that it had been "a two turtle sort of day," followed by a turtle and strong arm emoji. I smiled, knowing exactly what she meant. She and many others, too, are stopping to save slow life--one beautiful, perfect turtle at a time.
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