Three turtles dived off the log as my canoe rounded the corner. I could see them swimming under the clear water, their front legs kicking jerkily in alternate strokes.
Each turtle moved beneath a bit of underwater greenery and paused.
Were they waiting for me to pass? On this busy river, they were probably used to canoes gliding by. Perhaps they'd learned to simply wait until the human intruders left, and then resume their own activities.
I decided to find out. About five canoe-lengths downstream a thick bough arched from the bank to brush the water's surface. I tucked my canoe behind the mass of leaves, grabbed a wrist-thick branch to hold me in place, and froze.
Within a minute, the first walnut-sized head popped above the surface. The turtle's pointed nose turned upstream and downstream. Its bright dark eyes were invisible against the lines that decorated its cheeks, but I knew the turtle was scanning for enemies.
The bow and stern of my 15 foot canoe were clearly visible through the leaves, but it didn't seem to matter. By holding still, I'd become part of the landscape. The turtle swam to the lowest point of the log it had just vacated, and clambered up.
Another head popped into view, then a third, and aha! a fourth! Another turtle I hadn't noticed joined the parade. Within four minutes, all four turtles were stretched out on the log, their shiny black shells turning dusty gray as they dried in the bright sunlight. The biggest one stretched out its legs, looking comical. It was probably increasing its surface area to soak up the maximum amount of sun, even if it did look as if it was just airing its armpits.
|
