Snakes, Crow, Bartram's crow,

- Turtles and Such -

Without a doubt, the snapping turtle is one of the most prehistoric appearing of all creatures that crawl or swim on this earth. It is also a survivor that exist in some of the most hostile environments. Take for example, the plains of the Midwest, the swamps of Georgia or the rivers and lakes of most everywhere else. I don't know if Europe, South America or Africa or the far east have an equivalent, but if they do I am sure it has the same nasty disposition, and ugly appearance that not even a mother could love. Let me tell you a couple of stories about the snappers I have known.

First the snapping turtle goes by a variety of names dependent on the area it inhabits and the observations of the natives. In Florida and throughout the South, he (or she, if you can tell the difference) the name, "alligator" is applied. One evening, a group of us had decided to set out a trout line in a lake not far from the Capitol dome in Tallahassee, and cook a meal over an open fire while sampling liberally from a choice selection of canned goods obtained at the close by filling station (gas station to those not of the area). As an aside, I must add, I never could figure out why if states, counties, cities and so forth were so opposed to drinking and driving why they ever permitted sale of intoxicating liquids at filling stations. At any rate, we got the line set; the number 10 hooks were baited with chicken livers, the line tied to plastic jugs about ever ten hooks or so, and lead weights added in between to let gravity have its way. This was accomplished by use of Wayne Westmark's plywood pram, which we all had a hand in making and now were reaping the benefits. The little boat was all of four feet across and eight feet long, the dimensions dictated by the sheet size of marine grade plywood we used for the bottom and sides. The size was fortunate as any larger boat would have been impossible for two people to lift and secure on the top of Wayne's Renault (but that's another story.) Now sitting on the south side of the lake with a gentle breeze wafting across to keep the mosquitoes to a minimum, one can smell the "freshening" of the lake when the temperature changes. Some folks call this the "evening sweat" when it seems that shortly after the sun sets, the lake gives up its last warmth and settles down to a more uniform temperature. This is them time when old fishermen claim that the really big lunkers come out to feed, especially where there is a full moon.

So there we sat, discussing the events of the day, wondering if the biochem labs were deserving of our talents, and who was doing what to whom. Finally after frequent trips to the tub of beer, and less frequent trips to the protective shadows of the live oaks, we decided it was time to run the line. Wayne was in front, Dave in the middle, I in the back and wisely the other three remained on shore as the boat now only had about three inches of freeboard separating us from the fishes. Actually this arrangement was chosen as Wayne was the spotter, picking out the jugs in the beam of the flashlight, Dave was assigned the task of pulling in the line and Wayne was to remove the fish as he pulled them aboard and I provided the counter balance as well as the motive force for the boat as I sculled it across the lake. Wayne declared we must have something on the line as it had moved considerably since we had placed it (or else we just had forgotten where it had been set?)

Ah, there it was, just a bit closer to shore than we had thought. I gave a final pull on the oar and we drifted along side the first jug. Wayne caught the jug, passed it to Dave and then, Dave began to slowly pull the boat along the line or was it the line toward the boat, you really couldn't tell the difference. At any rate, up came the first couple of hooks, with the bait missing. So we concluded either the livers were a poor choice for bait and didn't hang tough enough, or we were in for a good night, as the fish were hungry and attracted to our line. Next aboard came a good sized catfish probably weighing two or three pounds and so we knew that someone was going to have to clean fish, which cheered us somewhat since that meant that those ashore were going to have to do some work after all. More empty hooks and we were past the second float, Wayne making sure the line and hooks spooled about the first jug so they didn't get astray and catch the unintended. Now we were in for some real landings, the next two hooks also bore fruit although not as large as the first. And just past the lead weight we had a pretty good sized crappie, what he was doing going for chicken liver at this time of night was his own business and his demise. Then, Dave said, "The line must be hung on something". He would pull and the pram would move, but the line didn't seem to come onboard. With hooks in the water, one can't be too careful with the line, getting caught up on one in the dark of night is not anyone's idea of fun. So he carefully pulled on the line and finally we were just about straight over what ever it was on which we were snagged. (Or we thought, maybe this is the granddaddy of all the little fishes.) Now, the line seemed to move a little and Dave was making headway in getting a few more feet of the line aboard. He slid his left hand down the line, gave a gentle but firm pull and a few more feet came onboard. Each time he did this he leaned over the side of the boat, putting his arm up to his elbow into the water. Several empty hooks and a weight latter, he said, well what ever was there was gone as the line now was moving freely. He continued to pull as before.

Then as he raised the line, just inches from his hand was the barbed hook of the nose of the largest head of the meanest appearing alligator snapping turtle I have ever seen. We all just looked; no words, no motion. Did we continue to breath? I wonder? Finally, Wayne took the filet knife from the floor of the pram, made one carefully directed cut at the line and separated Dave from our friend the turtle. Still, not a word was said. Wayne reached into the bottom of the boat, took each of our previous catch, and carefully returned them to the water. Then, I rowed back to the campsite.

We were asked; "where's the fish?" To which Dave replied, "guess we just weren't using the right bait".

This is a true story.

***

Do turtles go to college? Well, I know of at least one that did.

Many years ago when I was a student at Oklahoma A&M; (name changed to Oklahoma State, perhaps to protect the innocent, while I was there), I was walking across the green lush lawns. (These lawns are no mistake, as the University found that they could recycle the solid waste from the Oklahoma city waste water plant as lawn fertilizer. In particular, the scheme was to put this fresh, but not highly odoriferous material along the foot paths worn by students across the green. The thought being that no one in their right mind would dare walk in the stuff. What they forgot was this was a "cow college" where most of the students trod in worse back home every day. About the only difference was that the imported material contained strange mushroom like objects made of latex which emerged after each rain.)

So there I was cutting across the lawn in front of the library on my way to coffee at the Union. And, there also taking a short cut was a snapping turtle (loggerhead to some of the natives). He didn't seem to notice me and I continued on my way, but wait, thought I, perhaps I could find some use for this tourist at a later time, so I retraced my steps and studied him in more detail. About the size of a good dishpan (14 to 16 inches across, to those who don't do dishes or know what a dishpan is). A brownish, black lump with legs about as big around as a telephone hand piece, his head only protruded to the area just behind his eyes, and his tail about eight inches long, drug the ground.

How to approach this creature? I knew full well the wrath that a snapper was capable of, if aroused. I grasped his tail, he made a hissing sound. I let go. He proceeded forward, I caught his tail and used it to flip him head over teacups onto his back, a maneuver not unlike pitch-poling for sailors that have reached the end of a successful sailing career. Now he was mad. His legs moved frantically, claws sharpened by digging into the earth, legs designed to go forward with no interest in going back. And, his head now fully extended on a neck the size of a girl's wrist, lashed back and forth, seeking the source of the tormentor.

I had captured the beast but how to carry him and where became my most immediate concerns. Catching the thrashing tail, I picked him up, but he was too heavy to carry more than a few paces. Carefully moving my right hand along the tail, I supported the weight of the turtle by wresting his shell on my outstretched palm and raised him somewhat parallel to the ground. The head and neck came immediately back along the shell and the beaked mouth snapped not inches from my extended fingers. It was now too late to turn back. I had him in the air in a posture that permitted me to carry him some distance, but not without risk as he continued to thrash about. Can you believe while all this took place in the middle of campus, not another sole appeared to help either me or my captured "friend"? But now the question where to? Being late for coffee, and not thinking the turtle would be all that welcome in the Student Union, I returned to my fourth floor biochem lab in the administration building, turtle in hand (or almost so). My thoughts being that perhaps the art students that also shared the forth floor would find a useful subject for some of their work. And knowing the minds and activities of these particular students, knew the turtle would fit right in. (In fact, I had been on my way to having coffee with just this group.) So onward to the lab, but were to keep my prize? One just doesn't let a stranger wander in and about a chem lab.

Placing my new friend on the floor (carefully, I might add), I opened one of the drawers to my lab bench. Since it was well constructed, About 8 inches high and certainly wide and long enough for a turtle, I cleaned it out of the random pieces of glass ware which it contained. Then placing the turtle, right side up, in the drawer, I was on my way to a well deserve cup of coffee. But wait, the first law of science is to label everything; the glassware, containers, &c;. This law must not be violated. So, I took index label in hand, carefully wrote turtle on it, and affixed the label to the drawer. Now, with mind at ease, went to coffee.

Alas, this is not the end of the story.

The head of our biochemistry department, arrived in my lab which was also shared by a postdoc and a couple of other graduate students. Bob Gholson, the postdoc, had just settled down to his desk, unaware of what had transpired. In walks the head of the department, Lavel M. Henderson, looking for a piece of glassware that I had borrowed earlier (much earlier). He asked Bob if he knew where I might have stored it, and since only God knows where I put things, Bob replied in the negative, but pointed out my row of drawers, and arose to help in the search.

Carefully, Dr. H. opened each drawer so as not to break any glassware that might be within. He proceeded along the top row, then started on the second. He came to, and opened the drawer in which rested my "catch of the day". He was eyeball to eyeball with a most angry guest. He closed the drawer, stepped back, studied the label, said not a word to Bob, and quietly left.

Surprised by Dr. Henderson's actions, Bob retraced his steps, stopped where Dr. H had been and studied the desk top and drawers. Seeing the label, "Turtle", he cautiously opened the drawer, and just as cautiously closed it.

Dr. Henderson never said a word about this encounter, it was relayed to me by Gholson, who diplomatically suggested that I should someway dispose of my guest if I ever wanted to be know as a "Graduate".

Done!!!

Crow

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