On June 4, 1996, I arrived home from work at about 4:15 PM.
As I walked toward the house, I saw my wife, Karen, beckoning me from the vegetable garden that had been rototilled days earlier. When I reached the spot where Karen was standing, she exclaimed that there was a snapping turtle in the tall grass at the edge of the garden.
We watched the turtle intently as she maneuvered across the soft garden earth. She walked thirty or forty feet and then settled her rear end into the dirt as though she was about to lay her eggs. Then she remained motionless for five or ten minutes as if to take in the scenery around her. Then she moved to another spot, and then another, as if to say “I need to keep trying until I find the perfect place to start my family”.
Karen and I decided we should name her Tillie the Turtle.
After watching Tillie travel from one end of the garden to the other several times, we thought perhaps she was just not going to lay her eggs afterall. The Tillie approached a huge stack of composting leaves that stood at one edge of the garden. The leaf pile was over seven feet high. Tillie seemed unconcerned that the mountain of leaves was so tall and commenced climbing up the side of the pile. She inched her way up, sliding part way back occasionally, but persevered until she finally made it to the top. There she sat, head raised, for fifteen or twenty minutes, just staring out over her newly conquered terrain.
When she finally decided to make her descent, she chose the steepest side of the pile. As she edged over the top, she slid down to the midpoint of the pile on her breastplate, as if on her own personal sled.
What a joy to watch as she then decided to return to the top for another try. It was almost as though Tillie was just out for an afternoon of fun and knew that her audience was immensely fascinated by her antics.
She once again reached her perch on top of the leaves where she sat basking in the late afternoon sun, regaining her strength. Regretfully, Karen and I had to run an errand and left Tillie in command, “Queen of the Mountain”.
When we returned, thirty minutes later, Tillie was no where to be seen. We figured that she had tired of her game and returned to the wetlands.
After supper, as we walked in the yard, I discovered the top of Tillie’s shell exposed in the side of the leaf pile. She had nestled into the leaves to stay for the night.
The next morning, Karen went out to witness Tillie trekking back to the swamp.
Several days later, on June 8, Tillie reappeared in the garden. This time she was not here for games, but to lay her eggs. She chose a spot next to the path leading from the house. Karen and I were about to witness the most spectacular wonder we had ever seen.
Tillie positioned her two front legs out to the side and used her tail as a third leg for balance. This allowed her two back legs to be free for digging. First she brought one leg forward and with a rearward sweeping motion, she scooped out a little bit of dirt from beneath her body. Then she brought the other leg forward and repeated the process. This alternating motion with her rear legs continued with remarkable precision for almost half an hour until she had sculpted a hole six inches deep.
Now the stage was set for a most wondrous site. Tillie raised her rear end even higher still with her tail and dropped a small white egg into the hole. The little egg was about three-quarters the size of a ping-pong ball. Then with her left rear leg, Tillie reached down into the hole to slide the egg forward. Then she dropped another egg, again reaching into the hole to settle the egg in its place. This process continued at twenty to thirty second intervals between eggs. Sometimes, she would release two at once. All the while she meticulously reached into the hole to make sure each egg had found a comfortable resting-place. When she finally finished, she had deposited thirty-five eggs.
Tillie then proceeded to cover the eggs with the previously excavated dirt. To accomplish this task, she turned her feet in the opposite direction from the one she had used to dig the hole. She alternately scooped the dirt back into the hole, first with her left leg, then with her right, until the eggs were completely covered. After a few pats on top of the filled hole, she turned and crawled back to the swamp, looking much more svelte than she did upon arrival.
Later that week, we did some research on the Internet and learned that incubation would take twelve to eighteen weeks.
As the months passed, we eagerly awaited the birth of Tillie’s babies. We put a barrier around the nesting site to prevent disturbance by predators and we kept down the weeds so that we would not miss anything.
Finally, on October 2, almost seventeen weeks later, we discovered a hole in the ground that was about two inches in diameter. We thought that we had missed our much-anticipated arrivals, when some movement occurred in the hole. Then from within the hole, appeared a miniature version of Tillie, only slightly larger than a quarter. Once out of the hole, this little creature scurried across the garden and with uncanny instinct headed straight for the swamp. A short time later, another baby turtle emerged and followed its sibling toward the swamp.
Although we kept watch for many more days, no more activity was evident. Perhaps we had missed previous hatchlings or perhaps all of Tillie’s effort had yielded only two offspring. Whatever the case may be, nature had completed its cycle. Karen and I had witnessed a most wondrous natural event that few people are ever fortunate enough to see.
Will man succeed in destroying valuable wildlife habitats? Will man’s appetite for development and so-called progress continue without regard for life’s marvels or will common sense prevail? Attacks on the wilderness must cease.
These wonderful creatures must be protected from man’s indiscriminate efforts to destroy them.
Tillie will endeavor to continue this cycle of nature year after year. Two questions remain to haunt me. Will she enjoy continued success? And, when there is no more wilderness, what will she do? Where will the turtles go?
