Saving Turtles
Iclic Vermer sadly observed yet another driver who had slowed traffic north of Palmville District 44 West by stopping their vehicle in the lane with its flashers going. The person was busy ‘saving turtles’.
Johnson Crick flows east northeast under County Road 8 through two large culverts there, just south of the Palmville Cemetery Road, but the Painted turtles who have resided there for centuries refuse to use them. Instead they use the overland route exposing themselves to vehicular mayhem of various descriptions including, but not limited to, farm business & recreational pickups, straight trucks; tankers and flatbed semis, vans, cars, campers, tractors (2-9 wheeled models and those on tracks), tractors pulling implements, UPS, Fed-Ex, Speedee and U.S. Mail delivery trucks, fuel oil and propane trucks, high-wheeled fertilizer and sprayer units, ATVs, motorcycles and occasional small airplanes.
Iclic had been concerned for the turtles for several years as he watched people suddenly driving their vehicles to the shoulder of the road and stopping there to rescue a turtle from the center line, that seemed trapped there by rush hour traffic. They would then pick the turtle up and carry it, safely, across the road, where they would gently set it down and watch as it crawled into the safety of the ditch.
Hundreds if not thousands, of kind-minded people across the country go out of their way to purportedly save the lives of turtles, across the United States and Canada, who are completely oblivious to the turtle’s destination of intent.
Beginning in, “The Age of Global Environmental Enlightenment,” the last third of the 20th Century, North American turtles have suffered a huge degree of mortality, i.e., caused primarily by depression, as they attempt to cross the nation’s roads and highways because of people who ignorantly think they are doing a great service to the animal kingdom.
Just as the thousands of baby sea turtles burst forth from their sand dune birth sites along the oceans and scurry forth toward the water, they suffer the attacks of predatory birds and animals. In turn, North American turtles crawl across the landscape to bury their eggs, or simply get from one side of the road to the other, and suffer the attacks of people thinking they know what’s best for them.
Iclic’s Palmville Township studies have shown the decline of North American turtle species has more to do with turtles who commit suicide because they are totally frustrated by their inability to get where they need to go by well-meaning humans. Part of its problem being, humans cannot simply pick a turtle up, turn it over, and read a directional indicator on its underside, so it’s certainly a toss-up, but the best indicator of intention is the turtle itself. It may be facing a particular direction as a person suddenly comes upon it, but unless they’ve observed it for a good length of time,prior to its present position, it may be simply recalculating its dilemma after being spun around by a passing vehicle, or waiting to cross the road when the dust settles. Humans stay in your cars!
What if these same well-meaning humans stopped in their daily routines to run down to the beach to pick up sea turtles back and take them back toward the sand dunes thinking the dangers of the sea would prove too much for their dwindling numbers, when sea turtles--and likely North American turtles--have been doing this very migrational behavior for many more years than humans have even existed, despite the increased dangers from the burgeoning human population.
Picture a Painted turtle in the grass along a rural roadway, its four short greenish-colored wrinkly legs pulled-in under the worn edges of its shell, bearing a woeful expression, (that, we as humans think seemingly typical of turtles), especially after its been set down, once more, where it started out an hour earlier. The reality is, that this turtle has accepted defeat and has a decision rolling around in its noggen to kill itself.
It’s not an act of desperation. It still has some life left in it and could, just maybe pull it off, should the elements line up in its favor however grisly it appear on the outside, for it has tried everything else--and time was running out anyway.
A turtle who can’t get where it wants to go, is no turtle, they say in turtledom. Our subject here, had tried changing work shifts; traveling at night instead of during the daytime, but years ago some do-gooder had glued a reflective strip along the top of its shell and now headlights catch its glint of reflected light along the roads--and damn if those two-leggeds don’t stop even then, to turn it back.
Undaunted, it then built an earthen observation mound along the shoulder of the road to watch for any on-coming vehicles, but that only elevated the turtle and made it more visible at times, to hawk-eyed people like the soccer-mom driving a van of children to town, that suddenly appears from a farm lane a mile away.
”Whoa! There’s a turtle, kids! See it? Let’s go and watch it! Maybe it needs help getting across the road!”
The road maintainer bladed the observation mound down every week. The mound wasn’t the answer either.
It had endured turnings for two weeks and its eggs were almost overdue to be buried along Johnson Crick before Iclic showed up--to observe again. So there it sat, sad.
No, it was going through with it.
“Screw the good-doers,” the turtle said to itself. “I’m going to flip myself over ...”
Stretching its leftside legs, fore and aft, as far as they could go, then flexing them at the knees repeatedly, and straining its neck in and out to its full length, the turtle began a rocking motion against the edge of its shell, turning its clawed feet inward to gain traction and elevation with each thrust--until finally it flipped over, on its back, its painterly underside pointed angulary at the sky, as maybe in its death throes, a sign to any raptor circling that lunch was served ‘here’.
From a field at the corner of County Road 8 and 125, a half mile distant, an immature bald eagle observes an upside down turtle it thinks probably hit by a car and knocked off the road. With a turn of its neck and strong thrust of its long dark wings, it lifts noiselessly from the ground, flying fast toward Johnson Crick and lunch.
The turtle awaits the impact of its talons, when in an instant it’s swept upward from the ground, its long vulnerable neck dangling downward under the eagle’s belly and tail, the earth swiftly falling away from its sight, when the eagle banks sharply eastward toward Johnson Crick and the little woodland there, dipping with its wing strokes, and the turtle, seizing upon the opportunity, unexpectedly twists in its light grasp and wrests away to fall into the water, “KAPLOOSH!’ and dives to the bottom, on the opposite side of the road, finally where it wanted to be.
Iclic Vermer sadly observed yet another driver who had slowed traffic north of Palmville District 44 West by stopping their vehicle in the lane with its flashers going. The person was busy ‘saving turtles’.
 |
| "There you are, safe across the road!." |
Iclic had been concerned for the turtles for several years as he watched people suddenly driving their vehicles to the shoulder of the road and stopping there to rescue a turtle from the center line, that seemed trapped there by rush hour traffic. They would then pick the turtle up and carry it, safely, across the road, where they would gently set it down and watch as it crawled into the safety of the ditch.
Hundreds if not thousands, of kind-minded people across the country go out of their way to purportedly save the lives of turtles, across the United States and Canada, who are completely oblivious to the turtle’s destination of intent.
Beginning in, “The Age of Global Environmental Enlightenment,” the last third of the 20th Century, North American turtles have suffered a huge degree of mortality, i.e., caused primarily by depression, as they attempt to cross the nation’s roads and highways because of people who ignorantly think they are doing a great service to the animal kingdom.
Just as the thousands of baby sea turtles burst forth from their sand dune birth sites along the oceans and scurry forth toward the water, they suffer the attacks of predatory birds and animals. In turn, North American turtles crawl across the landscape to bury their eggs, or simply get from one side of the road to the other, and suffer the attacks of people thinking they know what’s best for them.
Iclic’s Palmville Township studies have shown the decline of North American turtle species has more to do with turtles who commit suicide because they are totally frustrated by their inability to get where they need to go by well-meaning humans. Part of its problem being, humans cannot simply pick a turtle up, turn it over, and read a directional indicator on its underside, so it’s certainly a toss-up, but the best indicator of intention is the turtle itself. It may be facing a particular direction as a person suddenly comes upon it, but unless they’ve observed it for a good length of time,prior to its present position, it may be simply recalculating its dilemma after being spun around by a passing vehicle, or waiting to cross the road when the dust settles. Humans stay in your cars!
What if these same well-meaning humans stopped in their daily routines to run down to the beach to pick up sea turtles back and take them back toward the sand dunes thinking the dangers of the sea would prove too much for their dwindling numbers, when sea turtles--and likely North American turtles--have been doing this very migrational behavior for many more years than humans have even existed, despite the increased dangers from the burgeoning human population.
Picture a Painted turtle in the grass along a rural roadway, its four short greenish-colored wrinkly legs pulled-in under the worn edges of its shell, bearing a woeful expression, (that, we as humans think seemingly typical of turtles), especially after its been set down, once more, where it started out an hour earlier. The reality is, that this turtle has accepted defeat and has a decision rolling around in its noggen to kill itself.
It’s not an act of desperation. It still has some life left in it and could, just maybe pull it off, should the elements line up in its favor however grisly it appear on the outside, for it has tried everything else--and time was running out anyway.
A turtle who can’t get where it wants to go, is no turtle, they say in turtledom. Our subject here, had tried changing work shifts; traveling at night instead of during the daytime, but years ago some do-gooder had glued a reflective strip along the top of its shell and now headlights catch its glint of reflected light along the roads--and damn if those two-leggeds don’t stop even then, to turn it back.
Undaunted, it then built an earthen observation mound along the shoulder of the road to watch for any on-coming vehicles, but that only elevated the turtle and made it more visible at times, to hawk-eyed people like the soccer-mom driving a van of children to town, that suddenly appears from a farm lane a mile away.
”Whoa! There’s a turtle, kids! See it? Let’s go and watch it! Maybe it needs help getting across the road!”
The road maintainer bladed the observation mound down every week. The mound wasn’t the answer either.
It had endured turnings for two weeks and its eggs were almost overdue to be buried along Johnson Crick before Iclic showed up--to observe again. So there it sat, sad.
No, it was going through with it.
“Screw the good-doers,” the turtle said to itself. “I’m going to flip myself over ...”
Stretching its leftside legs, fore and aft, as far as they could go, then flexing them at the knees repeatedly, and straining its neck in and out to its full length, the turtle began a rocking motion against the edge of its shell, turning its clawed feet inward to gain traction and elevation with each thrust--until finally it flipped over, on its back, its painterly underside pointed angulary at the sky, as maybe in its death throes, a sign to any raptor circling that lunch was served ‘here’.
From a field at the corner of County Road 8 and 125, a half mile distant, an immature bald eagle observes an upside down turtle it thinks probably hit by a car and knocked off the road. With a turn of its neck and strong thrust of its long dark wings, it lifts noiselessly from the ground, flying fast toward Johnson Crick and lunch.
The turtle awaits the impact of its talons, when in an instant it’s swept upward from the ground, its long vulnerable neck dangling downward under the eagle’s belly and tail, the earth swiftly falling away from its sight, when the eagle banks sharply eastward toward Johnson Crick and the little woodland there, dipping with its wing strokes, and the turtle, seizing upon the opportunity, unexpectedly twists in its light grasp and wrests away to fall into the water, “KAPLOOSH!’ and dives to the bottom, on the opposite side of the road, finally where it wanted to be.
Iclic knows nature.
ReplyDeleteHappy birthday, WannaskaWriter!
Will continue to keep a low profile.
ReplyDeleteLet's hear it for turtle safety. Great pics! I should be so lucky to see so many turtles. A work called "Dreaming Turtles," resides in my backlog of poems to be finished. Will forward whenever I get 'er done. Thanks for the turtle tour. JPSavage
ReplyDeleteForgot to say that a snapping turtle plays a cameo role in "The One," coming soon to an Almanac near you.
ReplyDelete