They resemble two heavyweight fighters, both a little out of shape, maybe past their primes. They flail away at one another for a few moments, then back off and rest. Then they start in again.
Snapping turtles, big and brawny but sluggish, are tussling in a little cattail pond. Turtles have not been awake very long; they spent months slumbering while ice covered their pond.
Now it’s time to get back to business. For snapping turtles - for all reptiles and amphibians and the other creatures we lump together as cold-blooded - it’s a new season, the start of another year, another cycle.
For creatures like these, life really does start all over again in early spring. For snapping turtles, an early order of business is finding females and breeding. Nothing is more important than perpetuating the species. First, though, these males must decide which one is to rule the pond.
It’s evening on a mild early spring day. The pond still looks, at first glance, much as it did in February and March, minus the ice and snow. Old lily pads are dull and drooping; most lie beneath the surface. Cattails, also leftovers from last year, are weary and tattered. Even though shoreline bushes are displaying infant buds, from a distance they still look winterbare.
But there is a new sound and feel to the place now. A month ago, we might have heard only silence. When locked in ice, few places are as still, as seemingly deserted, as small ponds and frozen marshes. Almost nothing moves. There is always life continuing below the ice, of course, but on the surface the only “action” is often the swaying in the wind of frayed cattail stalks.
That all changed with the arrival of warmer weather. Spring comes first to these little pockets of water. This evening, red-winged blackbirds are proclaiming the shift in seasons. Males, flashing brilliant scarlet shoulder patches, cling to cattails while belting out harsh but spirited songs. Each of the males has already claimed a section of the pond. Female red-wings are poking around low in the reeds, perhaps trying to decide on the suitability of the males’ chosen spots as nest sites.
A kingfisher alights on a branch over the water. Caught in the low angle of the sunshine, the bird surpasses the red-wings in radiance. It’s a female, with the distinctive red sash across the belly, set off by the blue-and-white body. Against the stark surroundings, she’s as vivid as any oriole will be in May. But she sees me and, with a cackle, flies off.
The water is dimpled with the movement of tiny creatures, perhaps hatching insects, perhaps something else gulping air. Frogs are starting to stir. A spring peeper gives a couple of halfhearted calls back in the weeds, then clams up. Moments later, another one begins chanting from a different area, then another. In an hour, there may be dozens of the little peepers calling, advertising their availability. At times, the din of peepers can be deafening.
Salamanders are just as eager to find mates, but their pursuit is silent. Like frogs and turtles and snakes, salamanders put their lives on hold all winter. Now, they are awake. For salamanders, that means heading for water and a rendezvous with others of their kind. I’m hoping to see the big spotted salamanders - their bright-yellow spots almost glow - but find none. They are more active after dark, and prefer rainy nights for traveling, to prevent their sensitive skin from drying out. This is “too nice” an evening for salamanders.
I linger and watch the snapping turtles. They look evenly matched, with shells more than 15 inches long and massive heads nearly as big as my fists. They take turns being the aggressor, each using its claws and fearsome beak in apparently trying to flip the other onto its back, or at least push it below the water’s surface. They churn up the water, raising muddy clouds. In the twilight, amid the decaying vegetation, the battle seems surreal. It’s like watching dinosaurs in combat. That’s not too far off; snappers have been around for millions of years.
When the turtles take one of their breathers, a muskrat emerges from the cattails and swims around the fighters. Leaving a gleaming, growing V wake, the muskrat hurries across the open water. For most of the winter, muskrats had this pond pretty much to themselves.
During periods when there was no ice, they prowled the shoreline, nibbling on plants. When ice returned, they stayed out of sight, resting in houses of cattail stalks and finding food on the pond’s bottom.
The muskrat vanishes beneath a log at the shore, perhaps going into a bank burrow. At that moment, a second muskrat appears. It, too, detours around the snapping turtles. But instead of following the first muskrat, it makes an abrupt turn and glides into another tangle of cattails.
As darkness gathers, the red-wings gradually settle down. The frogs get louder. The snapping turtles resume thrashing.
At this miniature pond, and countless similar places, a new season has arrived.
Ken Weber, whose column appears in
The Providence Journal weekly, writes
books on nature and outdoor recreation.
He can be reached by e-mail at kweber@projo.com.
