When the sun reaches its zenith, she shows up.
This has happened for many years now on the little hillock where I live. Every spring I wonder if it will happen again, and then it does.
Do I know for sure it’s the same turtle? Hell no, but I suspect so.
Do I even know she’s a she? I believe this is a certainty.
By the second week of June I start paying close attention to the sandy driveway that curves through pines and oaks, bellying into an open apron big enough for a three-point-turn to allow for headway on the next trip down. There the sun shines hard and well, facing south with no overhead limbs to interfere, especially around the solstice.
A sandy path leads to the kitchen door, again well exposed for many hours a day. A grape arbor to one side has done well, two little apple trees are coming along, a fig manages to hang in though I planted it in a place too exposed.
In this micro-habitat she appears on a June day, settling into the sand. Her patterned shell catches a gleam of sun and strikes me as ancient, reminding me of those who refer to this continent as Turtle Island.
I shoo away the dog, who thankfully is not interested anyway, call to the girls to say she’s back, then try to ascertain at what moment in the journey I have discovered her, hoping to answer one key question:
Has she laid eggs yet?
Her chosen spots, always within a few feet of each other, make fine natural sense, warm sand and southern face offering great incubation. But this is our thoroughfare. Car tracks, pounding feet, scratching paws, unwary visitors, none of this is good for her or for the eggs she would leave.
So every year I pick her up, hands warmed by the dark shell, and consider where to put her. I settle on one of two places off the beaten track, both sandy and sunny, one a little to the east, the other a little to the west. I try to position her in the same relationship to the sun as I found her, and then retreat.
After an hour or so I go back. And every year it’s the same: She’s gone.
Some years I think I see markings in the sand, little furrows, minor mounds, to suggest that she accomplished what I believe is her mission, and laid some eggs; I don’t disturb the ground, curious as I might be. Other years I don’t see that. Every year I wish I knew.
Every year I also wonder whether I should have intruded, acting out my turtle version of coitus interruptus. Every year I decide I really had no choice; leaving her exposed would have been bad if not deadly for her and/or her potential offspring. Every year I hope she found a good alternative though I have never seen babies skittering away weeks later.
There you have it. No big deal. With solstice here, many more momentous things are initiated by the same daylight prompt, in the same rhythm. It’s just that this one is so intimate.
Oh, one more thing: This year, for the first time, there were two.
This is dedicated to a great friend of mine, and turtles everywhere; Kathy Michaud.
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She knows where to be for good vibes and positivity. Love this story.
Heroic. You and the turtle.