When I was 10 years old, fishing an inlet off the river behind our family’s animal hospital, I caught a snapping turtle of considerable size. At that point in my angling life, I used a hand-me-down cane pole nearly twice my height, with a hook swinging awkwardly from a length of worn line. I mostly caught sunfish and bluegill that swam in energetic circles, squabbling for the doughball, cheese square, or slithering worm I used as bait.
Each time I got a bite, I thrilled as the orb of the red-and-white bobber plunged beneath the water, the pliable give of the old cane pole sending the fish’s spirited energy up my arm and into the center of my chest. The fish themselves – once I landed them, careful to rake the spiny dorsal fin that drew blood if it pricked my palm – were emblazoned with aqua blues and greens, crayon-box yellows, bold inky reds, all on a tapestry as variegated as any woven by a master artisan.
Occasionally a great blue heron would spiral from the sky, landing to stalk the far shallows. Up the hill from the inlet, purple raspberry canes grew in abundance around the gravel that outlined the railroad tracks. When the train whistle blew, I’d seat my pole in an improvised pile of rocks and cover my ears. If the fishing slowed or the heat became too much, I wandered the woods’ edge in search of shade and ate ripe blackcaps, my tongue and fingers painted a dark violet.
When a train stopped at the spur to allow another engine to pass, men who had lost their jobs or were back from a tour in Vietnam scrambled down from open freight cars. Small encampments of tin sheeting and discarded lumber scraps sprang up in the slivers of wild along the inlet. Usually, these men would stay only a day or two before hitching another ride east or west. My parents warned me to stay clear, but when one of the men asked how the fishing was, I shared what I caught. As I biked home, I could smell their small cooking fires and imagined the grease splatter on the cast iron, their glistening fingers as they ate the pink meat.
That summer, a large, bearded man in an olive-green Army coat got off the train and built a hovel for himself on the backend of our property. It was a glorified lean-to, with a tarp draped across the front to help keep mosquitoes out and to provide some privacy. He erected this structure adjacent to what we called the pauper’s cemetery – a small field where deceased pets were laid to rest for owners who had no other place to do so.
Because my chores included burial duty, I talked with the man most days. I told him about my fishing and showed him where berries grew. He scavenged the nearby industrial park where factories disposed of wooden crates and pallets, carrying back anything he thought might improve his dwelling. He talked to himself quite a bit, using curse words I was forbidden to speak, and said things that seemed a bit off. A comment about God burying his treasure. A question about where the enemy was and if there were any orders. But I was thankful for the company, and when my parents asked, I simply told them he was nice. My mother even baked brownies and had me deliver them.
Beyond his lean-to, out toward the middle of the inlet, painted turtles sunned themselves atop half-sunken logs. The architecture of their carapaces fascinated me, not so much for their functionality, but more for the aesthetic design and mystery of the bodies they hid within those caverns of fused bone and keratin. I imagined the disenfranchised men in their makeshift camps needed shells, too, a place they could pull their heads inside to sleep or hide.
I also noticed a snapping turtle in the inlet, watched it swimming among lily pads and once observed it entering a hole at the base of a willow’s roots. Like many kids, I’d heard stories at sleepovers about these behemoths – more ancient than the dinosaurs – and how they severed the toes and fingers of swimmers, even dragging some down to the muddy bottom and burying them. A neighbor told me his missing thumb was still swimming in the belly of a turtle and joked that he was glad he’d been wearing swimming trunks so nothing else went missing. (When I was older, I overheard him tell my father that he’d actually severed the thumb at the factory on second shift.) Such tales inspired me to kick my feet fast and hard when I swam in the river. Despite my trepidation, I was fascinated by the large snapper in the inlet.
When my bobber disappeared beneath the water, I thought I’d caught yet another bluegill. But as I tried to lift the pole, I realized there was something far heavier at the other end. I assumed, because I felt no wiggle, that I’d snagged the bottom and would lose my hook or break my line. In an attempt to dislodge it, I pushed the tip of the pole into the water and stirred, feeling the smallest nudge. My bobber surfaced and drifted across the water. Like a submarine, the hulk of a shell crowned, then vanished, jerking my small arms. I dropped my pole and watched it skitter toward the bank, lunging to grab hold just before it slid out of reach. Pole in hand, I walked backward, hauling what I now knew was the turtle that lived beneath the willow bank.
Fear and possibilities swamped my mind. If I managed to get the turtle out of the water, what then? Should I cut the line now with my pocketknife, rather than risk an encounter? But I wanted to show someone what I’d caught – and I worried about the turtle suffering. Because I helped my dad with his veterinary work, riding with him for house calls, I witnessed animals in pain and was thankful for, even proud of the ways he helped. It took three tries to drag the turtle onto land, and once it was beached, it seemed angry and hurt, legs thrashing, tossing its head. I could see the hook embedded in pink flesh when the mouth gaped. I was hot with shame, and my ears buzzed.
I hollered toward the back of the animal hospital, less than 100 yards away, hoping my dad was in the kennels. I yelled toward the encampment near the tracks, thinking the Army man might be interested in a turtle. No one answered.
Shaking with fatigue, I hauled the turtle – big as a car tire – up the small hill and across the street to Fafa’s house. The distance, only about 200 yards, seemed interminable. While the turtle hissed and tried to dig its claws into the ground, I held the pole upright, like a flag bearer, and with great effort, heaved the weight forward, a few feet at a time, pausing to catch my breath and wondering when the line would break.
With the turtle at the bottom of the steps, I lay the pole down and knocked a bit too hard. Fafa, the retired veterinarian from whom my father had purchased the practice, opened the door with a scowl and said, “Looks like you have a catch-and-release problem.” I told him I hoped we could remove the hook. He said he wanted to keep his fingers and retreated into the house for a knife. Together we tugged the turtle behind Fafa’s house to his dock on the river. The turtle pitched forward and snapped twice before Fafa managed to cut the line. He assured me the hook would rust out with time and, with his boot, nudged the turtle off the dock and into the water. The turtle swam away toward the channel that led to the inlet.
That night I slept fitfully, dreaming guiltily about what it must feel like to have a hook lodged in your mouth. I watched for signs of the turtle when I fished, and within a few days saw it emerge from the bank at the willow’s roots.
Not long after I caught the turtle, the Army man came to the rear of the animal hospital, talking to himself again. I saw my father bringing garbage to the bins, then watched, frightened, as the man began to yell and rushed forward, swinging his fist but missing my father. He was considerably bigger than my father, who grabbed a shovel and shook it at the man. The Army man immediately turned and walked back toward the train tracks, screaming a garbled mess of words as he went. I didn’t understand at the time, but my parents said he had suffered a breakdown. The police came and took him away to a hospital. The fire department burned down his lean-to.
For the next few weeks, whenever I caught a sunfish or bluegill, I killed it and dropped bits of the bright flesh near the hole under the bank. The snapping turtle would extend its neck and grab the meat, eating all it wanted, before retreating back into the safety of darkness.
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