It rained last night. Anytime it rains in early June, we have to search the yard carefully before letting the dogs out, because early summer rain brings fearsome guests: female snapping turtles, intent on finding soft ground for burying their eggs. We’ve identified three separate individuals over the years. Two are huge, one merely large. How do I know they’re snapping turtles? What other turtle is eight to 14 inches long (some grow to 20 inches) and weighs up to 70 pounds, with a massive head and a long sawtooth tail? When you approach many turtles on land, they pull in their heads and legs and hide under their protective shell, but the snapper can’t do that. Instead, she’ll likely turn and snap. Approach with care! Her powerful jaws can sever a finger or toe.

Once I had to move a turtle from an area, because I was afraid she might hurt the dogs. I got a wheelbarrow and a shovel, intending to lift her gently into the wheelbarrow and transport her outside the fenced yard to an area with nice sandy soil. As soon as the shovel came near her, she snapped at it and held on. I actually lifted her up and into the wheelbarrow just through the strength of her jaws on the shovel. Some jaws!

As she drags her heavy body through the mulch, mother snapper leaves a clear trail through the yard. Periodically she’ll stop and dig a test hole. She needs to go deep to bury the 20 to 40 ping-pong-ball-sized eggs she’s carrying. I can’t tell you how many plants I’ve lost when a snapper has bulldozed through the garden, knocking over tomato plants, digging up corn stalks, or disrupting the young cucumbers. I guess she figures her kind were here long before I started vegetable gardening, so if she wants to check out the soil, she can.

Watching any turtle dig a hole is fascinating. Where we need shovels, turtles use powerful hind legs. A leg pivots and goes down, scooping up dirt, depositing it beside the hole. As the hole gets deeper, the female twists, one side down and out then the other, down and out. Half the turtle ends up in the hole before she’s satisfied with the depth.

Slowly she’ll lay the eggs, pulling her head inward as each egg is pushed out. When all the eggs are finally in the hole, she begins covering them up. Now the legs pull the soil back into the hole and tamp down: first one leg, then the other, dumping and tamping, dumping and tamping.
By this point, her energy is nearly gone. She’s traveled quite a distance from the pond or swamp where she lives, searched for the perfect spot, dug the hole, laid the eggs, and filled the hole back up.

Here’s the really amazing part: I’ve watched a snapper dig a hole and noted exactly where it is in relation to a landmark. Once she’s gone, I’ve headed out to the site but couldn’t find even a trace of a disrupted surface. How could she do that?

A snapper mother’s role is finished when the nest is buried. She doesn’t lurk nearby to watch the eggs and protect the young hatchlings, but leaves them entirely on their own. Mammals find many of the nests and relish the nutritious eggs. If the nest isn’t found, the eggs will hatch in August, and the young will either make their way to water or hide out until the following spring. Even when small, snappers are unmistakable­sharp claws on the feet, large head and long tail. Once I counted 18 over a half-hour period as they hatched, dug out of the ground, and made their way down the path.

Mother snapper’s goal now is to get back to the safety of the water. It takes great effort to haul her exhausted body over land so the journey takes her a long, long time. She’ll walk a short distance, then rest a while, then drag herself a little further on before resting again. Many times, she’ll have to cross roads to get back to the body of water she calls home. That’s where she’s most vulnerable. Cars do take the lives of many snappers.

Once back in her element, she’ll recover, feeding on fish, crayfish, reptiles, birds, small mammals, and plant material. When winter comes, she’ll hibernate in the muddy bottom or under a log or some submerged debris and wait until spring comes around again. Then when the early summer rains soften the soil, she’ll haul herself out of the water and start the journey again.

Maybe next year I should set up a sandbox. Do you think she’d use it?

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener