Up Moses Creek: Snapper, Part II
A snapping turtle opens its eye wide. Christian Alessandro Perez photo
(Editor’s note: The first installment of this story was published in the May 10 issue of The Smoky Mountain News and is online here.)
Snapper’s usual breathing spot in our pond is next to a flat rock that juts out from the bank a few inches under water. Every 15 to 20 minutes the turtle swims out from under the rock, turns and clasps it with its front claws, then extends its neck slowly up toward the surface until just its head is out. Its breathing stance is so exact that if you took snapshots day after day, all of them would seem to be duplicates — except that in one a cloud is reflected in the water, and in another an electric-blue damselfly perches like a hood ornament on the tip of the turtle’s horny snout.
One day we invited friends to join us on the porch for lunch and Snapper viewing. Both are keen nature observers, and the husband, a retired biology professor, is an avid photographer. Fred got out of his car with a camera outfitted with a super-telephoto zoom lens. There was something lethal looking about that long, black lens. I quipped that it could pass for the scope on a sniper’s rifle. Fred laughed, said he hunted when he was young and admitted that photographing a wild animal did bring the hunter out in him a little.
We sat on the porch eating sandwiches, with the camera at the ready. Fred said if he got a good shot, he’d send us a copy. We watched and ate and talked quietly, and watched and talked quietly — for over two hours. But Snapper never showed.
Maybe Fred’s camera made him look like a one-eyed, flesh-eating Cyclops to the turtle, giving it second thoughts about coming to the surface. Or maybe the turtle just chose that particular midday to practice for winter hibernation by holding its breath.
Finally, Fred walked down to the pond to photograph the compliant damselflies. We watched him move forward in a slight crouch, lifting the heavy camera from time to time. Then he and Marianna left. I wondered if they thought we had led them on about our turtle. Come to think of it, I can’t remember anyone else ever having seen it!
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Once a neighbor did ask if she could tempt the turtle up by feeding it chicken necks — so her granddaughter could see the beast. We nipped that idea in the bud. The pond is clothing-optional, and I don’t want Snapper to spot me floating above and think, “Chicken neck.”
After Fred and Marianna left, the day turned hot and muggy, so Becky went for a cooling float. No sooner had she gotten back to the porch than I heard her say, “He’s up!” And there was Snapper in the usual spot, as if posing for a picture. I swam later, and when I was back on the porch, Snapper rose again, picture perfect.
Not satisfied with sightings from the porch, one afternoon I crept to the pond and sat on a rock nearby. I was as still as a statue, my binoculars trained on the breathing spot. The sun was out, the day hot. Sweat dripped off my elbows. A fly walked around on the back of my neck. And on the submerged flat rock, as if to divert me in the everlasting interlude, some toothpick of a creature swayed from side to side on legs no thicker than hairs.
When, all of a sudden, there rose behind it a monstrous brown and yellow head. It filled my binocular lenses and my eyes. Claws came out and clasped the rock. A leathery neck began to lengthen. Then two nostrils showed above the surface, looking like twin craters on the tip of a volcanic island cone. Now, so slow the movement seemed tectonic, an eye emerged from the water, its black pupil contracting in the light, while the yellow iris grew wide.
I was stunned by the celestial beauty of that eye. It looked like the solar eclipse I’d seen in 2017 when — Moses Creek becoming still and dark — the sun turned into a black pupil in the sky. Not vacant black, not flat black, but, at totality, a glossy, brimful, almost see-through jet black, surrounded by a yellow corona raying out to points.
Twice I watched the turtle’s eyelid slowly close. Then the eye and head were gone, leaving behind nothing but a widening ripple on the pond’s surface. I realized that I had moved a finger. That slight movement and Snapper’s vanishing were one.
Burt and Becky Kornegay live in Jackson County. To see more work from photographer Christian Alessandro Perez, visit alephrocco.com.
