It is a rare event when something happens to you that is so strange, you feel compelled to immediately write down what just took place. Yet that is just what happened to me last summer, and after showering, I sat down at the computer and began to type.
I live along the banks of Bacon Creek in Sheridan, Michigan, and I get to see a great deal of wildlife going about it’s business throughout the days. I had been watching a Great Blue Heron hunting along the bank of a large pond in my front yard on a Sunday last May. Normally, when I blunder outside, he flies off, but this time, maybe because I was quite far away and sitting still, he tolerated me. I watched him successfully nabbing fish for about fifteen minutes as he walked and waded his favorite side of my pond, sometimes up on the bank, and sometimes knee-deep and poised for action. A lightening quick thrust of his bill into the water, a hearty splash, a flash of silver, a vigorous shaking of the head…and down goes lunch.
When he got to the pond’s Northeast corner, where it’s a little deeper just offshore, and where several seven-foot saplings are growing out of the water, he started to exhibit some behavior I had never seen before. He began to beat his wings on the ponds surface. He would flap them three or four times, and then give a little lurch, and then rest. He seemed stuck in that one area. After only thirty or forty seconds of this, he had managed to flap his way half onto the bank. He rested his head and neck on the bank with his huge wings outstretched on the water. Then after a few moments, he again started flapping…sending up tremendous splashes, but not really going anywhere. I thought for a second maybe the poor guy had become tangled in the tree limbs or something, but his wings appeared to be working fine. So I wondered if maybe one of his legs was in trouble. Maybe caught on root? Something had him pretty riled, and in the back of my mind a gnawing dread began to form. I went over to investigate.
As I neared, he was watching me, but made no attempt to flee. I walked right over to him, and I pondered my next move. No heron had ever let me get anywhere near this close, so I knew at that point he was in need of assistance. I maneuvered my way down the four-foot slope and stepped into the water. The big guy flapped and lurched and moved a foot or so away from me, and away from the bank. I slowly edged next to him, looking him right in the eye. I stared at his impressive bill–so close and colorful. I can’t begin to describe how vibrant and beautiful it was. The water was well above my knees as I reached beneath the surface and grasped his leg. It felt surprisingly cold and very strong and springy, like an old waterlogged tree root. I got a firm grip above his knee and gently pulled upward. I felt some resistance down there, as if his foot was attached to a bungee cord, but suddenly he squawked (honked?) loudly several times right in my ear and made a lunging motion at my head, scaring the daylights out of me and causing me to drop his leg.
He flapped a few feet farther out towards the center of the pond. If I wanted to try again I was going to get a lot wetter. Not a decision arrived at instantly, I confess–I had to think about it for a few seconds. But I had come this far. I couldn’t just go back onshore and watch him die, could I? So I waded out a little further and came along side my Great Blue Buddy, who was floating low, and looking at me with a fair amount of alarm. The water was above my belt as I reached beneath him, found his leg and once more began to slowly pull upward.
The magnificent bird squawked again, but otherwise remained still, so I was able to lift his leg for the one extra second that it took, until suddenly–ALL WAS REVEALED! A giant Snapping Turtle popped into view. Not just the head–the whole enchilada–Bam! Just beneath the surface. Entirely visible. Sixteen inch shell, at least. Right in front of me. He came up so close, he was almost touching me. His head was as big as my fist. The birds ankle was clamped in his powerful jaws. His poor little foot looked tiny and helpless.
As you might imagine, I was a little freaked out. One minute I’m minding my own business enjoying nature’s wonders, and the next minute I’m in the waist-deep in the middle of an episode of Wild Kingdom.
What happened next is kind of a blur, because it happened so fast. I still had a hold of the bird. With my free hand I grabbed the Snappers tail. The second I did that, he released his hold on the heron. (thank goodness; I don’t know what I would have done had the guy decided to hang on. I still don’t know.)
I saw the reptile’s ugly head let loose its death-grip, and shoot back, piston like. So I, too, let go of the heron’s leg, and using both hands, I tossed the heavy turtle onto the grassy slope just behind me (quickly shedding my new sidekick.)
I had barely enough time to turn back aroun
I had barely enough time to turn back around and watch my beautiful Great Blue struggle to take off, straight across the pond, slapping the water with his wingtips. He just managed to get airborne, clearing the far bank by only a few feet, and then he was gone. When I turned back to land, I saw the Snapper watching his supper fly away. He was plodding back down to the pond as I exited the muck and scrambled up the slope. We passed each other separated only by our thoughts–and a thin coat of algae. I stood on the grass and felt a rush of adrenalin, (a bit tardy), and I wondered how long it would be before I saw either of those creatures again.
I have since come to the conclusion the Snapper let go because I had his tail in one hand, and the Heron’s leg in the other. I was holding them both up by the surface of the water. Both ends of turtle were monopolized. If he wanted to flee, he had no choice but to release his prey, and try to dive. Either that, or maybe grabbin
Either that, or maybe grabbing his tail without warning just shocked him to his very core. I do know that the beast surfaced in the exact right spot–between me and the bird. Had he come up on the other side, things might have gotten trickier.
The Heron has returned a few times in the following month, and I was very glad to see him, but a little too nervous to enjoy it much.
