Floater

When I arrive at the cottage late afternoon, I unload the car and then unpack only the refrigerated food before heading down to the dock. My hello to the lake, always the first thing I want to do. I look down into the water, then out across it—to the east and north. Then south, and whaaat is that, floating close to shore?! A big critter of some sort, dead, with whitish—fur? I cannot imagine what it is. I go back up to the cottage for my phone, the only camera I have. From the dock, I enlarge as much as possible, but the image still doesn’t give me the answer. By its size, I figure it must be a mammal, but that tail doesn’t fit. It looks reptilian. I decide I’ll go out in the canoe in the morning to look close up. But then I think again: this should not wait till tomorrow. Getting a better view from shore means bushwhacking through a thicket of vegetation, but I have to find out. The cell camera enlargement from this vantage astounds me. I have never seen the underside of a snapping turtle, but that’s what this creature has to be. Belly up, exposing all that it owns. It’s enormous—manhole cover, Dad would have said. I’d seen others this size here in our Wisconsin lake and elsewhere, though rarely. I know enough to fear them, or at least respect them. (Sometimes, that’s the same thing.) And I know to simply be awestruck. The sight of this one is both fascinating and repulsive. Also, something more.

It is getting on to evening and time for a walk to shake off four hours of road dust. Then a drink and dinner. Tomorrow, I’ll canoe out, maybe lay a paddle alongside the turtle and take a picture to show relative size. I can see that it’s huge, but you can’t tell that from my photo.

By morning, though, the situation has changed entirely. There will be no getting near the fly-covered carcass; it stinks so horribly that it’s unbearable to even stand on the dock for long. The turtle seems to be closer to our shore now and mired in weeds. It is not likely to drift away soon.

Later, I do take the canoe out—launching as fast as I can and inhaling as little as possible, heading north. I’m doing my usual tour of the shoreline, my favorite activity on the water. It’s late in the season, and the water is sparkling clear. I look over the edge, seeing bluegills, bass, the occasional northern pike. It pleases me to ID a rock bass from its red eye. Hearkening back to my years of fishing, I try to keep track of how many keeper-size fish I see. My heart races when I spot a big one. I glimpse turtles, too, swimming well below the surface.

On my homeward stretch, a few dwellings south of the cottage, I hear my name being called. It’s the chatty neighbor I sometimes try to avoid, a year-round resident, trotting down to the shore. Parrying his questions about how long was I up for and when might he stop over, I pivot to my snapper story. I give him the full build-up. Then I pull in alongside his dock to show him the photo, hoping my phone won’t wind up in the lake. He is duly impressed. And he tells his own story of a dead fox in the water and stinking, near the end of winter. Some of the year-rounders had gotten together and buried it to be free of the stench. He tells me about his grandkids’ long summer visit, and who he has spotted at my place and chatted up earlier in the season. (A lake community can be like a fishbowl—nothing goes unobserved.) I listen patiently, and when I finally paddle off, there is no mention of visiting again later on.

I don’t like the idea that I am now barred from spending time around my dock because of fumes from an animal corpse, but there is nothing to be done. So, the next morning when I venture down to the shore to check conditions, I am amazed (and thrilled!) to discover that the turtle—and its smell—are gone. Did John round up some neighbors and tow it away? I cannot picture the specifics of such an undertaking, and I don’t much want to. I am just relieved.

After returning home, I tell the story of the giant belly-up snapper a number of times. I show the photo, make it a guessing game: What do you think this is?  In my telling, the turtle evokes my wonder, revulsion, curiosity. A stinking body, a deceased beast. But I always skirt around the part that is harder to tell: That it took a long time to grow that snapping turtle. That they are ancient creatures—venerable, in my estimation, despite their reputation for nastiness and for the damage those jaws and claws can do. That the thing staying with me is the tenderness I felt for the animal—robbed of its dignity, along with its power. Only now do I think: if I had it to do over, I’d go out there and turn it right-side up.