Snapping Turtle on the New Moon

My girlfriend found a snapping turtle in Minnesota at the last full moon; that is pretty normal. The females usually lay their eggs during the full moon in June. They must prefer the cover of darkness, but need the light of the moon to navigate, I don't know. I was out on a walk this evening when I was surprised to stumble upon a female digging a hole for eggs tonight, almost precisely a new moon:





Not only that, but she was out before dark. Maybe this is her first time, or maybe she mated late, or maybe the ground wasn't right two weeks ago. The latter doesn't seem right, though. I found traces of another nest that had been laid a while back.

The usual procedure is that a female will come up ten or twenty feet from the water, bloated with water, and urinates on the site she chooses to lay her eggs. She then digs with her hind feet:



After that, she'll lay her eggs and pack the dirt down hard on top again. Only the strongest of the young ones even manage to escape the hole; they wait for a good rain and hope to dig their way to the surface. If they're lucky, the ground will cave in and give them an exit. Such a cave-in is also the best chance we have of locating and 'rescuing' the little ones. One year, we dug almost 20 of them out of a hole. They're about the size of a quarter and surprisingly cute. We used to raise a couple of them on turtle food when we were kids, but we never kept one bigger than the size of a fist or so. They get pretty vicious, even if unintentionally.

Apparently this female tonight wasn't too enthusiastic about finishing tonight, though, because when I stopped by again on my way back from the walk, she'd left the hole she'd started and headed back toward the water:



She wasn't agressive at any point in this; maybe they act a little differently when they're out to lay eggs.

Some neighbors of ours caught and cooked one a few years back, so I can say that I've eaten snapping turtle meat. It's pretty terrible and tastes like mud. I could give details about how they killed it, but for once I'll spare you the details. Suffice it to say, there is a reason these critters have survived since the time of the dinosaurs.

A State of National Non-Being

I woke up this morning and looked out the window to find a large thunderhead to the south of our place, expanding out our direction. I was up earlier than usual this morning, so I sat down and watched a little Good Morning America. The weather guy came on. He drew close attention to the situation of extreme heat in the Southwest, which is important. He zoomed out to a view of the whole country and there in the middle was the storm system I saw earlier, making a sweep across Nebraska into South Dakota. Standing back and looking at the map, he said, "Country-wide, no one's looking to get rain today."

As we drove to town this morning, the raindrops trickling down the windshield of the pickup, I contemplated the wash of non-being cresting over the hills of fly-over country: I am no one.

Ducks and Swallows

We've been cutting in some alfalfa the last few days. It's really good, thick hay. What's especially satisfying about it is that you can tell the difference between what's cut and what's not. The dark green grass is in neat rows and in between are dark brown roots and stems.

I narrowly avoided two ducks who were nesting out in the field, but I can't speak so confidently about their nests. I try to pick up the header just in case it's not too late. One of the ducks escaped way off to the side of the swather, so I had no time to react. Luckily, on my next pass, I noticed a white patch just inside the path of my previous pass. Getting down to inspect, I was pleasantly surprised to find four unbroken eggs:



I piled up some grass around them to help hide them and their mommy from unwanted guests:



Maybe she'll go back...maybe not. It was sheer luck that they weren't crushed in the first place, so any chance they have after that is a second shot at life. Speaking of a second shot, I found a swallow nest near our house a couple nights ago. What I noticed first was not the nest, but the little chick underneath it. It had fallen out of the nest and, as I looked more closely, it was still breathing:



Ugly little thing, but kinda cute in its own way. I managed to squeeze him back into the nest overhead, so maybe momma will feed him? He's got a better chance there than on the ground below, at least.

I've been involved in a wedding the last couple days, so not much ranching stuff has been on my agenda lately.