Turtles of Billy Creek

A small notice in the paper intrigued me. I drove to Billy Creek to join a group of intrepid explorers. Or so I thought…

Funny how with very little information your imagination fills in all the gaps until a sketchy idea morphs into something wonderful. And then, when reality hits, you’re acutely disappointed. You’ve completely forgotten how much you invented in your own mind.

The notice in the paper simply said “Find Turtles at Billy Creek with Professor P.” Sounded great. I like turtles. I like splashing in a creek. I put on my wet shoes and clamdiggers and traveled an hour to the meetup. I pictured there’d be a handful of like-minded adults and we’d have a lovely afternoon creekside, listening to woodsy folklore.

So I was startled to find about a hundred families at the meeting place, each with two or three noisy kids in tow. The Turtle Professor looked stunned as well. His enthusiastic assistant explained she plastered social media with the event, and folks turned out in droves.

As we milled around, a few hapless turtles were deployed to a plastic tub and immediately manhandled by a phalanx of children.

The Professor, sans microphone and in a thin voice, started talking. No one could hear him over the din of children, and thus we were all sufficiently surprised when he thrust his hand into a gunny sack and pulled out several snakes. Even the adults shrieked.

It was like Snake Handling Sunday in Appalachia when he passed around a juvenile eastern rattler. The wisdom of this action can be discussed later…

The professor made a garbled announcement, pointed at the tree line, and trotted across a soccer field at a brisk clip. He jumped a ditch and dove into the woods, headed for a small path along the creek. A handful of us kept up with him, while families burdened with toddlers and strollers were left behind to wonder what was going on.

He did pause, once, to point out a bald cypress.

After this unnecessary trot along Billy Creek, we ended up at a swampy pond rimmed with cattails. (It was steps away from where we started if he’d just turned right.)

We watched from a weedy shoreline as Turtle Dundee launched knee-deep into the murky pond to retrieve traps set the night before.

A couple of surprised turtles were unceremoniously plucked from the net and briefly held aloft. A strong-armed teenager volunteered to chuck them back in the water. The kid wound up like a major league pitcher and hurled one unfortunate creature an alarming distance. I feared for the turtle’s life.

Disheartened, I backed off from the crowd and found a quiet spot to stand. A news photographer was nearby. “Hey,” I said. “Grrrr,” he replied and huffed off, irritated. It doesn’t surprise me anymore. Pros always treat me like I’m a threat to their livelihood when I show up with a camera.

When the professor slogged into another inaccessible section of swamp, I decided I’d had enough.

I backtracked along Billy Creek, blissfully alone with my thoughts, and spent some time wading in the cool water.

Later I saw the crowd had re-formed under the pavilion, perhaps there was more to the presentation, but my misadventure was over. I headed for the car.

Next time I read about an event I won’t let my imagination get so carried away.
I’ll stick to my own creek full of turtles.