The man who shot snapping turtles essays

The Chilean Islands include Chile's last calm Baldubia temperate forest, which is listed as the most ecological region of the highest priority in Latin America, and has important global biological identity and conservation priorities Dinerstein et al. It is one of the few uncultivated forests in Southern corn, and it consists of various kinds of forests and tree species.

Staten Island has a wide variety of wildlife. Wildlife discovered in Staten Island includes hundreds of birds from 24 in to 2, in , as well as hundreds of bird species including vultures and turkeys. In Staten Island there are horseshoe crabs, cotton hares, Possum, raccoons, garter snakes, toads, toads, toad frogs in the spring, leopard frogs, foxes, wolves, northern snapping turtle, and common snapping turtles.

Susan Fox Rogers - Journal - Snapping Turtle Rescue

Safari hunting and hunting of local residents are prohibited. In , only hunting of wildlife is permitted, hunting of local residents will benefit some local GMA community members and still be effectively prohibited. Should Hunting Wildlife be Banned? Vets do not recommend that you adopt a wild turtle. Removing a turtle from nature causes stress; they crave the familiar. Their very presence is a reproach; they do not multitask but move deliberately, each sluggish step a rebuke of our distracted, hurried days.

They measure us against the ages, then blink and look away. Turtles make odd pets. Their ways are not ours. Even in the egg, they take cues from their environment. Hotter nests hatch females; cooler nests hatch males. Their sex is betrayed by the color of their eyes. Turtles do not raise their young.

Different Aspects of Culture in Hemingway, Wilson and O’Connor Exploratory Essay

Their affection is hard won; they do not kiss or jump or play. Toothless contrarians, they are out of synch with the human world—they were here first and run on an older, slower clock. And yet in one regard turtles seem like model citizens of today. Faced with the ancient dilemma of fight or flight, they take a third path—ducking their heads and sheltering in place—which strikes me as a perfectly modern if ultimately inadequate response to an anxious, overwhelming age.

The three-toed box turtle is the state reptile of Missouri, where I have lived for the past five years. The large city park at the end of my block is home to box turtles, snapping turtles, and red-eared sliders—plus a playground with a number of giant turtle statues. This summer, the city drained one of the waterways to repair a bridge. The turtles are expected to have more space next year. My 6-year-old shares my affinity. She sleeps with a stuffed turtle, among other plush creatures.

At the pool, she clings to my back as we swim—turtle-style—underwater. Her elementary school has a box turtle club that so far she has been too young to join. They are part of a zoo program that tracks turtles in the park by tagging them with radio transmitters. Each turtle emits its own frequency.

I wonder how my turtle neighbors are feeling these days. My daughter is desperate for a pet, any pet.


We once kept a ladybug for months—and even took it with us on spring break. We walk in the wooded part of the park all the time, but we have never come upon a turtle. The brush is pretty thick. The other day, a friend gave me a line on a bunch of turtles hanging out by a small waterfall, but by the time I showed up, they were gone.

Memoirs of Hecate County

And yet this is but a pose—the piece becomes a slow burn. Hoagland never rants; he simply catalogs what he sees, and by doing so mounts a devastating critique of how we treat nature. Hoagland is perhaps most keenly aware of his own culpability and cruelty.

Good Morning, Buffalo

The creature comes to exasperate him—and so he decides to free it by tossing it into the Hudson River which ends up being too deep and rough for the terrapin to swim. Rage, frustration, regret—all remain muted. Instead, Hoagland fixes his attention on his own savage indifference. The essayist laments his mistakes and misjudgments, but how well can we ever really know another creature? Our hearts and minds are so different. But what if we shared the same language? One of my earliest school memories involves taking turns at the class computer, an Apple II that would chug and clank and beep as it booted up its green monochrome screen. Operating the computer was high stakes; none of us had one at home, and pressing the wrong button led to embarrassing noises that would signal the teacher that we had made the thing go haywire. I must have been in first or second grade.

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The lesson: something about geometry, or maybe the first inklings of computer science. The triangle, which was shaded a bit on the nose and left a ghostly green trail, was supposed to be a turtle with a pen attached to its shell. By giving it commands—right 90, forward 20, left 45, back 10, and so forth—you could draw lines, shapes, even pictures, if you had the patience. None of us were very good what did we know of angles, Cartesian coordinates, and recursive routines? In actuality, the game turned out to be an exercise in careful transcription. The turtle was just a gimmick, something cute and familiar to spirit us into an unnatural world.

I recall being thoroughly confused. What made this triangular a turtle? What made a word a command? What was the point?

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Draw a box. Draw a star. To do so required a leap of imagination, a perceptual shift. The goal was not to transform ourselves into beasts but machines —to become the computer, to think how it thought, to learn its limitless and yet limited logic, which had we in fact grasped how to play the game would allow us to write and debug our own code. The first Logo turtle was a real-life robot on wheels that drew pictures on the floor, but its popularity took off after it shed its shell for a purely digital onscreen form. I am surprised at the number of Logo fans still around.

What remains hazy for me was apparently a big deal in the history of early childhood education. There are more than a few turtle videos and simulators. The instructions start off charmingly almost achingly rudimentary. Type any word or sentence to get a feel for the touch of the keyboard. Later chapters involve drawings of startling complexity. A medium is born, and it seems a short leap from the popularization of the turtle to the rise of the mouse—creatures nosing their way and ours through virtual space.

But first just imagine having to spend class time acclimating children to the digital world! The turtle knows we are already hooked. I once spent a week hunting fossils in the North Dakota Badlands with a paleontologist, who—despite the drama of digging for larger beasts your T. He has amassed a world-class fossil collection: shells painstakingly pieced together; drawers of skulls, feet, mandibles, and tails, at least one of which was nightmarishly long; a cluster of turtles still half-buried in the dirt; a delicately curled five-clawed foot made up of countless perfect little bones.

Turtles are plentiful and leave a vivid fossil record, since their bodies are mostly plate and bone. It is remarkable, evolutionarily speaking, how turtles fused their ribs into a shell, an adaptation that originally might not have been for protection but for digging to seek refuge from the heat.

From the Badlands, I brought home a shard of fossilized shell—with a dappled surface and spongy cross-section—that rests on a bookshelf in my office and reminds me of a bleak, dusty week when extinction seemed so near. The unlucky creatures were trapped and killed by drought—a hot, slow death. In many ways, turtles seem obviously, eternally doomed—such easy prey. And yet these hardy burrowers survived the global cataclysm that killed off the dinosaurs: an asteroid collision that caused a massive thermal pulse that scorched the earth and turned the climate cold by blocking out the sun and then hot through the release of CO2.

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