As I straightened up to give my aching lower back a rest, I looked over the assorted entrails and miscellaneous fluids splashed across the table in front of me. It then occurred to me I’d rather be playing cards.

On a whim, I had decided to go turtle-catching.

The common snapping turtle, those moss-covered second cousins of the alligator, are found throughout the state in almost any body of water that doesn’t dry up during the summer months.  The problem is catching and dispatching the foul-tempered beasts because the snapping turtle is the Sherman tank of the aquatic world.

Aside from a tough shell and long claws, the jaws of the snapper are some of the most fearsome dentures of any local wildlife.  The turtle doesn’t have actual teeth, but rather bony gums forming a self-whetting pair of meat cleavers attached to a creature with a terminal bad attitude.  Should a stray finger get too close to the lightning-fast head, any future typing assignments might be tough.

The easiest and probably most productive method for catching turtles is by the use of a setline.  My rig this night consisted of a medium-sized trotline hook tied to three feet of heavy cord and affixed to a plastic milk jug, which was in turn tied to a stake on shore.  The bait was two inch cubes of venison shoulder brought from the freezer.  Five of the floats were tossed into nearby pond just after dark and I retired from the field of honor.

The next morning was one of those fine specimens of a late summer dawn in Indiana.  Before first light I made my way down the dirt lane to the pond, shivering slightly in the cool air while marveling (and avoiding) thousands of dewy spider webs that shimmered like golden lace at the first hint of sunlight over the treetops.

Cresting a small rise I could see the pond and my jugs, one of which was dancing wildly, straining against the heavy black cord anchored to shore.  Moments later, after a brief tug-of-war, I was the proud owner of a large, hissing, unhappy snapping turtle.  It was given temporary residence in a large plastic bucket while I checked the other lines.

The catch for the night amounted to one snapper and two other lesser turtles: a small soft-shell and a painted pond slider.  The pond slider and soft-shell were gingerly released and I headed home to begin the chore of unzipping my snapper.

Turtles have the reputation for being difficult to clean.  Essentially, you must dismember the armor-plated beast and then skin the various legs and tail to access the meat.  This seems fairly simply in theory, but actual practice is another story.   There was also the not-insignificant fact that, while I have been witness to many a turtle-cleanings, this was my first time to wield the knife.

Approaching the outdoor operating table with the confident air of a surgeon, I surveyed the situation.  My victim had already been humanely killed by chopping off the head, but this did not really seem to deter the turtle.  The legs were still flailing and would actually attempt to push and scratch when touched.  In fact the turtle still seemed quite healthy, aside from its missing head.  Confidence was beginning to fade.

I now began the process of cutting away the lower carapace to expose the insides.  Needless to say, the turtle was having none of this affair and continued its vain and ghoulish struggles.  As time passed, my mood went from Confident to Bothered and finally onward to Seriously Disturbed.  Trying to cut up a zombie turtle was not really on the agenda for the morning.

Forging ahead, I managed to remove the lower shell and found myself wrist-deep in a ready-made bowl full of turtle glop.   I began flailing away, cutting, gouging, pulling and occasionally pounding for good effect, but with no real discernible results other than managing to splash an assortment of vile, foul-smelling juices onto my arms, shirt and face.  The meaty portions of the beast remained firmly anchored while all manner of repulsive things continued to spill onto the table and continue on over the side, ending up on my boots.

Eventually, two large plastic bags of meat were recovered from the loathsome parade of turtle giblets covering the entire tabletop.  The butchering process had taken over an hour, not including the clean-up, which would eventually require a pressure washer and bleach scrub down of the area.  I now understood why some people pay to have their turtles cleaned by someone else.

Several pounds of meat were taken from this turtle and it now sits in my refrigerator awaiting a decision on its final fate.  However we decide to use it, I’m sure the results will be worth the trouble- provided the smell comes out of my boots.

photo: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

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