Painted turtles nest as spring waters warm

The water temperature at the landing reaches sixty-eight degrees, and the painted turtles begin their move to land. Along the Hudson River near Rhinecliff, this warming triggers one of the most vulnerable journeys in the turtle's year. Females that have spent months underwater, breathing through their skin and moving slowly beneath the ice, now carry eggs that demand sun-warmed soil.

A painted turtle climbs onto the muddy bank in late afternoon, her shell dark with river water. She moves with deliberate weight, each step testing the ground ahead. Her claws grip the earth as she searches for the right spot: loose soil that drains well, open to the sun, safe from flooding when summer rains come. This is not the quick dash of a bird to its nest. This is a creature built for water, navigating a world of roots and stones and predators that move faster than she does.

The turtle digs with her hind feet, scooping soil in small amounts, shaping a flask-shaped chamber six inches deep. Her body covers the entrance as she works, hiding the excavation from the crows and raccoons that patrol these banks. The digging takes two hours. She lays eight white eggs, each the size of a grape, soft-shelled and leathery to the touch. The eggs settle into the chamber she has carved, and she covers them with the same careful motions, packing the soil firm, brushing loose dirt over the surface until the site looks undisturbed.

These eggs will spend ninety days in the ground, warmed by the sun that filters through the red oak canopy above. The temperature of the soil determines whether the hatchlings will be male or female. Cool soil produces males, warm soil produces females. The turtle has no control over this, but her choice of nesting site matters completely. Too much shade and the eggs develop slowly, vulnerable longer to the skunks that dig at night. Too much sun and the embryos die in the heat of August. She chooses a spot where the light changes as the leaves fill out, where the soil stays warm but not scorching.

The painted turtle returns to the water as darkness comes. She will not see her eggs again. The hatchlings, if they survive, will dig themselves out in late summer and walk to the river guided by the reflection of sky on water. Many will not make this journey. The great blue herons know about turtle nests. The raccoons know. The invasive garlic mustard that spreads along the bank changes nothing about this ancient timing, but it changes the ground cover where the turtles must walk.

The water laps against the landing where she disappeared. Somewhere beneath the surface, she moves through the quiet world she knows, while above her, the eggs rest in soil that holds the heat of the day.