The Staying Power of Snapping Turtles Running across the
Dartmouth College campus in Hanover, New Hampshire, around the
western edge of Occum Pond, I spot a tiny snapping turtle
alongside the road, motionless as if contemplating its future,
which would have included trying to cross the road had I not
intervened. The turtle is black, the size of a half-dollar, all
legs and tail and neck (even at this tender age). Its eyes are
mustard-colored, bright and inquisitive, its face hawklike,
though it doesn’t snap as I hold it between thumb and
forefinger. On the turtle’s cross-shaped lower shell, called the
plastron, is a soft yellow oval with a tiny vertical slit, the
remnant of the yolk sac and its omphalic connection to the
hatchling, a mother turtle’s only investment in her offspring
besides her placement of the nest. The carapace, or upper shell,
is crenellated, the margins spiky; three rows of sharp little
points run down its middle like an archipelago. Unlike a box
turtle, there’s not much room for a hatchlin