Keith Burgess-Jackson, J.D., Ph.D.

4-17-89 Monday. I was on a flat stretch of roadway about seventeen miles into yesterday’s bike ride when I saw a medium-sized snapping turtle about a foot into the highway. The area, which is near the Navasota River, is low and marshy, so there are probably lots of turtles, snakes, and frogs around. The turtle appeared to be alive, so I came to a stop, shut off my odometer to prevent time from elapsing, and walked back to see. Cars were coming, so I walked on the highway to keep them away. When I got there, the turtle—about the size of a large frying pan—opened its jaws and hissed at me, but I knew it couldn’t hurt me if I picked it up by its shell. The next question was what to do with it. The turtle was pointed toward the far side of the road, so I walked across and deposited the creature in the grass, a good fifty feet from the road. This was my best guess as to where the turtle “wanted” to be. I doubt that it had made it across four lanes of highway without being hit, so it must have just gotten onto the road, and that means it was on its way across. Hence, I helped it get to its destination—or so I hoped. When I resumed my ride, my first thought was “What difference did that make? What’s one tur­tle? Was it even worth my time to keep it alive?”. The answer seemed clearly to be “Yes”, but I don’t know why.