A neighbor taught me “trout-lines,”
Said they were named after trout
Having been gone for centuries,
If they ever were here to be run off
By poisons more filthy than death.
(Even he, in his sixties, didn’t know
They were actually called “trot-lines.”)
Still some species of hardier stuff,
All ugly (why does ugliness survive?) —
Carp, suckers, bullhead and catfish —
Seem to thrive in a watercourse
The sun cannot pierce or illuminate.
The trot-line is for the lazy “angler,”
A stout length of cord with a big hook
Baited with a small fish and weighted
With a heavy lead sinker and thrown
Out as far as possible and left.
I would check mine every few hours.
Often when I was rod fishing I’d be
More intent on the trot-line because
The hope was to catch something big.
Day after day the line would droop,
Swaying in the Kishwaukee’s current.
Then the line went taut and walked
Upstream. Dad was mowing the lawn
Behind me. I shouted but he didn’t hear.
I pulled and it didn’t seem to resist.
Its head became visible by the pier,
A visitor from prehistory, carapace
Ridged with green diamond shapes.
I tied off the line, went for my Dad,
Who helped me haul the monster up
Onto the bank. “Snapping turtle,”
He said. “They can be dangerous,
But they make great turtle soup.”
He tied it to a tree and ran away,
Leaving it to wander, but thwarted,
When it came close to the river.
Dad returned with a hatchet and stick,
Offered the stick to the turtle’s snout,
Which grabbed, crunching on it.
“You’ll see. He won’t let go,
No matter how hard I pull.”
He meant to chop off its head,
But the beast did let go and bit
My father’s pinky. Blood everywhere.
Dad did take its head, swearing,
Breathing hard, then he threw
The turtle, head still biting the stick,
Hatchet, trot-line, all into the water.
As he walked away, he shouted,
“No more trot-lines. They’re too
Damn dangerous for a little kid.”
I told my neighbor, who said,
“I’d call him a damn fool, wasting
Good turtle soup, but I don’t say
Things like that to a neighbor’s son.”
