Baby Blanchard's

On my journey to find all of Ohio’s amphibians (and everything else), I occasionally receive recommendations from other frog enthusiasts regarding new locations to search.  Without the help of others who know the animals and their habitats better than I do, I would have little chance of discovering them all on my own.  For anyone who has helped me or who will help me in the future, I am eternally grateful.  

A double-crested cormorant drifted offshore, looking as primitive and mysterious as Loch Ness herself.  She remained above the water’s surface for only moments before diving back down to hunt for fish.  I watched the ripples left by the great water bird undulate slowly out of existence.  Thirty seconds later, she popped up with a large catfish clutched tightly in her long, hooked bill.  Before I could ready my camera, the fish disappeared down the bird’s gullet with one quick upward thrust of the neck.  

Satisfied with her meal, the cormorant drifted in my direction.  She stopped at a tree stump protruding like a little stage from the water and hopped up, knocking off a basking turtle in the process.  Like a dog shaking water from its coat after a swim, the tall, black bird began to rapidly wave her wings, drying them in the sun’s rays.  I could see the cormorant’s striking orange face and teal, jewel-like eyes.  Primitive and beautiful, she was a magnificent creature of another world.

I believe that is part of the appeal of herping and birding.  Meeting wildlife on their own terms transports us into their world.  When I look into the face of a snake periscoping above the tall grass, or watch a bird perch and tilt its head, contemplating my presence, I leave behind the bustle and stress of the human world.  For that moment, I can imagine what it is like to live free and wild.  This is, of course, my own imagination.  These animals live in my world; they are affected by my presence.  

Nature is not a vacuum; it is constantly under pressure from human influence.  It is this fact that makes wildlife watching so urgent—to see and experience as much as possible while it is still here.  This is a sad truth that only education and conservation efforts can remedy.

I had traveled to Ohio's Franklin County in search of Blanchard's cricket frogs (Acris blanchardi).  A location where the frogs were “ubiquitous” had been recommended to me by a fellow lover of frogs.  Cricket frogs can only be found in the western two-thirds of the state and require large, permanent ponds and lakes.  Upon arrival, I scanned the vast prairie plantings ending abruptly in wide, crystal clear pools—ideal habitat.  

That morning, I purchased a net in anticipation of a day hunting frogs.  As I walked among tall, spiky plants, mud and clay squishing beneath my boots, I quickly netted my first frog.  Upon closer inspection, I realized my catch was a northern leopard frog (Rana pipiens).  Its body was an elegant grass green, polka-dotted with black spots.  

As I released the leopard frog, something very small hopped out of my way.  My first thought was “baby peeper.”  But as I looked closer, what I had mistaken as a faint X (the peeper’s characteristic pattern) was actually a series of tiny warts.  This frog was bumpy.  "Cricket frog!” I exclaimed to myself.  I quickly realized my net was useless.  This frog, mere millimeters in length, would fall right through the holes in the mesh.  Carefully, I scooped the little hopper into my hand.  

Like spring peepers and chorus frogs, cricket frogs belong to the treefrog family (Hylidea).  Unlike other treefrogs, cricket frogs postpone breeding until late spring and early summer.  Some may even continue courting into mid-July (the very time I was searching).  Their call is unmistakable, a click-click-click like two marbles being tapped together.

As I searched more pond edges, I found dozens of the newly metamorphosed cricket frogs.  Some even retained their tadpole tails.  With this copious amount of babies, I was determined to find an adult.  

Every so often, my ear picked up the faint clicking of an adult male’s breeding call.  Playing a recording on my phone, I finally enticed one male to respond.  With two hands, I parted the brush from which the sound was emanating.  There, looking just as surprised as myself, sat the little, warty frog.  He evaded my attempts to catch him several times, but eventually I was successful.  After nearly 5 hours of searching, I was elated to finally have an adult cricket frog.

He was a stunning individual, with bright green markings down his back and the characteristic protruding snout.  Even as an adult, this frog was tiny, under an inch in length.  Cricket frogs lack the wide toe-pads of other tree frogs and come in a variety of colors.  Some are a uniform mud brown, while others display lustrous patterns of green, yellow, or even red.  The colors can lighten or darken depending on temperature, sunlight, and moisture levels.

Like many of Ohio’s herps, Blanchard's cricket frog is listed as a species of concern.  Once one of the most plentiful frogs across the Midwestern US, these tiny frogs have disappeared from much of their range.  This is in part due to loss of habitat as well as other, more mysterious causes.  Climate change, habitat acidification, pollution, disease, and predation have all been implicated in the declines.  In Michigan, the loss of cricket frogs has been almost total.  Repatriation efforts in northern Ohio have had mixed results.  Some of the introduced frogs have reestablished populations while others have not.  Curiously, western Ohio remains a stronghold for this species.

Finally a Foxsnake!

As I stared down at the fat coils of scaly skin conspicuously intertwined with the rocks and vegetation, I knew instantly I was looking at a snake.  I'd seen enough northern watersnakes, which commonly basked along the rocks near the water’s edge, to spot a serpent with little hesitancy.  What did take a moment to process, however, was the pattern.  This snake was different than the nearly black body of the watersnake I had just caught.  Rather than dark, faded blotches, this snake’s body was punctuated with striking brown ovals against a soft, creamy background.  I didn't know whether to believe my eyes.  I blinked, fearing I had projected my field guide onto real life.  Could I really be looking at an eastern foxsnake?  The very species I had traveled here to find.

I quickly shrugged off my stupor, and grabbed hold of the very real snake.  I was unsure of how such a large foxsnake would react.  The only snake of this size I had ever caught was a rather displeased black racer.  To my surprise, the foxsnake allowed itself to be lifted from the stones without distress.  Stretched out, she appeared to be pushing 4.5 feet in length, and was certainly the fattest snake I had ever caught.  Midway down her body, her skin bulged—evidence of a recent meal (perhaps a bullfrog or a chipmunk).  She gripped my hand firmly with her tail, but did not musk or strike.  She simply explored my arms, probing with her brilliantly orange head.

“Foxsnake!  I have one!”  I called to my herping companion, Everrett Meredith.  Everrett was an old high school friend, and a recently converted wildlife enthusiast.  He had abandoned an engineering major to pursue a passion for nature.  He was now studying Environmental and Field Biology at Ohio Northern University and had been racking up lifers by the dozens.  After venturing down the birding rabbit-hole, he had quickly amassed a life list near equal to my own in a fraction of the time.  

I was home in Cleveland for the 4th of July weekend.  Unable to pass up the opportunity to search for some of northern Ohio’s more unusual reptiles, I had been checking out new herping locations each day.  The previous day’s search had taken me to several wetlands along Lake Erie in search of foxsnakes, Blanding’s turtles, and Butler’s garter snakes (turning up empty on all accounts).  Disappointed by my lack of success, I almost decided to stay home and catch up on some reading.  

Luckily, I resolved to ask Everrett to accompany me to a wetland in Erie County known for its Blanding’s turtle population and an abundance of eastern fox snakes.  I knew our chances of finding either of these unusual species was slim, but I decided to give it one last try (I would be heading back down to Athens in a few days).  Everrett agreed to drive us out while my car was in the shop with engine troubles.  

We arrived in the early afternoon; the day was gloomy and humid.  I had been to this wetland once before, in late winter, but never in the summer when reptiles might be active.  As we stepped into the forest, I felt as if we had been transported back in time; the dense canopy and understory enveloped us in lush greenery.  

“Red-headed woodpeckers!” Everrett pointed out.  About five or six of my favorite woodpecker species were flitting about from tree to tree.  Their brilliant scarlet heads and necks were unmistakable, and their striking white wing patches and bellies contrasted sharply with black shoulders and tail feathers.  Usually a noisy species, these woodpeckers were eerily silent.  They were in continuous motion, never resting on any one branch for very long.  An uncommon bird, I had never seen so many red-headed woodpeckers all at once before.  We watched in awe for several minutes, pondering their peculiar behavior, before continuing our hunt for reptiles.

One might suspect the eastern foxsnake's (Pantherophis gloydi) name comes from its elegant colors—the orange head is reminiscent of the majestic red fox.  However, the true origin of the name is somewhat less dignified.  Foxsnake musk is said to resemble the odor excreted from the scent glands of the mammalian fox.  I cannot testify to the accuracy of this claim as the foxsnake I encountered did not musk and I do not know what a real fox smells like.  

What I can confirm, however, is the beauty and gentle disposition of this species.  With their pleasing tan, brown, and orange scales, foxsnakes might be Ohio’s most ornately patterned snakes.  This member of the ratsnake family is one of the most calm snakes, even when encountered in the wild.  While being handled, the individual we found never attempted to bite. 

Only occurring in five of Ohio’s 88 counties, eastern foxsnakes are listed as a state species of concern.  They inhabit the emergent wetlands and woods along Lake Erie and the Lake Erie Islands.  Although they are less adept at climbing than their ratsnake cousins, foxsnakes are more accomplished swimmers.  Like northern watersnakes, foxsnakes commonly bask along the waters edge on large rocks or suspended in short shrubs.  They grow much longer than watersnakes, attaining lengths of more than 5 feet.

Unfortunately, due to their orange or coppery heads, and their tendency to vibrate their tails when feeling threatened, foxsnakes are commonly mistaken for venomous copperheads or timber rattlesnakes.  These harmless, gentle giants are often wrongfully killed due to this confusion.  

I suspect my cheers of delight upon discovery of our foxsnake could have been heard for miles around.  It was such an honor to interact with this beautiful creature that I was sad to see her go.  After snapping some photographs, we released her back among the rocks.  Upon release, I was again surprised by how calmly she retreated.  I watched as her brown and tan pattern slowly dipped below the rocks and out of view.  

I had found renewed optimism in my search for Ohio’s rare and unusual herps.  It was going to take persistence, dedication, and a whole lot of gas money, but I felt certain that these cryptic, scaly or slimy creatures would soon be within arms reach.  We headed for home, feeling exhausted but satisfied.  I stared out my window, imagining the adventures to come.

Henslow's Sparrow and the Search for the Green Salamander

As we drove down 33 towards our impact site, Marcel’s phone was buzzing, continuously overlapping the GPS directions with updates and messages.  A typical field season morning.  One of the messages was from an enthusiastic Dr. Popescu, telling us that his former PhD Adviser, Mac Hunter, would be in town and wanted to see some of our turtles.  We agreed on a date to show off our animals and newly developed telemetry skills, and a week later headed over to OU’s Life Sciences Building to introduce ourselves.

Front to back: Aram Calhoun, Viorel Popescu, Mac Hunter

Mac walked up to me and shook my hand.  He was a tall man, well over six feet, with a lined, rough face.  He reminded me of a mountain, wise, quiet, and perpetually watching the world.  His wife, Aram Calhoun, on the other hand was petite, little more than five feet tall with a contagious enthusiasm.  It struck me that these two had seen the world.  They weren't just travelers, they had studied, examined, and pondered everything they had come across.  Even after years of field work, wildlife was still what fueled them.  They hadn't lost their energy and excitement for the new and unexpected.  They hopped from country to country, and continent to continent seeking out that illusive lifer, or that pesky nemesis.  

A blue grosbeak surveys the fields below.

While traveling the globe in search of every bird family on earth, Mac and Aram had stopped in Athens to see Dr. Popescu and his new lab.  Of the give-or-take 200 bird families, they only had one more to see: a family of creepers in the Philippines.  On their birding extravaganza, they were also recording and identifying everything else they could find—families and species of mammals, fish, reptiles, amphibians, trees, ferns, etc.  They were the kind of scientists who had done it all and seen it all.

After a successful day showing off our turtles, they invited me to come along birding and herping with them the following morning.  I eagerly accepted.  On their target list was the rare Henslow’s sparrow and the state endangered green salamander.  I had never seen either of these species, and was ecstatic at the chance to accompany their search.  

Dr. Popescu picked me up around 6:30 a.m. the following morning, and the four of us drove to Anderson Meadows where the Henslow’s sparrow had recently been reported.  Our van rattled down an old gravel road which opened up into a vast grassland.  As I stepped out of the car, Aram pointed out the call of a bobwhite quail.  I listened as a whistling bob-white, bob-white sounded from the tall grass not far from where we stood.  Dr. Popescu and I exchanged thrilled looks—neither of us had heard the call of a bobwhite before.  It was going to be a good day.

Mac and Aram had brought along a recording of the Henslow’s song to try to entice the bird to fly in.  “The field guides describe it as an unremarkable, two-syllable song,” Aram explained.  Unremarkable was an understatement.  The call was a quiet tsi-lik, lasting little more than a second.  If a bird was singing, identifying the call wasn't the problem, hearing it over the wind and other song birds was.

As we walked down the path, scanning with our eyes and straining our ears, we heard that quiet call, tsi-lik.  Then we heard another, to our right this time. Tsi-lik.  And another.  Tsi-lik.  The birds were all around us.  Binoculars and cameras flew to our eyes as we scanned the grass, searching for movement.  Suddenly, a small, brown bird whizzed over the field and perched on a low shrub.  It was a sparrow, but was it the Henslow’s?  The bird threw back its head and instead of singing tsi-lik, gave a long, insect-like buzz.  “A grasshopper sparrow,” Aram IDed, “also an unusual field species.”  It wasn't our Henslow’s, but it was still a treat.

The rare Henslow's sparrow perches at the tip of a branch.

Our little menagerie of birders finally decided to hike into the field from which the birds were calling.  It was our best chance of seeing a Henslow’s sparrow close enough to identify.  We would have to be slow and silent, and hope that the sparrow would fly to a perch and call.  Grassland birds are much more inclined to run through the brush than fly. 

We fanned out to cover more ground.  I made it within several feet of the calling birds but couldn't get a clear look at them.  After seeing a few fly in the distance, Mac and Aram decided they would mark the Henslow’s sparrow BVD—better view desired.  Then, as we were heading back out to the trail, a Henslow’s sparrow flew right in front of us and perched 20 feet away on a shrub.  We all gasped; it was a fantastic look.  The sparrow even allowed us to edge closer, within 10 feet or so.

With a rare lifer bird to start the morning, we were confident in our prospects of finding a green salamander.  An hour later, we arrived at our destination.  The weather was cool, cloudy, and humid.  If ever there was a day for salamanders, it was today.  

Green salamanders are limited to a few counties in extreme southern Ohio.  These secretive amphibians live in the crevices of limestone and sandstone cliffs.  Their pattern of green flecking allows them to merge perfectly with the green lichens that cover their abode.  During the day, green salamanders remain hidden, tucked away in narrow, moist cracks in the stone’s face.  By night they venture out to hunt for insects and other invertebrates.  

An American toad wedged within the rocks.

As we hiked through the trees, we were quickly confronted by an enormous looming wall of brittle sandstone.  The stone’s surface was pockmarked with holes and crevices, plenty of places for a salamander to hide.  Our team split the rock-face into sections for each of us to search.  Flashlights and phones illuminated the cliff as we peered into crevice after crevice, each time hoping for a little, green face to be looking back at us.

“This is what diving is like, looking in all these rock crevices,” Aram told me.  We searched the cliffs as thoroughly as any herpetologist could.  On two occasions we thought we had found our green salamander, only to realize it was lichen or rocks under closer inspection.  We found other amphibians, an american toad and a pickerel frog, wedged within the stones.  But in the end, we came up empty.  

A pickerel frog lurks under a ledge in the rock-face.

“It might just be too dry,” Dr. Popescu suggested.  It had been a warm week, and there hadn't been any rain.  The salamanders had likely worked their way deeper into the porous rocks in search of moisture.  It was disappointing not to see the green salamander, but two rare lifers in one day was a tall order to fill.  I knew the location and the habitat; I’d be back when conditions were more favorable.

Spending the day with such seasoned nature veterans was a dream come true.  I had learned so much just listening to Mac and Aram’s stories.  The world beyond Ohio felt much more real—a place I could actually visit and explore one day.  

Turtles in Trouble: A Brief Natural History

For many, an encounter with a box turtle was their first childhood interaction with a wild creature.  There is something intrinsically wonderful about these little, rotund, bright-eyed reptiles.  Like rocks that can suddenly sprout eyes, limbs, and a short tail, box turtles seem to emerge from the woodwork as if from nowhere.  They delight us as they march through our backyards and gardens, in their single-minded pursuit of snails and earthworms.  Take a step too close, and they will quickly retreat into their high-domed shells with a little, nervous huff.  Inspection of the shell reveals a hard, well-crafted exterior, marked with elegant, yellow lines and blotches.  The surface is smooth or lightly ridged with tiny annuli like the rings of a tree.  Place the turtle back down, and within minutes two little eyes will be peeking out.

As a young boy, watching my Grandmother’s next-door neighbor’s turtle “Chip,” I never imagined that one day I would be part of a study focusing on box turtles (you can read about my experiences HERE).  These turtles brought nature to life for me as a youth, and now I was helping to increase our knowledge of how to protect them.  Box turtles, and the rest of their reptilian conspecifics, are in dire need of more people who understand them and recognize their peril.  Our turtles are in trouble. 

Northern Map Turtle

To fully understand our shelled companions, we must travel back 200 million years, to the late Triassic.  Here, an animal quite similar in appearance to modern day turtles, evolved.  This strange new creature made some amazing modifications to the vertebrate body plan.  Every piece of its anatomy had to be rearranged and adapted to fit inside a bony box.  The shoulder girdle moved inside the rib cage, which in turn fused together, encapsulating the internal organs.  The turtle’s spinal cord actually runs right down the center of the carapace (upper shell).

Midland Painted Turtle

Unique among vertebrates, the shell combined two types of bone: the shallow dermal bone and the strong, internal endochondral bone.  The surface became covered in a protective layer of large keratin scales (the same substance our fingernails and hair are made of) called scutes.  A turtle is its shell, and a shell is its turtle.  The commonly mis-held belief that a turtle can come out of its shell sounds perfectly ridiculous once you understand turtle anatomy.  

Why would turtles embark on such a strange evolutionary track?  This question is still a mystery that scientists struggle to understand.  Today, the shell’s main purpose is that of protection, but what evolutionary pressures drove its development, we can only guess.  One thing is clear, however, turtles have been extremely successful as their world has changed around them.  They survived the catastrophe that killed the dinosaurs, and persist in great abundance to this day.

Northern Map Turtles

Turtles are an iconic and easily recognized group.  They are split into the pleurodires, or side-necks, and the cryptodires, or hidden-necks (such as our familiar North American turtles).  The smallest species, the African padloper tortoises, grow to fewer than four inches in length.  Giants can be found on both land and sea.  The famous Galapagos tortoises can weigh over 500 lbs.  The largest of all living turtle species, the bizarre leatherback, can attain a length of almost six feet and a wingspan of nine feet.  This sea turtle has some decidedly unreptilian characteristics.  It has sacrificed its tough scales for leathery skin, and may even be able to regulate its internal body temperature like a mammal.  This allows it to swim into much colder and deeper waters than other sea turtles.

Snapping turtle laying eggs

Turtles are among the first of Ohio’s reptiles to emerge in spring, and among the last to disappear in fall.  Being ectotherms (cold-blooded), turtles need warm temperatures in order to become active, and can be seen out on logs basking during sunny days.  Most of the 12 turtle species found in Ohio are semi-aquatic, though a few, like the box turtle and the wood turtle, are more terrestrial and found in woodlands.

Snapping turtle egg

Early spring is the nesting season, and one of the few times when aquatic turtles venture any significant distance from their watery homes.  Females dig shallow ditches in loose soil, above the water line, in which to deposit their white, leathery eggs.  Turtle eggs are a favorite meal of raccoons; stream banks are often found littered with the shells of raided nests.  Many of Ohio’s turtle species (excluding the softshells) exhibit temperature dependent sex determination.  This means that the temperature at which the eggs develop dictates whether the eggs will hatch as males or females. Turtles do not care for their young.  Hatchlings emerge miniature versions of the adults, and are completely self reliant.  A hike near suitable pond, river, or forest habitat will almost certainly result in a glimpse of one of these timid reptiles.  

Despite living on land, box turtles are not tortoises.  Tortoises belong to the family Testudinidae, while box turtles belong to the family Emydidae—the pond turtles.  Taxonomy is based off of evolutionary relationships; members of a family are each others' closest relatives.  Box turtles are Terrapenes, a genus of pond turtle that has (with one exception) left the water for a primarily terrestrial life.  There are four species of Terrapenes: the eastern box turtle, ornate box turtle, spotted box turtle, and (the aquatic) coahuilan box turtle.  

The Eastern Box Turtle (Terrapene carolina carolina) is Ohio’s most terrestrial turtle species, found primarily in the southern half of the state.  They are short and stout reptiles, growing 5 to 6 inches in carapace (upper shell) length.  With the help of a hinged plastron (lower shell), these turtles can conceal their legs, head, and tail tightly within their shells—one of the few turtle species with this ability.  Box turtles are incredibly varied in appearance; no two look exactly alike.  Some are large, with prominent flaring around the shell, while others are small and rounded like a baseball.  Colors and patterns range from showy streaks of orange or even red, to unassuming spots of pale yellow.

It is a myth that the sexes can be told apart by the color of the eyes.  Females and males both have red eyes, and occasionally females and juveniles will have brownish eyes.  The best way to tell males from females is by the shell.  Females have a very high-domed carapace, and a flat plastron.  Males have a much lower carapace, and a concave plastron (helpful for mating).  Large, young-adult males will typically display pronounced fringes along the rear edge of the shell.  With age, the shells of both males and females weather and wear until they are smooth and rounded. 

Eastern box turtles are homebodies—living out their entire lives in an area of just 1 to 5 hectares (.0038 to .019 square miles).  They are primarily a woodland and edge species, though they can be found soaking in shallow pools in the heat of summer.  Turtles living in the same area often have overlapping home ranges.  Neither females nor males are territorial and they do not defend against interlopers.  It is not uncommon to find clusters of box turtles, with individuals only feet from one another, each apparently minding their own business.  The social dynamics of box turtles are not well understood.  It seems likely that turtles communicate with pheromones to a certain extent.  Pheromones certainly play a role in spring and summer when the turtles must find one another to mate.

Copulating pairs of box turtles have been found at all times of the active season, from early spring to late fall.  Mating can last several hours, during which the male’s rear legs are locked in the female's shell, holding him at an awkward 45 degree angle with the ground.  By storing sperm, females can produce viable clutches for years without the need to mate.  

Gravid (pregnant) females may travel a great distance from their home range to search for the perfect nesting location.  The female will dig a shallow hole in loose, sandy soil, and deposit 3 to 6 eggs.  Incubation lasts between 2 and 3 months, after which inch-long hatchlings emerge by midsummer.  The vast majority of box turtle hatchlings fall victim to predators like raccoons, skunks, and weasels.  It will take close to 10 years for a box turtle to reach sexual maturity.  Once a turtle has reached adult size, its chances of survival increase dramatically—some box turtles have been known to live well over a hundred years.                   

Turtles are known for being slow, and box turtles are no exception.  They have been nicknamed “sticky heels” for their plotting and awkward gait.  The slow and steady nature of turtles has helped them to survive for millennia, but in today’s age of the automobile, box turtles may have met their match.  Deforestation and land use changes have eliminated thousands of acres of turtle habitat.  Where they still survive, the criss-crossing of roads has created deadly barriers for these natural transients.  Turtles moving to lay eggs or to search out new home ranges inevitably find themselves crossing busy roadways.  It is unknown how many turtles perish on roads each day in the U.S., but the numbers likely reach the thousands.  Highways are particularly devastating for slow-moving herpetofauna like turtles, snakes, salamanders, and frogs.  In the span of just a few hours, I have moved more than a dozen box turtles from a single stretch of road in southern Ohio.  

Roads aren’t the only threat to box turtles.  Collecting for the pet trade and foreign markets has decimated turtle populations around the world.  Box turtles seem to hold a particular appeal as pets.  People who don't run over a turtle often decide to take the animal home with them.  Most of these impromptu turtle keepers know little of box turtle husbandry, and the captive turtles invariably waste away and succumb from improper care.  Despite wild turtles making poor pets, the commercial sale of box turtles continues in this country.  Thousands of turtles are exported to Europe and Asia and sold on the black market as pets and food.  This has put an unsustainable demand on these slow-to-reproduce reptiles. 

Deforestation, burning and mowing grasslands where turtles bask and nest, and a host of diseases have slowly but surely reduced North America’s healthy box turtle populations to disturbingly low numbers.  28 states have laws protecting box turtles, preventing the sale of wild-caught individuals.  In Ohio, box turtles are listed as a species of concern, though they are still considered common.  

When asked, “Why protect box turtles?” turtle-dog trainer John Rucker put it eloquently: “We don't really know what role they play.  But we do know that if we lose the turtles, we lose the checks and balances that keep nature in harmony.”  As both predators and prey, box turtles serve an important role transferring energy through the food web.  Without them, we don't know how the health and the diversity of the ecosystem would be affected.  Ignorance is not an excuse to lose our turtles.  They have existed far longer than we have, and deserve to continue their existence long into the future. 

They may not be fast or flashy, but box turtles speak to our humility and patience.  For as long as humans have studied them, turtles have been synonymous with longevity and time.  They are a creature to sit with in moments of reflection.  Next time you find a box turtle, stretch out in the leaf litter next to it.  Peer up through the undergrowth, and just watch the world go by.