I couldn't wait for the ice to melt off the lake. It was kind of funny because in the fall, I couldn't wait for the lake to freeze over and walk on the water. I didn't know which was better, but I just hated the waiting. It was like waiting for the bus on a bitter January morning; you knew it was going to come sooner or later but it seemed like you lost three toes and your nose in the rocess. Or it was like waiting for your family to get into the car to go to church on Saturday night. They would always threaten to leave without the late-comers-but they never did.

The day finally came when the last honeycombed ice flow either melted into the lake or pushed up onto the bank. The water, being freed at last from its cruel captor, seemed to revel in its freedom, crashing continuously into the shore and joyfully rolling back out into the middle.

I really didn't care wether or not the lake was free; with the ice gone and the weather warming up, I could go "turtling." Turtling is the art of catching baby snapping turtles as they hatch and swim toward deeper water. This art is an art only practiced by children from the ages of 6 to 10 because before that they are too small to handle a canoe and after that all the challenge goes out of it. One of the rules to turtling (according to the "official" rule book) is to "turtle" alone. To prove that you can handle a canoe and catch a wild beast all by yourself. It is sort of a rite of passage, like American Indian boys going into the wilderness by themselves to prove their manhood. The trick to this endeavor is to get the snappers before they become too active (the cold effects them as much as it does us) or before they get too big, because then they are likely to take off a finger or two with one bite. To them, fingers are just like our french fries, not enough for a meal, but an appealing appetizer.

On the first warm saturday after the ice broke, I went turtling. I got up and had a big breakfast because I didn't know when I'd get back in. Then I hunted up the canoe paddles that had been stored somewhere in the void called the garage since last fall. Grabbing the paddles (I always took a spare one in case one snapped. My scoutmaster had stressed "Be Prepared" and I took that literally.), I headed for the canoe.

This was the part I hated, for every year, I had to wrestle with this oversized clipper ship. Not being very big and the canoe being extra large, the canoe usually won the various rounds of the fight, but eventually I won the bout. I go a feeling of accomplishment when I felf the barge slap onto the water-I'd done it by myself. One time, my Dad offered to lend a han. With two people, it went into the water much easier, but I felt weak and inadequate and never let anyone help again. I hated to feel that way.

With the canoe in the water and ready for the voyage, I put my life jacket on and pushed ot into the ripples of the mid-morning in search of my prey. I'd read a cut from Moby Dick in Great Books and I thought of Captain Ahab going after the whale. I couldn't remember the name of the ship, so I named my ship the "Nautilus" to stay with the literary motif.

To go turtling, the lake had to be semi-smooth in order to see the little reptiles. The turtles I was after were about 1 to 1.5 inches in diameter and floated along the surface. I figured when they were that size, they couldn't munch on my fingers, but they still looked fierce-like real snapping turtles with the bumpy backs that were known for taking off a duck's foot with a single gulp.

I looked for the little heads sticking up out of the water. They looked like weeds that had grown too tall for the water or like sticks that the trees had lost after the battle with the spring winds the night before.

The buggers were elusive that Saturday. I didn't see any of the heads for close to an hour. Paddling for an hour get exhausting and I was getting tired. But luck was with me and I spotted one off the port bow. I dug into my reserves and pushed a little harder to ensure at least one catch for the day. I glided along side of the bobbing head, reached down, and snatched the snapper by the back before it could turn around and go for my fingers.

"I got one!" echoed hollowly to all sections of the lake. I filled the plastic ice cream bucket I'd brought long with water and plopped the reptile into the pail. This one will make a good pet, I thought as I dug into the water and pushed for shore.

I beached the canoe, grabbed the pail with my trophy and ran into the house to show everyone. "Hey! I got one! Come see what I caught! Mom? Dad? Where is everyone?"

I found the note my Mom had left saying they had gone into town and would be back around suppertime. I stared at the note. What good is a trophy if you can't share it with anyone? I satdown at the table with my little Moby Dick and cried.