Godzilla

A contribution from Jim Schoneman, RHS class of 1974


When older men recall their younger days, there is a tendency towards a selective ransacking of thoughts. It’s not intentional. More likely it has to do with survival. After five or more decades, if we were to remember everything as it actually happened, and then put it all together in one collective notion, many of us would volunteer to spend the rest of our lives in prison. Bill Heavey had it right when he said "that memory doesn’t give a damn what you think." We should be thankful for that.

But there are certain memories that withstand the whack job we politely call “time.” Some of those moments, and one in particular, I recall with clarity. But hardly anybody believes me, because there’s no such thing as a hundred pound snapping turtle.

Several years ago I was out fishing some northern Wisconsin back bay with a friend. Dean and I had been fishing partners for many years, and all you need to know about him is that when the game warden shows up, you want Dean in your boat.Dean and I have a longstanding agreement that if his ploy doesn’t work, then I’ll pay the fine.

We were fishing in early June, and even though the ice had gone out only a month previous, the weeds in this bay had already started to clog its warmer and quieter water; but that’s where the fish were. We casted the edge of the weeds and picked up some perch and bluegills, and the occasional walleye. Then the snapper showed up. By any measure, he was a big snapper; and we watched him while he quietly circled our boat, acting as if he had some previous experience with a fisherman’s leftovers.

When a snapping turtle is in the water, you can only see the top of the turtle’s shell and his snout sticking out above the surface. As a result, the best way to gauge size is to eyeball the distance between the snout and the part of the shell that is visible. Based on our hayseed assessment, it was clear that this was a high ranking cooter.

Dean was impressed. So much so that he put down his walleye rod and proceeded to rig up his hefty musky pole with the strongest and thickest hook he could find. He grabbed a sickly bluegill from the livewell, threaded it onto the hook, and threw it within striking distance of the snapper. Anticipating some form of prehistoric entertainment ahead, I sat down in the boat and popped open a Blatz. As an afterthought, I told Dean that he was going to need a stronger hook.

The snapper took the bait, and Dean managed to drag it to within 10 feet of the boat before it became aware of the minor inconvenience. Then the turtle simply dove into the weeds and dug his claws into the mucky bottom. It was slight bother for the submerged turtle, but above water Dean was picking himself up off the floor of the boat. The turtle had floored him, and he reeled in his slack line to find that his hook was now shaped like a fat toothpick.

“Did you see the size of that monster?!” Dean said. I had, and I was feeling quite satisfied when he was reminded of my warning about the need for a stronger hook. After reassuring Dean that he sure was a big old thing, I took another swig of Blatz, and silently reflected on that other turtle; the one I had seen and battled 30 years earlier. There was no point in mentioning it to Dean. It would only serve to spoil his queerly glorious turtle moment. I knew how Dean felt.

Back at the tavern, Dean proceeded to regale the patrons with the story of his turtle battle. It was fun to listen to, if only because Dean was a good teller of tales. But there came a point when the nonsense needed to be silenced, and I interrupted his story and told him, and everyone else in the bar, that I had once hooked into a hundred pounder. Then I held up my arm and stretched out my fingers, and pointed to the area between my elbow and fingertips. And then I said “His front foot was that big, and his claws were as long as my fingers.”

That got everyone’s attention, because this was a fisherman’s bar, and everyone in there knew that there’s no such thing as a hundred pound snapper, with claws as big as your fingers. Now I had to back up my preposterous claim with an even more preposterous story. But that was easy, because this story was true. I had once hooked into Godzilla.

Around the time South Vietnam fell to the communists, I got a job as a summer camp counselor. That would put me there about 1974 or ‘75, depending on which side you talked to. The camp was located in Harriman State Park, in lower New York state, and was situated on the banks of tiny Lake Stahahe.

Lake Stahahe was a small mounatin lake, perhaps 100 acres in surface area. It was long and narrow, and about 20 feet in its deepest hole. At its northern end there was a concrete dam that held back a ten foot head of water; so in its original state, Lake Stahahe was probably no more than a wet pothole, surrounded by bog. Once through the dam, the waters of Stahahe Brook flowed north, until it reached the upper stretch of the Ramapo River.

There were several small, rocky islands at the lake’s southern and deeper end. The biggest island we called Blueberry Island. It was simply a granite formation that for thousands of years had been nurturing a patch of wild blueberries. They tasted good in the pancakes.

This whole scene, including the pancakes, was nestled in a wild and comfortable valley of the Ramapo Mountains.

I worked the waterfront at the camp, and taught swimming and canoeing to poor kids from the South Bronx, and rich kids from Long Island and the Jersey suburbs. It was on this waterfront that I first heard of Godzilla.

Every summer camp has its legends of ghosts and goblins and escaped madmen who would dismember you in the dark if you misbehaved, but this camp had an advantage when it came to spook stories. It was only 20 miles from there, at a place called Sleepy Hollow, that Washington Irving was inspired to write about that headless apparition, riding on a horse. The Headless Horseman. There was something about the mountains and valleys and forests of the Ramapo and Catskill ranges, especially at dusk or dawn, that made a guy consider that a zombie with a hatchet could actually be waiting for you in the dim and misty twilight. It also helped having the Appalachian Trail run right through the camp. The only people who walked that trail were the deranged and parasitic type, and sometimes they’d get lost and ask us for spooky directions. But none of this has much to do with turtles.

What made Lake Stahahe truly unique, at least back in those days, was its infestation with Eurasian Milfoil. Sometime during the mid 20th century, some hunyak decided it would be a good idea to plant a sprig of the aquatic weed in his fish aquarium. Then, after he had emigrated to America, his fish died. So he flushed his dead fish, and the aquarium water, down the toilet. Somehow, some of that water ended up in Lake Stahahe, and the milfoil spores got together and decided to settle and build a colony. 40 years later, those of us living in the upper Midwest know that the rest is history.

Eurasian Milfoil is bad for lakes, but the turtles seem to like it.

My introduction to Godzilla came on my first day on the waterfront dock. It was during Class 1, Lesson A, of the Red Cross Introduction to Canoeing (RCIC) course. Being a recent graduate of the Red Cross Certified Canoeing Instructor (RCCCI) course, I was proud owner of an RCCCI manual. For Lesson A of the RCIC course, the manual said that the instructor should simply place the student inside the canoe, hand him a paddle, and then give the canoe a good shove.

My first two students sailed away smartly, but the third one, Norbert, was not cooperating. I pointed his canoe north, towards the dam, but as I prepared him for take-off Norbert grabbed the gunwales and started screaming “Don’t send me there! That’s where Godzilla is!!!”

I leafed through my RCCCI manual and scanned it for anything helpful, but there was nothing found in the index that even hinted at how to deal with a student who’s afraid of Godzilla. I did find an index entry relating to how to deal with a gunwale grabber, but that had more to do with the simple fear of water. The Red Cross had not considered that a fear of giant, fire blowing, Japanese dinosaurs might present itself as an obstacle to canoe instruction.

My partner on the dock, Larry, heard the commotion and came over to lend a hand. “What’s the screaming about?” he asked. I told Larry that I was simply pointing Norbert in a canoeable direction when he started screaming something about Godzilla. Larry replied, “Oh. Well, you can’t send them that way Jim. Godzilla’s down there.”

Larry was kind enough to elaborate, and he explained that Godzilla was a monster snapping turtle. He lived down by the dam, in the milfoil, and had been around for as long as anyone could remember. On occasion he would come out of the weeds and infiltrate the camper’s fishing hole. From the small and well worn platform of granite and sand above the hole, where the campers would stand and fish, he could be seen on the bottom, six feet down; and all you could see were his giant, white claws. Larry held up his hand, stretched out his fingers and said “His claws are as long as my fingers.”

Over the course of the summer I would often find myself fishing with the campers at the fishing hole. It was right next to the dam. Being next to the dam allowed for a decent flow of water, so the milfoil had never been allowed to take root. The water was clear, and it was loaded with fat bluegills. It was a good fishing hole. Godzilla thought so too, because he was a frequent visitor. He’d be on the bottom, six feet down; and except for those huge white claws, all you could see would be a ghostly shadow of his gargantuan head and carapace. For the kids on the rocks, it was a singular experience. You would overhear many youthful exclamations of the word “Wow!” expressed in various moods and tenses. And then you would see campers holding up their hands, and stretching out there fingers.

Godzilla would never be able to crawl out of the water and show himself completely. For without the benefit of the water’s neutral buoyancy, the shear mass of his body and shell would cause him to be crushed by normal gravity. But there came a day when Godzilla did show himself, at least a part of himself, above water. On that day, out in the milfoil patch, Godzilla stuck his snout up through the weeds. We were standing on the shore and watching, and he was watching us. Based on the size of that snout, it could be none other than the beast himself.

It was time for quick thinking. None of us had a rig suitable for this task. There was no fishing pole on earth that would volunteer for this job. I ran to my tackle box and rifled through its contents, looking for the hook that I knew was in there. And there it was. A zinc plated, galvanized steel triple hook, in size 3/0. It wasn’t necessarily large, but it was thick – and very strong. That hook had served me well at that trout farm back in New Jersey, under cover of darkness. That hook served only one purpose. It was never intended for legal sport.

Now we needed line. Line? This wasn’t a job for “line.” This was a job for rope, or cable or…lanyard string! This was a summer camp. Not only did we make a lot of lanyards, but we had lanyard string holding up our tents. We used it as clotheslines and climbing ropes. We even used it once to tow a 400 pound tombstone off the premises. It was amazing stuff. It looked like a flimsy plastic fiber, about the thickness of yarn, but it was reinforced with some kind of tungsten steel belting that made it extremely strong. I ordered one of the campers to head up to the Arts & Crafts cabin and grab about 30 yards of lanyard string. He returned quickly with the required amount – in green.

I hurriedly threaded the lanyard string through the hook, and told one of the campers to tie one of those strong knots he was supposed to have learned in Frontier Class. We were all acting as a cohesive unit, working quickly and efficiently, and casting fleet glances out to the milfoil to make sure the snout was still there.

The hook was now rigged, and I called for bait. “I need a lively bluegill!” Within seconds, a brightly colored six incher was impaled on the hook. I gave the loose end of the lanyard string to a camper to hold, and then I took that bluegill and gave him a mighty heave. It landed one foot from Godzilla, and it flopped as it lay on top of the heavy carpet of milfoil. It was a perfect shot.

My memory seems to recall that time stood still, and maybe it did. We watched the flopping bluegill, and we watched Godzilla. He was either going to pull his head back under the weeds, or he was going to advance on the bluegill. He chose the latter, and his front legs slowly pulled him through the thick milfoil. When he approached within striking distance, he paused and sniffed the air. And then, as fast as lightning, he opened his jaws and struck.

On shore, the camper holding the other end of the lanyard string held his poise. He would have made a good Marine. We all watched, and patiently waited, as Godzilla took several healthy chomps out of that poor fish. When we were confident that Godzilla had reached the hook, I gave the go-ahead to start pulling.

The camper took up slack and the lanyard string came taught. He pulled, and pulled some more, and even though we could see the camper was pulling with all he had, Godzilla wouldn’t budge.

We were now confident that the hook was firmly lodged in Godzilla’s bony jaw. It was time to put a bit more muscle into this turtle tug-of-war. I took over as chief turtle puller. I wrapped the lanyard string several times around my hand, and grabbed that hand with my other hand. I faced Godzilla, and began to walk slowly backwards on the gravel shoreline.

Godzilla began to part the milfoil. The lanyard string held. As Godzilla sensed his peril he began to backpaddle clumsily, but to no avail. As we pulled him closer to shore, we could see the full outline of his massive carapace. He was as big as a camper’s torso, and twice as thick. He had to weigh at least 100 pounds. But it was becoming clear that Godzilla’s last chapter was being written. I heaved back with all my might, and it was over. Godzilla had reached terra firma. He was out of his element.

What we didn’t realize was that it was all a trick. Godzilla was simply biding his time until his feet could touch the bottom. When he was in about two feet of water he was able to dig his claws into the gravely basin. It was never a contest. Like a Sherman tank, he backed up and never stopped. I had all my weight against the lanyard string, and the next thing I knew I was flat on my ass.

Godzilla had floored me, and as I reeled in the slack lanyard string, I saw that the number of barbs on my triple hook had been reduced by one third. He had broken the hook.

I stood up and joined the campers at the shoreline. We watched Godzilla slowly fade into the depths, and disappear into the forest of milfoil. And then he was gone.

**********

Twenty five years later, I had two little campers of my own, and on a spring day in Wisconsin the boys and I found ourselves exploring the edge of a nearby cattail marsh. As we walked along the cattails, one of the boys found a tiny turtle. He picked it up, and came running over to show it to me. It was a baby snapper, no bigger than a silver dollar. The boys wanted to take him home and keep him for a pet, and daddy was more than happy to oblige.

We named him Godzilla.

When we got home, we found the old 10 gallon aquarium and filled it with water. We threw some sand and gravel in the bottom, and dropped baby Godzilla into the tank. We watched him swim happily around, and then he got tired and rested on the bottom.

After I tucked the boys into bed, I told them the story about my adventures with the real Godzilla, and I explained to them that if they took real good care of their baby Godzilla, he might grow up to be a hundred pounds too. They were quiet, and they listened, and they looked into daddy’s eyes as only young boys can; and then they fell asleep.

As I closed their bedroom door, I took one more look at baby Godzilla. He was sleeping peacefully too.

**********

Aw, Jim. What a sweet ending to this story. Your little boys, falling asleep with baby Godzilla, while daddy tells a story.

Well…yeah. That is pretty sweet, but the story isn’t finished yet.

When we woke up in the morning, we all raced to the aquarium to look at baby Godzilla. He was still resting peacefully on the bottom of the tank. But this morning his eyelids seemed to be a little pale, and his shell had turned white. Oh no.

As God is my witness, I thought turtles could swim. When I saw baby Godzilla sleeping peacefully the night before on the bottom of the tank, I figured that when he needed to take a breath, he’d simply swim to the surface and get one; just like Flipper. The thought had never occurred to me that placing a turtle in deep water, and inside a glass lined canyon, meant certain death. I had not provided safe sanctuary, meaning a rock that would let him climb out of the water - and breathe. I had visions of poor baby Godzilla scratching against the glass all night, trying to gain a foothold somewhere, and then giving up, and drowning.

So I had managed to kill Godzilla after all, but not in a manner that I would dare tell in a fisherman’s tavern. I’m really not sure if the boys have ever forgiven me for that blunder. But they’re adults now, and will have to live with whatever traumas I’ve passed on, without any apology from me.

Now that the story is over, I’m wondering why I ever thought any of this was worth bragging about.