I first heard about it from a retired herpetologist named Dr. Marian Ellis. I’d met her at a diner in Athens, Ohio, where she was nursing a cup of coffee and dissecting a stack of topographic maps. When I mentioned I was writing about unusual roadside attractions, she laughed—a dry, rattling sound.
I waded in, the cold water numbing my ankles, and carefully turned the rock. For a moment, I saw nothing but gravel and a crayfish scuttling for cover. Then a shape shifted—a dark, wrinkled form, almost the color of the creek bed itself. It had a flattened head, beady eyes, and fleshy folds of skin running down its sides like ill-fitting drapes. The hellbender didn’t flee. It just slowly waved its body, absorbing oxygen through its skin, utterly indifferent to my presence. hellbender campground ohio
I hesitated. “Will there be one under it?” I first heard about it from a retired herpetologist named Dr
“That’s Betsy,” he said. “She’s been under that rock for seven years. We tagged her in 2017. She’s a mother now, too. We found her guarding a clutch of eggs last fall.” When I mentioned I was writing about unusual
In the morning, I packed up and left a donation in the rusty coffee can nailed to Roy’s post. On the back of a receipt, I wrote: “Saw Betsy. Worth the trip.”
I looked back at Roy. He was smiling.