It's Friday evening, August 2023. The sun is still bright but no longer feels like an energy-sucking heat gun as it did this afternoon. Work is done, and I'm heading out for a ride before meeting my friends later for some Friday night fun.

I'm biking on the Rideau River bike path in Ottawa. The path winds through a mix of conserved greenbelt and city parks, running alongside city roads — mostly flat, but with a few hills thrown in. I'm coming down one such hill when I see it: a turtle, right in the middle of the path.

Spotting wildlife here isn't uncommon. The trails cut through conserved greenbelts where, if you're lucky, you might see a few deer in the evening. If you're unlucky, your path gets taken over by territorial Canadian geese. Black bears have been spotted too, though I'll be honest — I'm still more afraid of the geese. But a turtle on the bike path? I've never seen that before.

I brake and wait for it to cross. It doesn't move. I lean my bike against a tree and crouch down for a closer look. The posture is strange — front legs pulled into the shell, back legs sprawled flat against the pavement, completely limp. It's not moving at all. My stomach drops. Someone coming down this hill must have hit it.

I want to move it off the path but I've heard Ottawa has snapping turtles, and I can't tell what kind this is. I'm not risking a bite. I pull out my phone and call Ottawa city services.

I wait for someone to pick up the phone and then talk to a few different city staffers before reaching the right city service. When they ask for the address, I struggle with my answer. The stretch of the Rideau River pathway I'm on — past Bank Street, heading toward Hogs Back Falls — doesn't intersect with many roads. I can't give them a precise address. They tell me someone will come, but it'll take time.

So I wait, stand guard at the bottom of the hill, waving at bikers to slow down as they come flying toward us. The sun keeps dropping. I realize my bike has no lights. Forty-five minutes pass and there's still no sign of anyone from the city. I can feel the evening slipping away — my friends are out there somewhere, the night is moving on without me, and here I am, stuck on a darkening bike path, playing shepherd to a turtle that hasn't moved in nearly an hour.

I want to wait but eventually, my impatience wins. Before I leave, I gather some branches and drag them across the top of the hill — something visible enough that bikers will slow down before reaching the bottom. It's the best I can do.

I come back down to check on the turtle one last time before heading home. And then I stop.

It has moved.

Not much — just a few inches toward the middle of the path — but I know exactly where it was before, and it is not there anymore. I didn't see it happen. A suspicion forms in the back of my mind. I walk away, wait a minute, then come back.

It has moved again. Several inches now, toward the left edge of the path.

I stand there staring at it. The math is becoming very uncomfortable.

The turtle isn't injured. It’s terrified. For the better part of an hour, I haven't been its guardian; I’ve been the giant, looming shadow of a predator standing directly over its escape route. It wasn't 'limp' from a hit; it was playing dead, waiting for the monster with the bicycle to finally leave.

I wasn't the hero of this story. I was the reason it spent an hour playing paralyzed. If I had just kept riding, we’d both have been home long ago.