Fear the Turtle (Lady) A one-woman army tries to save Maryland’s terrapins By Jennifer Curtis This article can be found in the January-February issue of Maryland Life. The grey speckled turtle scrapes her way up the sandy slope of Whitehall Bay. Tenaciously, the five-pounder pulls her rounded body over the shoreline, determined to lay 13 eggs on the same beach where she may have been born. This turtle is the Northern Diamondback Terrapin—official state reptile and bay icon. Not that most Marylanders have ever seen one. Not long ago, diamondbacks were abundant, basking along shorelines and secretly breaching the surface of local creeks. Now, the only terrapin most people see is Testudo, the University of Maryland’s mascot. Fortunately, Annapolis native Marguerite Whilden is making a lot of noise to save the species. Whilden heads up the nonprofit Terrapin Institute, which she began under the auspices of the state’s Department of Natural Resources (DNR) in 1999. The institute’s mission is to preserve abundant numbers of this beloved natural resource, while promoting “turtle-friendly” shoreline restoration. It’s the only directed conservation effort of its kind in Maryland. Whilden says terrapins are not deemed endangered simply because the data to support this argument doesn’t exist. Fondly known as the “Turtle Lady,” Whilden, 51, is the terrapins’ fiercest guardian. As a manager in DNR’s fisheries, Whilden was assigned the turtle in 1998, and, “by default or divine intervention, became its advocate, protector, and cheerleader,” she says. Whilden admits she was quickly enamored of the turtles’ charm, but knew little about their biology or habitat. So she accompanied watermen who allowed her to haul nets, pull crab pots, and tag turtles. She observed habitats and networked with experts to examine the turtles’ viability. Since current data wasn’t available, she began researching on her own. What the University of Maryland alumna learned haunted her. “In the 1900s, terrapins were nearly harvested to extinction,” she explains. “They’re recovering slowly, but their habitat is being eroded, they’re over-fished, and they’re drowning in crab pots.” Further, terrapins mature late in life. Oysters and crabs mature early and produce millions of offspring. Terrapins, however, don’t reproduce until they’re eight years of age; they produce roughly 30 eggs per year, about 2 percent of which hatch. “This animal crashed once,” says Whilden. “It cannot sustain a commercial harvest. There’s one-fourth the habitat, four times the human population, and degraded water quality. Do the math.” Concerned about the terrapins’ future, Whilden began increasing public awareness of the species and was encouraged by the response. To give terrapins a better chance, the feisty brunette founded the head-starting program Terrapin Station. Through the program, now overseen by the University of Maryland Biotechnology Institute (UMBI), Arlington Echo, and CHESPAX, Whilden and volunteers are permitted to gather a limited number of eggs from the wild, which hatch approximately 60 days later in plastic containers. Survivors (at an astonishing 97 percent hatch rate) are raised by students who chart growth, behavior, and activity patterns. “Margie's work with the terrapin has touched the lives of Calvert County students for four years,” says Tom Harten, head of the CHESPAX environmental education program. “A highlight of our third grade science program is the study in which students help head-start hatchling terrapins. The simple act of caring for a creature, watching it grow, and seeing it off onto its native beach is a powerful educational experience for all those involved.”  Ten-year-old Scout Duquette of Kent Island couldn’t agree more. The Matapeake Elementary fifth-grader spent several months catching grass shrimp, worms, and minnows for terrapin twins Meghan and Leslie. Under Whilden’s supervision, Duquette recently tagged and released the duo. “I’m sad about letting them go, but they’re supposed to be in the wild. [Head-starting] helps because their numbers are down,” she says. “You read about people so passionate and dedicated to saving a species,” says Dr. Jennie Hunter-Cevera, president of UMBI. “As a result of meeting Marguerite, I’m raising two terrapins at home. “She has that kind of effect on you.” Besides educating students and adults through Terrapin Station, Whilden helps residents create sanctuaries on private lands. Retired Army Colonel Tom Munz of Annapolis was the first to offer this safe haven in 1999. Today, “Terrapin Nesting Sanctuary” signs are posted on his Meredith Creek shorefront to keep trespassers off and the nesting sites undisturbed. Munz enjoys his role as protector.  Now when he finds a nest, he safeguards it with a wire enclosure that keeps out raccoons but allows the young terrapins to escape once they hatch. “I’ve learned a lot from Marguerite; she’s probably the most knowledgeable person in the state,” says Munz. “She’s a special lady. I’m impressed with her.” This “special lady” stands out because her philosophy is so different from that of traditional conservation management. “Why are we waiting for data to show that terrapins are endangered?” she frequently argues. “Let’s learn from history and manage this species proactively.” William Moulden, a teacher at Samuel Ogle Science, Math, and Technology Magnet School, and a well-known environmental activist, concurs. “Margie is so evangelical, she convinced me. She is so far ahead in her thinking because she wants to manage the species before it becomes a crisis.” As part of this argument, Whilden brought the plight of the species to the public’s attention in 2000. Then-governor Parris Glendening, in turn, proclaimed May 13 “Diamondback Terrapin Day,” and asked Whilden and 16 others to convene a task force to recommend strategies to “minimize further risk” to the species until a population study and management plan could be established. The diverse group submitted 18 recommendations in 2001. The highest priority was to defer commercial terrapin harvesting until data could substantiate the animals’ viability, says Moulden, the committee chair. Despite compelling recommendations, only a dedicated nesting sanctuary on state land came to fruition. However, Maryland Senator Paul Sarbanes garnered an unprecedented $250,000 to assess the terrapin population. “Marguerite is a passionate advocate,” says Charlie Stek, Sarbanes’ chief of staff. “Her commitment to the species is impressive.” Even if her funding is not. As Stek notes, “We work hard to bring money to learn how to preserve the terrapin,” but the appropriations, which continue to date, are funneled to the United States Geological Survey (USGS) for federal research. Whilden has never received funds. Paltry budget notwithstanding, Whilden continues campaigning, even convincing the University of Maryland Athletic Department to provide a modest stipend for her efforts. But last summer, Whilden lost her job in a budget reduction move. After 32 years with the DNR, her terrapin assignment was deemed not “mission critical.” With that, Maryland’s only terrapin conservation effort abruptly ended. Except that Whilden never quits. Jeff Popp, a Towson State University senior who has volunteered with Whilden since 1999, says, “For most people, if they’re not paid, that’s the end. But not her.” Whilden re-organized Terrapin Institute as a private foundation and shored up its 17-member advisory board, naming state Comptroller William Donald Schaefer its honorary chairman. “The fact that the terrapin does not qualify as endangered is all the more reason to protect them, to prevent that from ever happening,” says Schaefer. “Marguerite’s enthusiasm and dedication are two of the reasons future Marylanders will have these special creatures to enjoy as part of our environment.”  “Marguerite has put her heart and soul into this,” adds Maryland Delegate Virginia Clagett, who served with Whilden on the task force. “This is a terribly important historical resource, and I’d like to help preserve it any way I can.” Now down to her own money, Whilden perseveres. Her current focus is on the commercial harvest. Although the terrapin is a reptile, the state manages it as if it were a fish. In other words, the turtles may legally be caught. Rather than collect terrapins under her Scientific Collection Permit, Whilden buys them from seafood dealers, then measures, tags, and releases them. “Technically, tagged terrapins are private property, like oysters on leased bottom. Since our tagged animals have already contributed to the economy, we hope that watermen will leave them alone,” she says.  Sadly, in one four-month period, a dozen tagged terrapins were found back on the market. Whilden promptly purchased them again. Clearly, she won’t give up. “Saving this species is simple,” she says. “The loss of the state’s reptile and university’s mascot would be tragic.”