I'm baaaaack!

The Cool at the Pool

Reentry was always predictable—
compose a one-page piece entitled How I Spent My Summer Vacation.

And as the expected assignment was handed out to an audience of less-than-enthusiastic students upon their return to school each fall, part of me wondered if the intent in giving it was greater than its simply being an exercise in the retrieval of rusty writing skills.
The stories that must have been told…
the secrets shared…
the places traveled to, or not.
In truth, there was no better way for the teacher to acquaint herself with the students in her new classroom than to discover how each had chosen to spend that precious time away.

The Cool at the Pool

Not surprisingly, mine somewhat resembled an upstate New York version of Tom Sawyer, sprinkled with liberal amounts of Little Women, as the neighborhood matured and real-life replaced real children’s dreams. There were frogs and kickball, frogs and fireflies, frogs in the cool, clear Adirondack lakes and tents full of giggling Girl Scouts. There were fishing trips at dawn with my dad, days of building forts, after-dinner bike rides, nights of cartwheels on the lawn.


My time away may be from things which are different now.
But I find that I still have filled it with the very same--
play, friends and family.
And, yes, even now….frogs.

American bullfrog, female

American bullfrog, male

This photo is slightly fuzzy, but it shows how the size of the tympana (external eardrums, flat disk behind each eye) differ in male/female frogs. The tympanum of the male (photo left) is larger than the eye; whereas in the female (photo right) it is equal in size or smaller. This quick visual can be used with several species of frogs, including American bullfrog and northern green frog.

Relatively similar in appearance, green frogs can be distinguished from bullfrogs by the presence of a dorsolateral fold, a lengthwise ridge of skin on the back extending from the tympanum 2/3 the distance to the hind leg. In the above photo, the male is clearly a green frog. But what about the female?
Frogs will readily clasp just about anything that comes into contact with them, if in the mood. I've even held hands with many frogs that don't understand that, although I love them, it wouldn't work--we're just too different.


Coming soon...more of How I Spent my Blogging Vacation...
West Virginia New River Birding and Nature Festival
More of Michigan
Killdeer Plains OCVN Workshop, look here and here

.

Night Life

If you could see this darkness, feel this night,
heavy under clouds, dripping with dew,
thick with frogs and moths, drawn to the first blushing blooms of milkweed,
you would know what it is to walk here.

It’s been weeks since I have visited my pools, as in the probing visit of this night--
most days just a cursory glance, as I walk on to the woods,
following the wings of dragonflies,
watching birds high in the trees above.

Yes, the shallow water remains.
And, though almost choked with a mat of green snarls encroaching from every edge, the deep, clear, dark water sustains life, napping through the sunshine of a hot summer day.
But, tonight, when, even through a closed window, air conditioner groaning beneath this blanket of humidity, frog song penetrates to within a brick house, I cannot help but wander there.
Every bit of this field is calling.


Orange eyes aglow, hundreds of buff-colored moths, feathery antennae curling back and forth, feed at the heavy heads of grasses, bending their arching stems low to the ground, and cover the large, rosy globes of milkweed blossoms, strong and sweet with nectar.


The heat from a very warm day has remained into the night. Glass beads on every blade of grass glisten with dew. My bare arms as well, quickly covered with a layer of moisture, soon tingle with an itch from every flying insect drawn to me, my light a beacon into blackness that readily swallows it. Even my face, misted and framed in curls brought on by this bath of steaminess, especially interesting to the smallest moths, darting in darkness past mouth, nose, eyes and ears.
A head net, next time--I must remember that.

Northern Leopard Frog, Rana pipiens

Waist-deep in vigorously growing poison ivy, I wade through green to the pool’s edge, my tall spotted boots stepping carefully into the cool water, the soft, woven mat, broken in places perfect for even the largest of frogs to hide in wait.

American Bullfrog, Rana catesbeiana

All across the surface of the smooth water, small mouths rise to grab air, then disappear with the flash of an ivory belly to hide themselves in layers of brown detritus, inches deep beneath my feet.
Shapes I recognize easily—and was hoping to see tonight, caught in the beam of my light through cola-colored water--salamander nymphs, still sporting gills like Elizabethan collars, but soon to lose them, strengthen new legs and walk off to the woods. Having started the season dry, this spring has brought heavy and frequent rains—a good chance that the water will remain weeks longer, and another generation graduate to lives on land.

The movement of a winding, striped form beside my toe startles me. And, though I know he should be here, I’ve never seen him--a Northern Water Snake, browsing the brown bottom, rising to look across the surface. Then, equally startled by finding me in his pool, he dashes below and disappears.

Northern Water Snake, Nerodia sipedon

From the center of this basin, I am surrounded.
First by the ring of dark water, then by the green at its edge. Framed by small Red maples, their toes wet.
It is as if I am drawn into a fanciful scene, where all possible life converges in a single place for a moment--the deer, rabbit, and raccoon, beside bluebird, mink and snake, while fish, frog and turtle swim.
A snapshot, so complete, yet unlikely.

Cope's Gray Treefrog, Hyla chrysoscelis

Yet, as I move toward his fervent call, raised to the night air, as others do the same, I am sure, for this moment, I am witness to a collision of lives not always like this.

Stirred from quiet rest, postured to project,
their song from every tree,
“Welcome to my world. We’ve been expecting you!”

Cope's Gray Treefrog
vocal sac inflated

(all photos enlarge with a click)

Camera shy

This weekend has brought us long-overdue sunshine and warmth.
And, finally, days to go walking and watching.
But, try as I might to catch more than a glimpse--the leafy woods hide them well.

A Great Blue Heron flaps off clumsily from the pond, toward the woods--no doubt, I have disturbed his frog breakfast, as I approach.
On the bank, a muddy trail is the only evidence that Mama muskrat was here, just moments ago, gathering greens for her kits. She hits the water with a PLOP. Deep swirls disturb the surface.
Above me in the apple tree, a White-eyed Vireo dances from branch to branch gleaning insects.




The shadowy shapes of five snapping turtles have gathered in the shallow arm of water. They see surprisingly well--and vanish instantly, as I stand watching. In the woods, a thin gray shape leaves quietly. The coyote, perhaps, not used to my being here. The last weeks of rain have kept me away more than I like. He must think these trails are his own.

A Field Sparrow is feeding her family this morning.

Hidden in the tall growth beneath the small oaks, they answer her calls. I see nothing but the slightest movement in the grass, as they find each other--and she flies up and away for more.

The tree frogs are calling loudly from Little Pond pool. This wet spring pleases them.

On its surface, damsel flies catching the morning sunlight.


And a Yellow-breasted Chat calling from across the field.
Maybe another day's watching will find him.
Maybe not.

Cope's Gray Tree Frogs

Nearly the only residents not camera shy today.

Rain

It’s hard to imagine, after last summer’s drought, that a rainy spring could be anything but wonderful. So many suffered in the dryness. And with spring growth, a season’s loss can be repaired.
But even for me, amphibian-loving, frog-watcher that I’ve become—this rain is too much.

Last week I arrived home from work to find a tree had swallowed my front yard. It had disappeared under the boughs of a locust.
A Leaning Locust, native to the Ozarks and southern Appalachians, one of many, persistently sprouting from every corner of my yard.
Eyeing small buildings on which they may, someday, fall.

It never seemed so large--standing by the porch, as it had for years. But, sprawled out, face down across the lawn like a waiter catching his toe on the carpet—he’s wiped out everything in his path. Cherry tree… lilac bush…
The porch is unharmed.
The softened ground, a mound—one taut root, its lifeline.

There he lay, as it continued to rain.
Until, finally, a dry day for cleanup.


And more rain.

I put on my spotted boots and trudge across the pasture, days overdue for mowing. The grass is, in places, almost knee deep.
The tractor, in the barn, still sleepy from winter’s dampness, refuses to tackle the green, wet mess.


Tractor pneumonia.
A coughing, glassy-eyed machine—we cover it and let it rest. Maybe it will get better.

I’m headed to the Wood pool, to bring a bucket of fresh water back to my tank.
The path at the edge is flooded.
The cool, rising water within has found a way out.


In the small clear streams flowing past my toes, Wood frog tadpoles scramble, frantically, upstream. Swept in the current from the surface of their quiet pool--into these leafy hollows, from which there will be no return.
Trapped beyond the edges of their home, they’re doomed.

Soon, it will be time to return the growing salamanders from the tank to the Wood pool, also—to become wild, again. And free.

I feed them a snack before heading upstairs to bed.


A small foot touches my finger and crawls into my hand.
Safe, for now.


The rains pound against the tin roof.

Last September, we were 12 inches below average in rainfall.
This spring, we are over 6 inches above average.

For the journey of my Jefferson Salamanders,
now 42 days old,
please click here.




Thanks to Mrs. Nesbit for hosting ABC Wednesday!

The circle of life

The parade continues.
To the waters, another wave of life.

Tonight-- the tree frogs. And, as several peepers still cry out, though their numbers are far fewer now, five Cope's Gray Tree frogs gather, plump pads on long toes wrapping small stems just above the water's surface, and voice short raspy calls into a warm spring evening.



This pool, in the weeks I have been watching, has shown me, each day, change.



Its creatures, developing in the transparency of water.
Their lives transforming behind nothing more than gelatin--a womb with a view.
Peering into their world--until, the spark of life within, looks back at you.

Where, 52 days earlier, their parents returned to this ancestral pool,
the next generation of Spotteds enters the world.

Spotted Salamander eggs, 4-14-08
21 days

Spotted Salamander eggs, 4-21-08
28 days

Spotted Salamander eggs, 4-24-08
31 days
hatching

Can you find the Jefferson Salamander larva
swimming at the surface in the small image of Wood Pool?
(Look for green-tipped gills!)

My needle in a haystack

From a distance, all you can hear are Spring Peepers--their shrill voices, a constant now, in the dimness of an early morning or approaching sunset. But, if you move closer, beneath the hundred boldly-singing peepers' deafening calls, the call of a Western Chorus Frog can be heard. Just a handful are here, compared the the hundreds of others--their sound that of a finger stroking the teeth of a fine comb. Equally as small as a peeper, and buried in the grasses rimming Little Pond pool.

A more shy character, with a striped back--instead of a cross.

And very long toes for grasping grasses and branches.

But, equally fond of singing.

Sorry for the poor focus on this individual.
The night is so black, I'm only able to aim the camera in the direction of his call,
and must rely on the camera to adjust.
It seems to prefer this leaf.

ENature has a recording of his call here.

The wetter, the better

I'm finding that rain is nice.

What would, any other year, be a reason to stay indoors and wish for sunny skies' return, has become an invitation to go out.
Over the puddled pasture, now lush green tufts of tender field grasses, I step slowly along.
The water's chill felt through my boots on dry, warm toes inside.

No wood frogs tonight--only peepers and chorus frogs. The coppery adults, who floated, days earlier, effortlessly on the surface of wood pool, have silently gone.
But their eggs have come to life.

By the hundreds and thousands, the tadpoles cluster upon the bright green, algae-filled gelatinous masses. In writhing huddles, they wriggle.
Their safety, each other.


Now, the race begins.
To leave, as all wood frogs do--
before summer empties this pool.

Monday morning reveille

Spring Peeper at edge of pool
Click to enlarge!

Fresh eggs in the morning

I sometimes feel as though I have the front row seat to a drama unfolding in our vernal pool.
I've read the playbill, understand the plot summary, but struggle with a bit of uncertainty as to exactly who's who. And to further confuse things, the story stops and starts, as spring falters and late storms freeze the "action" on the stage.

Twelve days ago, 2 types of egg masses appeared. Matching them to the adults frolicking in the same waters and their similar timing, I identified them as wood frogs' and spotted salamanders' eggs.

This morning, a new character has made an appearance--an egg mass unlike any of the many, now developing gelatinous clusters from days ago. Fresh and clear, smaller and more dense.
Could it be that these are the Spotteds' eggs? And the original ones were Jefferson's?
I thought I had missed them!

Perhaps Act II will reveal more answers.

Wood Frog eggs showing embryos.
Wood pool,
March 25, 2008

First photo,
Spotted Salamander eggs with cleavage furrow?
Wood pool,
March 25, 2008

My Peeps

The peepers call from across the yard.
Even in the brightness of late afternoon, as I arrive home, several shrill voices greet me. By nightfall, the sound will be deafening.

From the distant corners of our "neighborhood"--as we walk our country block--this sound of jingling sleighbells from Little Pond pool can be heard.

With my boots and flashlight, I head off across the grass toward the din.
My footsteps do not seem to bother them as I approach. Their piercing calls masking all other noise.

One pass of my light across the surface of the pool silences them.


I settle in and wait, light dimmed inside my jacket, eyes scanning the surface. The moment's silence is hurriedly filled with their voices again.
First, one.
Then, many.

From the safety of the water, they emerge,
with tree-frog toe pads to perches and rafts above the surface.
The chorus goes on until dawn.

If you look closely at these pictures, you can see small, dark mosquito larvae that will make up some of the invertebrates--an important food source for the developing salamanders in these vernal pools. A healthy amphibian population here should keep these well controlled.