Sounds and silence

The sound of peepers fills the air.
With my eyes still closed in the dark of a cool, spring morning,
like sleigh bells through the field grass, their distant chime forecasts another warming day.




For weeks I’ve driven past the still snow-covered fields, each time, looking for a change—
a sign that this winter, longer than most and having left layer upon layer of snow, would lessen its hold. And along the trail, I’ve followed the footsteps of deer, whose tracks, preserved in snow, lie beside those of the coyote, though I know they pass here, each in their own time.

Horned Lark, Eremophila alpestris

Eastern Bluebird, Siala sialis

In the dark before dawn, I’ve heard the woodcock calling,
while, from the basin which I call Little Pond, wood frogs have begun to quack incessantly.
It is these sounds of spring, that speak for those most silent.
Who, drawn to the cool, clear waters of their birth,
with flashes of their long, spotted bodies, yet say, "spring."

Spotted Salamander, Ambystoma maculatum

Empty

I stand at the edge of Little Pond pool, its green, grassy basin rimmed with field flowers reaching beyond my waist. It was in this very spot that I found him last spring, my first spotted salamander, climbing over the berm to re-enter the water of his birth, and the study of my vernal pool began.

The emptiness seems a loss now, for the thousands of lives that gathered here or hatched from the egg masses, have gone. Most, moving out into the fields and woods on newly sprouted legs. The last remaining few, picked up by a solitary sandpiper—watching the vanishing water as I, slipping like sand through an hourglass.

It is this emptiness that is its essence.

February 2008

May 2008

July 2008

August 15, 2008

Autumn rains will fill the basin once more.
The pool will wait for spring.
And on a warm, rainy night in March, we will both return.

Spotted Salamander in Little Pond pool
March 2008

Vernal pools are wetlands that become dry for periods of the year, and, for that reason, cannot contain fish. Certain amphibians must use these waters for breeding so their eggs will not be eaten.
Destruction of vernal pools by draining or fill, disrupts the life cycle of Wood Frogs and several salamander species, including the Spotted and Jefferson. Each spring, these interesting animals cover great distances to return to the pools of their birth and breed again, only to find them gone.
Many states have begun vernal pool monitoring programs to ensure the health of these very important ecological areas.

View more ABC Wednesdays here!

Success with salamanders

This entry documents the final chapter of my experiences with Jefferson Salamanders. For previous entries, begin here.

“How many times do I have to tell you? Stop putting everything you find in your mouth!”

You’d think they’d have the sense to know food from non-food, but my little salamanders seem to explore their world by mouthing it.
Not a problem, as long as you can spit out what you don’t like.
A serious problem, if you can’t.

Last week, I peeked in the tank one morning to find two of the crew had something stuck, as in “hopelessly lodged,” in their mouths. One, in such a way that it prevented him from opening his mouth at all; the other--one preventing him from closing it. A sticky matter, indeed!


The seeds of the Nodding Bur-Marigold float at the surface, their back-curved barbs like fishhooks in tender skin. Apparently mistaken for food, they’d been gulped—and would go neither up nor down.


In a small bowl of water on the kitchen table, I operated on my 2-inch long patients—with a pair of tweezers and the utmost concentration. Barely restraining them until I could get a grip on the bur, then working it gently loose. Minutes later, they were swimming once again in the tank.
And, of course, hungry for breakfast.
A small mark, the only reminder of the nasty, spiny encounter.




This weekend, on a cool rainy evening, I released them back to Wood pool--the few Jefferson Salamander larvae, still with bright, smiling faces. (and several Wood Frog tadpoles)



At 45 days since hatching, they’re soon to metamorphose—lose gills, crawl out onto land, and begin their adult lives, underground. They’ll return to this very same pool for only a few days each spring to breed, reuniting with others of their kind in the icy March waters, before leaving eggs behind.
I wanted to be sure they came to know this pool as their home. And completed the cycle of life in these waters. This is their ancestral pool.



How far they’ll wander from here is unknown.
And how they navigate the distance for their return each spring is also unknown.
But one thing is certain—on a rainy night in late February, under a pitch-black sky--with my flashlight, I’ll be watching.
Waiting to welcome them home.

Research conducted in Indiana in 1970,
calculated the rate of survival for this species in the wild,
from hatching to metamorphosis to be 0.7% (less than one percent).



Thanks to Mrs. Nesbit for hosting ABC Wednesday!

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!

Look at those legs!

They peer from beneath the leafy hideouts, deep in dark water--their charming faces, bright white. Just a few Jefferson Salamander larvae, visiting from the vernal pool--and showing me the marvel of their ever-changing lives.
Daily, I peer back.

At 32 days since hatching, they're just under two inches long.
Golden brown-freckled bodies.
Brilliant white bellies.

Wide faces with ever-present smiles.



And, at last--
four legs!!

Jefferson Salamander larva, upper right
Wood Frog tadpole, lower right

Watching Woman, center



For more glimpses into the lives within my vernal pool,
from migrations to eggs and hatchlings,
click here.

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

Focused

Every day begins with a walk to the pool.
What started several weeks ago as a mild interest in understanding more of the ecology of this small seasonal basin, has become much more.
There is life here now.

And although it is very clear that animals that reproduce in these numbers, do so for a reason--I'd like to think these will survive, beyond the 10 percent of most.

There are no fish here. Nothing larger, in fact, than the wood frogs that left the bluish gray masses, before returning to the wet, leafy floor beneath the surrounding trees. But every morning I see footprints.
I know that I am not the only one watching.




The Jefferson salamanders drawn here with the first warm rain, have also gone. Beneath the snow-covered pool, they waited. Their eggs, on the long submerged grasses, now all I can see.



Tomorrow morning will be rainy again.
At the edge of the pool, I will be watching.

Reflections

Little pond pool, icy morning March 5, 2008

I describe myself as someone who watches the world—of a curiosity-driven character.
Pleased to focus my attention on that which is new, and unsettled when it seems not to be there—I’ve not learned to wait well.

When late last spring the nesting birds settled into their quietness, summer insects sprang to life—filling the lull with six-legged activity.
Every day continuing new, with so much to see.
Nature’s stream of beginnings flowing from one to the next.

Watching and waiting now, I feel a gap between winter’s end and the birds’ return.
A precious time for life.
It seems nature should have filled this space with something.

Wood pool, iced March 5, 2008

It is here, even now as the chill fights to remain.
The amphibians—frogs and salamanders.
The newness I seek.

Wood pool with Wood Frog egg masses beneath ice, March 5, 2008.


Little pond pool with Jefferson Salamander spermatophores beneath ice, March 5, 2008

Although I observed salamanders moving into these pools and heard wood frogs calling, 2 nights earlier, neither are considered evidence of breeding. Wood Frog egg masses and Jefferson Salamander spermatophores are biological indicators of breeding activity.
Vernal pools are defined by the confirmed breeding of these indicator species.