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.

Family pictures

I like to look at families--
notice the common characteristics between individuals and the traits that define their group.
The shape of a mouth, or the sound of a voice--that immediately identifies them as family.

It amazes me how, in even the youngest, the beginnings of these features become recognizable, long before they're grown.

These embryos in the Little Pond pool are salamanders (Spotted, I think)--with the hint of a tail and gills. In less than a week, they'll hatch into larvae, like the Jeffersons already growing in my tank, and begin their lives feeding in the shallow pool where their parents left these egg masses several weeks ago.

A bluish haze almost makes them seem magical.
And the changes I observe every day, are.



The Jeffersons' gills are now tipped in bright green--collapsing against their dark bodies as they swim and flaring out in the water as they settle in to wait for dinner. They look like tiny lions waiting in the brush, golden eyes glowing--
and act the part.






The Wood frog tadpole behind him glistens with coppery flecks--bumping carelessly along through the algae, grazing here and there.
The salamander, already the solitary hunter, would rather he graze somewhere else.


Suspended and motionless, with his widely-hinged mouth--
waiting for dinner to swim past.

And sprouting brand new front legs!!

If you zoom in on this picture you can see what looks like his spine developing!
I'm such a proud momma.

Another place at the table

Our table for four serves another purpose now.
With just 2 of us home, the ample room quickly fills with every seasonal project--from taxes to owl pellets.
And because I crave more than a passing glance at so much of what is outside my door, often, assorted "guests" are invited in--to occupy the empty space, where children sat for dinner years ago.

This spring, it's an aquarium--ten gallons of amber water borrowed from the wood pool.
Filled with tadpoles and salamander larvae--and all their dinner favorites.
There's a small bubbler in one corner that hums more than I'd like, but oxygen is important to these tiny growing guests.
The Jefferson salamander larvae have external gills--absorbing oxygen easily from the water, as they sit, motionless, hidden in algae, waiting for prey to swim past.

With a sudden GULP, a tiny daphnia or copepod is drawn in--and he waits again--the predator.



The wood frog tadpoles' gills have become internal now, as in fish, water passing through them as they swim around the pool, grazing here and there.

Little eating machines--with voracious appetites. Already, they've quadrupled in size.

Who knows how long they'll stay--but for the moment, they're dining with us.