A Spadefoot Experience

In one hand I hold my camera, in the other I fumble to dial my iPhone.  Rain is pattering all around me, down the brim of my hat, and fogging my glasses.  I am crouched along the side of a back country road in Athens, Ohio.  To one side of me, agricultural fields stretch out into the hazy darkness; on the other, a steep hill obscures my view of the residences above.  If anyone had glanced out their window at that moment, I’m sure I would have looked like an ominous figure, silhouetted against my car’s high-beams.  

The phone rings; Kyle Brooks picks up on the other end.  Before he has a chance to say anything, I stammer out, voice shaking with excitement, “I’m staring at two spadefoots!”  “Ooooh, aaah, OK,” he replies, “I’ll be right down.”  15 minutes later, I spot the headlights of a car creeping down the road.  I am wary at first, being out here all alone in the dark.  Minutes ago, a woman had yelled from her car window, “watch out for a man, emerging from the fields or brush.  He has given the neighbors problems around here.”  But then I see the car stop, and the beam of a flashlight waving about.  The light focuses on something on the road, and I hear a distant cheer of delight.  

I jog up to see Kyle, Marcel, and Cassie, all running around in a flurry of excitement, illuminating toads and frogs on the road.  “They’re everywhere!  Spadefoots everywhere!” Cassie squeals.  I kneel down to examine one of the pudgy, little amphibians—more closely resembling the consistency of warm play-doh than flesh.  It’s skin is yellow and purple-ish brown.  The wide-set eyes are luminous gold with unsettling, vertical pupils.  The toads don't seem to be in any hurry, as they plop along the road at their leisure.

Eastern spadefoot distribution in Ohio.  Map courtesy of the ODNR.

Eastern spadefoot toads (Scaphiopus holbrookii) are notoriously difficult to find.  These endangered frogs are at the very northern tip of their range, occupying just a half dozen Ohio counties.  To make matters worse, spadefoots spend the majority of their lives buried under the earth.  They only emerge on warm nights from April to July, when their sandy homes become flooded with heavy rains.  The peculiar name, spadefoot, comes from a distinct adaptation to their fossorial life.  The heels of their rear feet display a hardened, sickle-shaped protrusion, used for burrowing.  

My journey to find these illusive amphibians began several months prior.  I had been scrolling through my Facebook feed, checking for interesting wildlife sightings and keeping up to date with the seasonal migration of song birds, when I stumbled upon a post by Jim McCormac.  Jim, a renowned Ohio wildlife blogger, had posted photos of some eastern spadefoots he had found the previous Friday, and a location for his sightings—Athens, Ohio.  I made a mental note to ask around the OU Wildlife Club to see if anyone knew of where I could seek these endangered toads.  “No,” Kyle Brooks, club president, informed me, “locations for rare animals like that are usually kept secret.”  And besides, the toads would have emerged that night, and that night only, while the weather was temporarily perfect.  That was that.

I forgot about the spadefoots until a chance encounter with Jim McCormac himself on the Cedar Bog boardwalk in Champaign County.  After introducing myself and talking to him about what I was there looking for (Massasauga rattlesnakes), I remembered the spadefoots.  He agreed to send me the location where he had seen them, and told me, “They start calling around 10 pm, a little later than the other frogs.” 

Over the coming weeks, my mind was on the weather.  There were a few rainy nights, but nothing heavy enough to bring out the fastidious frogs.  Then, on a day in late June, the forecast was perfect.  It rained off and on all day, and looked to keep raining well into the night.  It was steady, full rain, reaching a heavy downpour by late evening.  I sat anxiously, waiting for dark, passing the time reading Lost Frogs by Robin Moore.

At twenty to nine, I couldn’t take it anymore.  I grabbed my boots, headlamp, and camera, and rushed out the door.  As I pulled off the highway, I started scanning for movement.  I dropped my speed to around 20 miles per hour (the fastest I’m comfortable road cruising).  It was a good night for amphibians;  I spotted several Cope’s gray treefrogs and American toads hopping across the road.  The night air rattled with the trills of treefrogs; but the bizarre whine of the spadefoot never came.  

I sat in my car, listening to the frogs and the steady rhythm of the rain.  Then, just within the range of my headlights, I saw an amphibian hopping across the road.  The frog was about the size of an American toad, but something about it struck me as unusual.  As I jumped out of my car to get a closer look, the face stood out—yellow eyes.  I stared in disbelief, unsure if what I was seeing was real.  Those yellow eyes could only belong to one frog—the eastern spadefoot.

By the time Kyle, Marcel and Cassie arrived, the toads were emerging from the fields, crossing the road, and burying themselves in the sandy, unplanted field on the other side.  During this short-lived spectacle, we saw around 15-20 spadefoots.  They were a lifer (a new species) for all of us.  “Spadefoots were a species I never thought I would see in Ohio,” Kyle would later tell me.  

The entire time we were searching (well past 10 pm) we never heard the spadefoot’s distinct whaar call.  The rains, while heavy enough to bring the toads above ground, hadn't created the temporary pools the spadefoots needed to lay eggs.  There wouldn't be any courting tonight, just movement to more productive feeding grounds.  Within hours, the toads would be back below the earth—leaving no evidence of their terrestrial activities.

  

Ohio’s only endangered species of frog, the eastern spadefoot needs our help.  To date, only five distinct breeding populations have been recorded in Ohio.  These toads require river valleys with sandy soils where rain water can collect to form breeding pools.  Sites that meet these requirements have been repeatedly paved, developed, or planted.  Road mortality and pollution continue to decimate spadefoot numbers.  Being such a secretive amphibian, few ever get the chance to see these toads or hear their curious calls.  

We need to act now to save these magical and mysterious amphibians before it is too late.  You can help by participating in FrogWatch, a citizen science program designed to document species of calling frogs.  Participating in this project was one of my first introductions to science and my local environment.  It is an excellent way to learn more about native frogs, as well as help scientists to understand long term population trends and range distributions.  Don’t the bizarre, the slimy, and the inspiring deserve a place in our world and in our hearts?  We can make a difference.

Eastern spadefoot population statistics.  Graph courtesy of the ODNR.

A Month Before Field Work

Fine droplets of rain began to speckle the windshield as Marcel Weigand pulled the car up to a dirt access road, blocked off by a yellow vehicle gate.  I stepped out of the car, mud squishing beneath my boots, and looked around.  We stood in a small, gravel parking area surrounded by forest.  The trees were still leafless, their trunks stained dark with the misting precipitation.  The undergrowth, in contrast, was already resembling its soon-to-be summer glory.  Greenbriar grew on either side of the trail, forming thorny walls.  Wildflowers, spring beauty and white trout lily, peeked up at us from the forest floor.

Marcel, a master’s student at Ohio University, had approached me after the previous week’s Wildlife Club meeting.  She was looking for a field technician to help with her summer research near the Nelsonville Bypass studying box turtles.  Somewhere along the grapevine, she had received my name and invited me to come hiking with her that weekend.  I enthusiastically accepted, eager for the chance to hike somewhere different than The Ridges (OU's old insane asylum/nature trails), and maybe even be chosen to help with her project.

Marcel lifted the trunk and handed me a pair of camouflage gaiters and a set of shiny, blue snake tongs.  “In case of venomous snakes,” she explained.  I strapped the gaiters around my ankles and proudly hoisted the long, metal clamp.  I had never used snake tongs before, and was overjoyed with the opportunity.  We both knew that on this cloudy, 60° degree March day, we were unlikely to encounter any reptiles; but just the thought had my blood pumping.  

“This year is going to be awful for ticks,” Marcel continued, “we are both probably going to get Lyme Disease.”  I couldn't tell if she was joking.  Images of the deer tick’s red bull’s eye bite-mark leapt into my mind.  “That isn't good.  We don't want that,” was all I could think to say.  “We will use a chemical called Permethrin—way too strong for our skin—to spray on our clothes before going out in the field.  We are also going to do plenty of tick checks,” she assured me. Venomous snakes I could handle, but ticks made me nervous.  Instinctively, I slapped an itch on the back of my neck, already imagining the poppy-seed sized arachnids prowling over my skin.

Ticks or no ticks, I was ready for adventure.  Our goal today was to determine whether this patch of woods in the Wayne National Forest would be intact enough to use as a control for the study.  As we hiked the flooded trail, Marcel used her snake stick to flip every rock, log, and branch big enough to conceal salamanders.  Each time she came up empty.  I knelt down, as I had done hundreds of times before, and flipped a large, flat stone.  Luck was on my side; a redback salamander wriggled for cover.  “Plethodon cinereus!  Nice find!,” she exclaimed.  “Once the weather gets warmer, you definitely won't want to use your hands to flip rocks and logs.  It’s too risky with the copperheads and timbers,” she added.

I was surprised.  I had never herped in an area where venomous snakes posed any real threat. I was used to lifting logs or reaching into holes and grasping at the first sign of movement.  Now I had to be carful, but I didn't mind.  I’d adopt any new method if it meant I had the chance to see a wild venomous snake.  

For the rest of the day we hiked up and down ravine bottoms and hillsides.  We checked old car tires for rat snakes (sadly coming up empty) and explored an abandoned, dilapidated shack (part of an old cell tower), which Marcel described as “zombie habitat.”  The weather was miserable; the light drizzle had matured into a steady downpour.  We were soaking wet and tired. I was loving every second of it.  I found myself birding, herping, and even checking out newly-sprouted wildflowers.  If this was what every day of my summer would be like, then count me in, I thought.  

We photographed a few signs of human activity, but finally concluded that the forest was pristine enough for our study.  We prepared to head back out to the main trail.  Marcel had forgotten her GPS, so we were using an iPhone app to orient ourselves.  The app put us about a quarter mile from our car, an easy ten minute walk.  As we continued down the trail, however, it became evident that our way out would not be so straightforward.  The ground under our feet grew soggier and soggier, until the trail was completely underwater.  We stood, ankle deep in an extensive wetland stretching out indefinitely before us.  We had passed an enormous beaver dam a few miles back, and it had turned our hiking trail into a swimming pool.  “Wayne needs to update their trail map,” Marcel said, a little bewildered.  

We had no choice but to turn into the woods.  This was uncharted territory; we had hiked off the trail several times before, but always knew we could find our way back if needed.  There was no telling how far this beaver pond extended, or whether our trail even still existed.  45 minutes later, we emerged, exhausted, into a clearing on the far side of the pond.  “There’s the trail!,” I shouted excitedly, “right on the other side of the dam.  There must be some way to reach it.”  

The construction of this beaver pond was immense.  The enormous main pond split off into a series of inlets, each with its own dam.  We first attempted to wade through the second pool, formed from the runoff that had escaped the enormous barrage of sticks and mud.  Marcel stepped into the frigid water, sinking up her chest.  At one point, she nearly tumbled backwards, putting the equipment she was carrying in jeopardy.  With swimming out of the question, I examined the main dam’s structure; maybe it could be used as a bridge.  Crossing this enormous dam would be like crossing an unstable balance beam, level with the water on one side, and with a five foot drop on the other.  It was not an inviting proposition.  

With each of the consecutive ponds, the water level dropped and the dams grew smaller and shorter.  If we could reach one, it might be easier and safer to cross.  Once again, we hiked back into the woods and emerged at the next pool.  This dam was considerably shorter, but the dark green water on either side appeared just as deep.  We decided to give it a try.  With my snake stick held horizontally as a makeshift balancing pole, I felt like a trapeze artist navigating a high-wire.  I placed each foot directly in front of the other, and began to cross.  The pond flowed stronger and faster as the sticks bowed under my weight, but the dam held firm.

I cheered as we reached the opposite bank.  We had done it! And what an adventure it had been!  I looked back at the small dam.  It sagged under the newly free-flowing water; the beavers would not be pleased.  “If you still want this job,” Marcel said, a little forlorn, “it’s yours.” I replied with single-minded enthusiasm, “Done!”  We shook hands, caked mud and dried salamander slime sealing the deal.

A month later our field season began. The rest of the summer would be a blur of adventure, excitement, and new and unexpected creatures. You can read about my experiences HERE.

Tracking Timbers

“Everything uses these habitats along the road,” Garrett Sisson explained to me as we drove down a highway in southern Ohio.  I gazed out at the familiar grassy hills and rock cliffs that seemed to turn the landscape into a funnel.  “The deer use the open areas for grazing and the reptiles—the snakes, turtles, and lizards—find the perfect basking sites in these fields.  The wildlife in the area is really taking advantage of the space we have opened up for them.”

I was surprised; Garrett was the first person I had heard say anything positive about a roadway's impact on wildlife.  The impression I had of most roads was one of environmental disaster.  In my mind they were killing machines, luring unsuspecting ectotherms to their warm surface, only to be thoughtlessly crushed by the barrage of speeding vehicles.

Garrett continued, “Both of the gravid female rattlesnakes I have tracked used rock piles along the highway to thermoregulate.  Ironically, the road has created the perfect place for snakes to develop their young.”  Garrett Sisson is a master’s student studying one of Ohio's remaining populations of timber rattlesnakes.

Garrett Sisson showing us one of his rattlesnakes

In the three years of his study, Garrett hasn't lost a single snake to road mortality.  The timbers just don't seem interested in trying to cross.  They come close to the road, but never actually venture out onto its deadly asphalt.  Instead, they use the highway as a tool.  Construction of the road has provided sunny, southward-facing slopes, which the snakes utilized for thermoregulation.  The road is actually helping these State Endangered reptiles to reproduce. 

“It’s not as black and white as it might appear,”  Garrett continued, “There is a give and take here.  If the land could stay habitat instead of becoming an ecological trap, then the highway’s impact could have some real positive effects.”  I had never stopped to question whether a road could actually do anything good for wildlife.  The crushed snakes, turtles, and salamanders I was used to seeing with Charlene and Marcel had convinced me that they were just glorified deathtraps.  

“This is not to say we should pave forest and destroy and fragment more habitat,” Garrett assured me.  “The road mortality is a terrible thing.  What this highway teaches us is mitigation.”  

Mitigation—the action of reducing the severity, seriousness, or painfulness of something.  In the case of this road, mitigation efforts include miles of snake and deer fencing, amphibian tunnels, and underpasses.  These structures attempt to prevent wildlife from getting near the road (or at least provide a way under it).  Some of it works; some of it does not.  That’s what we were trying to figure out.

Roads that cut through habitat are environmental nightmares.  This road's presence probably means a lot of the wildlife that live along its margins are doomed—including Garrett’s snakes.  If we choose to ignore the warnings, then more terrible roads like it will be built.  If we study and learn from it, however, then we won't make the same kind of mistakes in the future.  This road, with all its detrimental effects, could be telling us to change our ways, to become more careful, and to care about the wildlife we risk losing.

I was accompanying Garrett, Dr. Popescu, and Popescu’s former PhD adviser, to look for Garrett’s snakes.  I had briefly seen one of his rattlesnakes a month earlier when I had accompanied him tracking.  Like our turtles, the timbers were fitted with radio transmitters (in this case implanted internally).  Unlike our 30 turtles, however, Garrett had only 3 snakes he was tracking.  This population is so small that he had found just 18 animals during his entire project—twelve of which were neonates too small for transmitters.  Of the five snakes large enough to track, one had died during hibernation and another was killed by a mesopredator like a raccoon or coyote.  Garrett now had just two big females and a juvenile male.

In Ohio, timber rattlesnakes (Crotalus horridus) are listed as critically endangered.  Prior to settlement, timbers were found across nearly 30 counties and on the Lake Erie Islands.  Today, they are found sporadically across just seven or eight southern counties.  Persecution and habitat loss are largely to blame.  Destruction of mature forests with suitable rocky crevices used for overwintering, coupled with unwarranted killing, have reduced their populations to a few broken colonies.  

Timber rattlers are large snakes, growing up to six feet in length.  They are bulky, heavy-bodied serpents with distinct arrow-shaped heads and rattle-tipped tails.  They are distinguished by their two color phases: black or yellow.  The yellow phase is light in color with chevron or lightning bolt crossbands extending from the neck to the tail.  The black phase is dark brown or black with brown or yellow markings and crossbands.  Garrett’s snakes are the black phase, with beautiful dark heads and lighter markings.

Anyone who has worked with timbers will tell you of their gentle disposition.  They take considerable provoking just to entice rattling, let alone a strike.  However, if a timber feels truly threatened, it will defend itself vigorously.  A bite would be serious; the hemotoxic venom is highly potent and can be fatal if not treated.

Venom, however, is an expensive cocktail of proteins to make.  Using this liquid gold on a human—far too large to eat—is a waste.  When feeling threatened, timber rattlesnakes will use every other tactic in their playbook before reverting to striking.  Upon first encounter, a timber will either remain motionless, hoping the threat will pass by, or slip away silently to safety.  If the threat persists, the second line of defense is to rattle.  

Baby rattlesnakes are born with a single button on the end of their tail.  Each time a snake sheds, it deposits a new keratin bead (the same material as our hair and fingernails).  Rattles cannot be used to age a snake as shedding can take place several times in a year and long rattles are prone to breaking.  The rattle is truly an ingenious communication tool.  Snakes have no external ears—they cannot even hear their own rattle.  The rattle’s function is purely cross-species communication, warning large mammalian predators “I am here.  I am dangerous.  Do not get closer.”  Rattlesnakes are practically begging us not to get bitten.

If rattling is not sufficient to warn off the threat, the snake will coil in a characteristic S-pose, and launch a strike nearly a third of its body length.  Even if a snake does bite, it may deliver a “dry bite.”  This is yet another effort to conserve its precious venom.  A dry bite does not result in envenomation—no venom is released.  This strike would merely be painful, not life-threatening.  When encountering any snake, the best course of action is to let it be. Ironically, most envenomations occur when people harass or try to kill snakes for protection.

We hiked up the ravine, over rocks and small crevasses.  Garrett used the same telemetry equipment as Marcel and I.  When tracking rattlesnakes, however, we had to be careful, plodding, and watchful.  It wasn't a race to the finish like it was with our turtles.  Accidentally stepping on a rattlesnake had much riskier implications than did stepping on a box turtle.

As we closed in on the snake, Garrett hiked down into the green briar while our group waited on the trail.  After a moment of searching, Garrett called up to us that he had found her.  Nestled under the tangles of thorns, coiled tightly in the leaf litter, sat Martha.  She was a handsome serpent, approaching four feet in length, with a dark head and thick, light zig-zagging bands.  She sat motionless, allowing our group to surround her without the slightest indication that she had even noticed us.

We examined her elegant patterns and reflected on how easy it would have been to walk right past her, none the wiser.  I was transfixed; it was hard to comprehend that fewer than three feet in front of me sat a venomous viper—the endangered timber rattlesnake, no less.  Garrett also took us to see Nosferatu, an even larger female that was almost solid, coal-black.  She too sat coiled in the leaf litter, a few intermittent tongue flicks the only sign that she was aware of our presence.  I could easily have spent hours staring and snapping photographs of these two snakes.  Garrett had to remind me, “you can’t take them home with you, unfortunately.”  

As I watched the timbers, it dawned on me that they were some of the last remaining snakes of their kind in the state of Ohio.  Repatriation, translocation, and relocation (RRT) efforts have proven unsuccessful.  Timber rattlesnakes exhibit high site fidelity—if moved from their home range or introduced into a new one, they will do everything in their power to return home. Timbers share communal dens for hibernation, which they use their entire lives.  Without a suitable den in which to escape the harsh winter temperatures, a snake will die.  Homing snakes not only face the problem of hibernation, but also the issue of habitat fragmentation.  

Roads have split up countless wildlife populations throughout the state. Their isolating force turns one, interbreeding population into several small, segregated groups. These small groups easily fade out of existence one by one, until sadly, no snakes remain. Hated, misunderstood, unperceived, and fading into extinction—do these beautiful reptiles really deserve this fate?  I don't think so.  A creature with such power and mystique should be our state's pride—a rare woodland jewel.  

Timber rattlesnakes play as important a role in the environment as any mammal or bird. They consume disease vectors such as mice and rats, which serve as hosts for ticks and other parasites.  Infected ticks can transmit diseases like Lyme and Rocky Mountain spotted fever to humans.  Without snakes to reduce rodent populations, ticks and their deadly pathogens run rampant.  Rattlesnakes are not only fascinating and beautiful, but they directly benefit us.  They belong in our woods, and we owe them space and respect.

A new rattlesnake in one of our box turtle sites was unlikely, but not beyond the realm of possibility.  As we hiked out, I imagined how incredible it would be to discover a timber rattlesnake without telemetry.  I would be looking, that much was certain.

Radio Telemetry

Read part one HERE

Radio telemetry seems like a simple concept: point the antenna in the direction of the transmitter and the signal will get louder.  By following the loudest signal, you will eventually find the transmitter and the animal to which it is attached.  However, a plan in practice is much more challenging than one on paper.  

I snapped the black headphones over my ears.  The sounds of the forest went quiet, replaced by a faint, periodic beeping in my left ear.  As I lifted the metal antenna above my waist, the beeping grew louder.  All around me was forest.  No obvious paths were discernible to the naked eye; the turtles seemed equally likely to be traveling in any direction.  Between the leaf litter and the undergrowth, we could easily overlook a box turtle, even if we walked right past one.  If we couldn't find the turtles with radio telemetry, we stood no chance of seeing them again.  

I scanned the antenna to the right; the beeping grew into a sharp chirp.  I continued scanning until the chirp dropped back to a dull blip.  I moved the antenna to the left and the chirp returned.  We now had a direction in which to head: straight into the brambles.  The vines and thorny tangles of greenbriar worked their way around my legs and intertwined themselves with my snake stick and the telemetry antenna.  “Just free acupuncture,” Marcel and I joked, trying to stay positive as our arms and legs collected dozens of scratches.  Where the beeping pointed us, we went, regardless of thorns, swamp, slippery earth, or even rattlesnake flagging (colored ribbons showing where timber rattlesnakes had recently been found).  

Eventually the beeping became indiscernible from every angle.  I reached down to lower the sensitivity, or RF, and started searching again.  Our radius of possible locations grew smaller and smaller, until we had narrowed the signal down to a patch of forest floor about the size of a square meter.  I pointed the antenna towards the patch of earth; something not unlike a small gunshot rang in my ear.  I flipped the antenna back behind me, away from where the turtle should be.  The beep was muffled and dull.  I continued this test all around the patch of leaf litter with similar results.  

Marcel and I both strained our eyes, hoping that a turtle would materialize.  “They certainly are cryptic,” Marcel said.  “It must be right in front of us,” I responded, uncertain of my telemetry skills. After several minutes of staring, we finally spotted her.  The white epoxy caught my attention and revealed the leading edge of a partially buried carapace.  My eyes formed the outline of a turtle where I had previously seen just sticks and leaf litter.  “My goodness, here she is,” I said.  

Spotting our camouflaged reptiles wasn't the only issue.  The hilly terrain that the turtles called home was notorious for causing “bounce.”  As we hiked, the signal would get louder or softer regardless of how close to the turtle we were.  The slopes caused the signal to ricochet and be picked up by the receiver at odd angles.  This would send us hiking in circles, often up and down the ravines to no avail.  But luckily for us, we had Vince.

A student from Hocking College, Vince was volunteering with us for the summer.  He had taken two semesters of radio telemetry and his experience showed.  Turtles that would have taken Marcel and I half an hour to find, Vince found in fewer than ten minutes.  He worked quickly and efficiently; sometimes following the signal directly to the turtle without ever pausing to listen.

Even with Vince’s skills, tracking the turtles took hours.  From day to day, the turtles rarely stayed in the same place.  After a week of searching, we found one female preparing a nest almost a mile from the field where she had been first caught.  The other turtles didn't move quite as far, but distances of a quarter mile or more in two days came to be expected.  We tracked several turtles as they trekked from the woods to sunny hillsides along the bypass (possibly moving there to mate).  Some turtles mysteriously crossed fences designed to keep reptiles in.  Others stayed in the same field for weeks (our obvious favorites).  As we observed their movements, few patterns emerged.  We could only ponder what secrets were held in the data we had collected.  

Tracking the turtles soon became systematic and ritualized.  Marcel, Vince, and I divided the workload between us.  One person tracked, while the other two collected data.  When a turtle was found we formed a circle around it, pulling equipment and clipboards from our bags and belts.  We took GPS coordinates, measured the moisture levels of the soil, the temperature and the humidity, the canopy cover, and observed percentages of ground cover.  Once this was all written down, we took a second random point fifty meters away from the turtle and repeated the process all over again.  “We are recording more data than we probably need,” Marcel told me.  “But it will make our study more robust.”

It was difficult and tiring work, but it was easy to do because we all wanted to find these turtles.  Some were like old friends that we were eager to see again; others were challengers, taunting us if we didn't find them.  It was a bizarre and adventurous game of hide and seek that never quite seemed to end. We eventually made a competition out of it—a point for laying eyes on the turtle we were tracking, two points for finding a new unmarked turtle. Loser bought lunch. 

I realized we were beginning to know these turtles as individuals. We couldn't yet predict their behaviors or movements, but their distinct personalities were starting to take shape. Some turtles were loners while others were gregarious (we found one turtle named Poopzilla copulating on at least two occasions). Some were shy when we found them, others were out plodding along or feeding. A turtle society was beginning to come to light right before my eyes. It was delightful, surprising, and even dramatic. I was an honored witness of a world few had ever seen. 

One turtle, Doris, left the safety of the woods and ventured to within ten feet of the Nelsonville Bypass. She was risking her life for reasons we did not understand. Perhaps her home range was so ingrained that she was unable to adapt to a new and deadly obstacle. She was an old turtle, far older than the road, and probably several times older than myself (box turtles live to well over a hundred). Garrett Sisson, a grad student studying rattlesnakes, had told me that of the road-killed herps he saw along the bypass, box turtles were by far the most plentiful. Of the turtles we were tracking, Doris was the closest turtle to the bypass, but not the only one at risk. There was a good chance of losing at least one of our animals to the road; all we could hope was that our research would improve the chances of survival for future turtles.

The Copperhead

Read part one HERE

As the week progressed, it became evident that little was to go as planned.  The dogs didn’t find any turtles the second day and the weather forecast for the rest of the week dropped into the forties, too cold for reptiles to move.  “55°F is the minimum temperature at which the turtles will remain active,” Marcel explained.  It looked like we would lose half our search days to bad weather.     

Coordinating with John and our various volunteers was chaotic.  John got his van stuck in the mud, and later, insisted we pull off the highway so he could move a dead deer.  Downed trees blocked the road, volunteers didn't answer their phones, and the thermometer had us constantly checking for updates.  “Ecology is all about adapting,” Marcel reminded me with a smile. 

The biggest shock of the week happened while searching a field in our control site.  The weather had surprised us with clear skies and cool but adequate temperatures.  The dogs were running and had already found us four turtles, three juveniles and a large female.  Marcel and I were ecstatic; we hadn't expected to find a thing.  Suddenly, all four dogs converged on one patch of tall grass.  Their behaviors changed.  Instead of searching confidently, tails wagging, they grew nervous and jumpy, ears cocked back in agitation.  

John knew immediately what they had found.  “Do you have venomous snakes here?” he demanded.  “Well yes, but they are incredibly rare,” Marcel replied.  Wide eyed, I walked over, watching the dogs fervently.  John took her snake stick and began ripping away the brush. “Well maybe they didn’t find—Copperhead!” he shouted.  “Grab a dog!  Don’t let them get close!”  The dogs had taken off into a whirlwind of excitement, leaping past us, trying to get at the snake.  I tried to grab Mink’s collar, but she was too quick.  She leapt dangerously close to the viper before John was able to get hold of her.  I looked up—everyone but myself held a dog; at my feet lay Marcel’s snake stick. 

Slowly, I peered over the hole in the grass that John had made.  There at the bottom, stretched out like a deadly rope, sat the snake.  Its characteristic hourglass markings sent my heart racing and adrenaline pumping.  “If you don't feel comfortable moving him, I can do it,” Marcel called to me.  “No, no.  I’ve got this,” I assured her.  For years, I had played this scenario out in my head, but now it was actually happening.  I had never seen, let alone caught, a wild venomous snake. I took a deep breath and switched into snake catching autopilot.  Using both snake sticks, I looped a coil over my hook.  The copperhead turned to glare at me, but was too cold to flee.  I lifted the snake into the air, glancing back at the group with a nervous grin.  “Ryan, you keep your eyes on that snake!” Marcel commanded.  I snapped my focus back towards the copperhead.  It calmly hung by its tail from the end of my hook.  

“Take it 500 feet into the woods, away from the dogs,” called Marcel.  Placing one foot in front of the other like I was trying to walk a balance beam, I hiked down into the trees.  When I felt I had gone far enough, I placed the copperhead at the base of a large maple.  He vibrated his tail and made a single weak attempt to strike, before sitting motionless.  As I backed away, his head swiveled, following my every move.  

The northern copperhead (Agkistrodon contortrix) is one of just three venomous snakes native to Ohio.  The other two species are the timber rattlesnake (Crotalus horridus) and the massasauga rattlesnake (Sistrurus catenatus).  Both rattlesnakes are endangered in Ohio, making a wild encounter extremely unusual.  Copperheads are considerably more plentiful, but are seldom seen due to their secretive nature.  They are adverse to human settlement, preferring undisturbed habitats, particularly rocky, wooded hillsides.  Historically, the copperhead’s range extended to just below Lake Erie; today they can only be found in the unglaciated, southern portion of the state.

True to their name, the copperhead’s head is a rich coppery tone.  The body is tan, orange, or even pink, with leaf-like or hourglass-like markings (some even say like Hershey's Kisses).  This pattern helps the snake to disappear among the leafy debris on the forest floor.  Juvenile copperheads possess a neon yellow tail which they use as a lure.  Wiggling the tail in the air like a worm helps to entice unsuspecting amphibians and rodents to come within striking range. Copperheads are ovoviviparous (my favorite word); gravid (pregnant) females do not lay eggs.  Instead, they retain the eggs inside their bodies while the young develop.  Once it is time for the young snakes to hatch, they emerge live from the mother encased in a transparent sac.  They are born with an “egg tooth” on the tip of their snout, which they use to free themselves.

Copperheads bite more people in the U.S. than any other venomous snake.  The bite from a copperhead is not normally fatal for a healthy adult person.  It is, however, excruciatingly painful.  Like many snakes that lack a rattle, copperheads will still vibrate their tails when feeling threatened.  Despite their reputation for aggression, copperheads are generally docile snakes, reluctant to bite unless harassed.  

It had been an incredible encounter.  Marcel gripped my shoulder, “I'm proud of you,” she beamed.  “There aren’t too many people I would trust to catch a copperhead their first time.  Are you okay?  You kept your cool and did great.”  I smiled, a little dazed.  “It was amazing,” I replied.  “I’ve never caught a venomous snake before.”  John walked up to me and grinned, “You realize you will remember that for the rest of your life.”  I did realize.  It was a connection with a wild creature like I had never experienced before.  It was almost spiritual, a right of passage to becoming a herpetologist.  

Now our attention turned to Mink.  She was walking with a peculiar gait, and was shaking slightly.  Marcel and I glanced at each other with concern before posing the question, “Is Mink all right?  She got pretty close to that snake.  You don't think she was bitten?”  John chuckled, “No, she’s just cold.  She’ll be alright.  If a dog had been bitten it would have been on the nose, which isn't deadly.  It’s a bite to the belly that is a real problem.”  As we hiked back to the vehicles, Mink returned to her old self.  She happily leapt up into John’s van, eager for a rest.

Read part four HERE