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.