Owls and Ethics: Chasing the Holmes Owl

A white silhouette lifts into the air on broad, white wings.  White feet plunge into white snow; black, recurved talons quickly sever the vertebrae of an unsuspecting vole.  A satellite dish head bends down to grasp its prize with an equally sharp, black bill.  Vole dangling limply, the great bird lifts into the air again, flying a short distance to perch on a nearby fence post.  Upon landing, she returns the prey to her feet and surveys her surroundings, golden eyes blazing in the early morning light.  Finding no adversary on the open landscape, the owl settles into her meal.  A few upward thrusts of the neck, and the vole disappears down her gullet, leaving a scarlet smear across her white whiskers.  Crop full, she ruffles her feathers, appearing for a moment twice as large as she truly is.  Her eyelids begin to droop—falling from the top down, she looks eerily human.  Not a hundred yards away, a group of photographers and birders stand witness to this rarely seen northern spectacle.  

Snowy owls (Bubo scandiacus) exhibit irruptive migration patterns as young birds travel from the arctic breeding grounds to winter in northern states.  Some years, there can be as few as two owl sightings along the entire Lake Erie shoreline.  In others, snowies can irrupt across the northeast in the hundreds.  During the winter of 2013-14, snowies broke a century record, reaching as far south as Florida and the Bahamas.  

So what causes this erratic descent upon the lower forty-eight?  The short answer: lemmings.  Brown lemmings are a keystone species in the arctic, providing food for countless predators.  Lemmings exhibit a cyclic population, rising and falling in numbers every 3-4 years.  Rapid reproduction means three lemming generations can be born in a single summer.  With this influx of hungry mouths, lemmings eat themselves out of house and home.  Coupled with an increase in their predators (such as owls), lemming populations eventually crash.  This dance between scarcity and abundance of both prey and predator has driven arctic evolution for millions of years.  

A screenshot of the eBird map for snowy owls in late 2017.

In boom years, snowy owls can fledge as many as ten chicks.  Come winter, young owls get kicked out of their parent’s breeding territories.  They fly south to greener, milder pastures where they turn up in areas that resemble the arctic tundra (eg. airports and farms).  Owls that find good hunting grounds can stick around for months, often until March or April.  With so many young and inexperienced birds, irruption years can mean utter chaos.  

One thing is always certain, however: when snowies irrupt, so do birders.  These owls draw bird-lovers like bees to honey.  If a snowy shows up near you, you can bet that a gaggle of camera toting, binocular clad enthusiasts won't be far behind.  This winter, 2017-18, is looking like another irruption year for the arctic birds.  Some 50 individuals are thought to have already made their way across Lake Erie and into Ohio.

A closer look at Ohio.

For years, I have chased snowy owls without success.  I always seemed to be one step behind.  This past November, I decided to try my luck at the Lorain Impoundment in northeastern Ohio—a spot where snowies are known to frequent.  A bird had been reported regularly for the last week, flooding the internet with images and stories.  Arriving early on Thanksgiving morning, I was encouraged to see the impoundment already crawling with birders.  Dozens of huge, tripod-mounted lenses were slung over shoulders or pointing out towards the embankment.  I did the rounds, asking others what they had seen.  Long story short, duck hunters had scared the bird away.  

That same Thanksgiving day, another snowy owl would show up on a farm nearly 100 miles away in Holmes County.  The bird in question (soon to become famously known as the Holmes owl) would remain on the farm for weeks, giving hundreds of birders excellent views of one of Ohio’s most beautiful winter residents.  The farm’s owner, Orris Wengerd, graciously allowed owl-seekers from all parts of the state (and beyond) to visit his farm for hours on end. 

Having struck out with snowies so many times, I was tentative about planning a drive to Holmes County.  Back at Ohio University, I recruited my close friend and fellow wildlife student, Amanda Szinte, to come along on a last minute owling trip.  We left for Amish country while it was still dark, driving two and a half hours in search of my ghost bird.

As we pulled into the farm's driveway, I could see a white, huddled figure perched like a weathervane near the edge of the barn roof.  For a moment, it didn't look real.  It could have been a plush toy, stuck up there to fool us.  But then the bird moved, rotating its feathered dome in that way only owls can.  My heart began to race; there it was, the bird we had journeyed so far to see!  I set up my tripod, one of over a dozen already there, and began taking shot after shot.

We stood behind a wooden fence in a designated viewing area, giving the bird plenty of space.  The huge, white raptor was indifferent to our presence.  Having quickly grown accustomed to us flightless humans, she snoozed the morning away.  We hung on its every move, cameras and binoculars at the ready.  I could hardly believe how close we were to this wild inhabitant of the arctic tundra.  Trying not to draw too much attention to ourselves, Amanda and I did a subdued version of our happy dance. 

The lighting came and went, as did other birders and photographers.  There were at least twenty or so observers at any given time while I was there.  For the next several hours, we stood shivering, watching the bird sleep.  In this time, the owl moved little, save for its swiveling head.  Most would find the monotony taxing, but not me; the excitement of seeing a snowy in the flesh made the time fly (no pun intended).

Unlike most owls, snowies aren't completely nocturnal.  They are perfectly capable of hunting during daylight hours should the opportunity present itself.  In their arctic home, the summer sun doesn't set for months on end.  We saw several meadow voles that would have made an easy target for the powerful bird.  Indifferent even to prey, she relaxed in the morning sun.

Suddenly, another, smaller raptor burst out from behind the owl.  Everyone gasped as the Cooper’s hawk swooped low over us and landed in a nearby tree.  The woman next to me nearly fell out  of her chair.  In our surprise, not a single shutter had fired.  The owl, on the other hand, didn't even flinch.  It had heard the comparatively noisy flight of the accipiter a long way off.  The little Cooper’s posed no threat, and so, like us, was ignored.

Someone redirected my attention back to the bird on the roof.  Looking up, I gasped; the owl was stretching her wings.  I poised my finger over my camera’s shutter should the owl suddenly take flight.  The bird leaned forward, extending her neck, eyes fixed on something we could not see.  The group held a collective breath.  You could have heard a pin drop, or a mouse squeak.  Evidently, the owl heard neither.  After several minutes of intense scanning, she settled back into her perch rather anticlimactically.  I lowered my arms, stiff from the cold.  I was actually relieved the bird hadn't flown. With my clunky tripod rig, there was a good chance I would miss the flight shot if I wasn't fully prepared.  

Forty five minutes later, the owl took flight.  Shutters fired like machine guns from every direction.  The owl soared silently over the tall grass and landed on the ground at the far end of the fence.  Having missed its meadow vole prey, the owl lifted into the air again and flew behind the barn and out of site.  Assuming that was it for photographs, we all chuckled at how quickly the owl had alluded us.  But then, just as the Cooper’s hawk had done, the great owl burst from behind the barn and flew directly at us.  It was too fast for me to photograph; all I could do was gaze at its white underbelly and huge wings and talons as it soared over my head.

The owl touched down in a nearby field on top of what we hoped was a meal.  I clambered my way through the surge of photographers to see what the bird was doing.  The owl sat motionless, staring at its feet.  It began walking in clumsy circles, evidently perplexed that it hadn't caught anything.  It kept examining the same patch of earth, plodding gently with its huge, snowshoe feet.  

After spending nearly 5 hours with the snowy, it was time for us to leave.  We grabbed a quick lunch, and made one final pass by the farm.  I smiled to see the owl perched back up on the roof as if she had never moved.  We birders are indebted to people like the Wengerds for being so accommodating and welcoming.  Their hospitality has allowed for nearly a thousand people to date to visit this great northern bird.  

It is a sad fact that many of these first year owls will not return to the arctic in spring.  Many perils await them among human habitation.  When discussing the issue of ethics, snowy owls are the perfect storm.  For starters, most of the owls migrating south are young, inexperienced birds.  They have never encountered birders or photographers, let alone buildings, highways, and airplanes.  Their home, the arctic tundra, is one big gray-scape.  Devoid of trees, low grassy mounds serve as the highest perches.  This explains the snowy’s tendency to “hide in plain sight.”

Sitting out in the open makes them an easy target for a whole assortment of trouble. One of the largest controversies surrounding these owls is “how close can you get?”  The real question people should be asking is “how close should you get?”  Owls tolerate a lot.  They are quick to learn that a distant human is not threat, nor food.  But approach too closely and the owl will start to get antsy.  An owl’s personal bubble is much larger than yours or mine.  Getting within a few meters just isn't acceptable.  These owls have binocular vision, useful for spotting prey at a distance.  The down side to this adaptation is their inability to focus on nearby objects.  The closer you get, the harder it is for the bird to keep an eye on you.  

Days after my visit to the Holmes owl, I learned some disturbing news.  Several credible sources reported that the Wengereds were in fact feeding the owl.  “Baiting” birds of prey is heavily frowned upon in the birding and scientific communities.  The trouble with baiting owls is that it habituates them to humans.  The birds become dependent on hand outs and lose their natural hunting instincts.  Short term, it is easier to accept a free meal than to expend the energy it takes to hunt. When it comes time to return to the tundra, however, the owls lack the skills needed to survive in an unforgiving natural landscape. 

I don't know why the Wengerds chose to feed the owl, but I have to believe they felt no ill will towards their arctic visitor.  They were simply being hospitable to any man or beast that happened to show up on their doorstep. Who wouldn't want to help such a beautiful creature that chose to roost under your watch.

The misconception that migrating snowies are starving, however, has been thoroughly debunked. Starvation accounts for relatively few owl deaths each year.  Irruption year birds actually tend to be fatter and heavier than years when lemmings are less plentiful.  Birds that stick around humans for food are much more likely to be injured or killed.  Collisions with vehicles, power lines, buildings, and air planes account for most deaths each year.  Rat poison and electrocution are also major perils.  Although it is illegal to shoot birds of prey, the occasional bullet has revealed the cause of death in more than one owl autopsy.

If direct impacts from humans isn't enough, climate change is poised to deliver the fatal blow.  With less and less snow cover in the arctic each year, lemmings will be more exposed to predators.  Without the privacy of their snow burrows, they will not be able to proliferate to owl supporting numbers.  A future crash in the rodent population could set snowy owls on the path to extinction.  Visit Project SNOWstorm for more about owl ethics.

So what's the take away?  Don't get too close.  Don't give them food.  Appreciate them for their presence, not the photograph or the challenge.  A little respect and knowledge can go a long way to protecting our northerly neighbors.

Thanks for reading.

Banding Saw-whets

A bizarre sound drifted over the wetland behind Little Fish Brewing Company.  An eery too-too-too-too that reverberated in my ears and sent a shiver down my spine.  Each too was spaced about a half second apart and sounded like a child’s squeaky toy.  This call, that of the northern saw-whet owl (Aegolius acadicus), was coming not from a bird, but from a tape recorder.  It was an “audio-lure” used by ornithologists to attract owls to their hidden mist nets.  

With no moon in sight, the night was still and dark—a good sign for our migrating quarry.  The stillness in the air was in direct contrast to the nearly 100 people clustered outside Little Fish, eagerly awaiting a night of owl banding.  Sitting at a bar has got to be one of the more pleasant ways to seek wildlife.  Drinks flowed, talk was nerdy; I (almost) forgot the temperature was in the low 30s.  The collective shivering could have been from anticipation.  

Bob Placier, a retired Hocking College professor and master bird bander, had teamed up with OU professor Kelly Williams to host the event.  After around 45 minutes, they announced it was time.  Half the group clambered down a steep hill to check the nets.  No one had any idea what to expect; netting saw-whet owls in the wetland behind the much-loved bar had never been attempted before.  As we hiked through the darkness, my heart was pounding.  Was I about to see my first saw-whet owl? 

I had been bird banding with Dr. Williams once before on a winter morning in 2017.  Catching birds involves stringing a mist net (essentially a finely meshed volley ball net) across an open area.  If positioned correctly, the net is invisible to approaching birds.  In the case of netting songbirds, mist nets are often placed between cover and a feeder.  With our migrating owls, however, a different tactic had to be utilized.  Call blasting provides the incentive for migrating owls to fly in.  For reasons unknown (November isn't the breeding season and these owls aren't social), the call of a male causes these tiny owls to diverge from their travels.  Owls have excellent eyesight, but even these nocturnal raptors can't spot a cleverly placed net.

As our flashlights illuminated the fine mesh, I could see a tan-colored lump tangled near the bottom of the net.  Dr. Williams knelt down to free the trapped creature, her silhouette obscuring any movement or detail.  For a moment, I worried I had been wrong—we hadn't caught anything.  But then, I noticed I slight fluttering in the beam of her headlamp.  Dust from silently beating wings.  Clutched against her person like a tiny infant, Dr. Williams brought the animal into view.

I usually do not describe wildlife as cute—this owl was an exception.  Held firmly in the characteristic “bander’s grip” she raised the animal for all to see.  A cheer went through the crowed.  “Well we got one,” Bob said proudly.  

The tiny owl was perfect.  Little bigger than my fist, it swiveled its head around, glaring contemptuously down at us.  The bird seemed unfazed by the capture; what really annoyed it was our joy.  With two comically oversized eyes, the owl seemed to be saying, “Really guys?  Come on.”  

I was just as taken with the pint-sized owl as everyone else.  Saw-whet owls had haunted my dreams for years; I couldn't believe our luck.  Dr. Williams brought the owl back to the pavilion for Bob to process.  He took measurements, weighed the bird, and carefully placed a metal band around its leg.  This band would identify the owl if it was caught again and provide information on its travels. 

Two thirds of netted saw-whets are always females, a skewed sex ratio that isn't fully understood.  It is possible that males do not always migrate or aren’t as attracted to the audio lure.  Either way, our little bird turned out to be a female as expected.  Unlike most birds, when saw-whet owls molt, they replace some flight feathers while retaining others.  Curiously, when placed under a blacklight, new feathers fluoresce bright pink, while older more worn feathers appear dull.  The number and order of glowing feathers allow researchers to estimate age.  With the lights shut off, Bob held up his blacklight.  Every inch of the owl’s wing glowed bright bubble-gum pink; the crowed oohed and aahed.  This identified our little female as a hatch-year bird. She was on her first migratory route, instinctively traveling hundreds of miles away from the northern boreal forests where she had hatched.

Until the mid-1990s, very little was known about northern saw-whet owls.  They were thought to be extremely rare in the US.  It wasn't until Project Owlnet—a group of passionate researchers and volunteers—began netting the birds, that their migratory habits were revealed.  Each November, hundreds of stations across North America set up their traps to band the nomadic owls.  This research is helping shed light on these abundant but secretive birds.  Today, saw-whets are one of the most heavily researched owls in the world.

I can't help but be drawn to owls.  Their fierce aura is easy to fall in love with.  Their human-like, forward-facing eyes don't just look at you, they look into you.  You can get lost in those eyes.  As we released the saw-whet back into the night, I wondered where it would go.  How many miles would it travel during its journey.  It might fly as far as Florida, or Texas, or Mexico.  Or it might spend the winter in my own backyard, silently watching from a hidden roost.  I might hike past the very same bird and never know it.  Looking out into the darkness, I smiled.  Once you enter the world of the owl, there is no turning back. 

Ohio Wildlife Legacy Stamp 2018

I am pleased to announce that my photograph of an eastern garter snake was chosen to be the Ohio Wildlife Legacy Stamp for 2018.  It will be featured on the ODNR website.  Sales for the stamp begin March 1, 2018.  

I never in my wildest dreams expected to write this post.  It all started one afternoon in late August 2017. I happened to be checking my Facebook feed (I know, I know); social media is often cast in a negative light, but for a wildlife enthusiasts like myself, it can be a god-send.  The group Herping Ohio has been one of my favorites for a while.  This Facebook group is an amazing collection of nearly 1,000 members interested in Ohio’s native reptiles and amphibians.  It unites both newcomers to the world of herps as well as seasoned veterans.  I have had the good fortune of interacting with many of its members both online and in person.  Scrolling through the group’s feed is a great way learn what others have seen around the state. It provides a necessary tool for building connections with other like-minded and passionate herpetologists.

I often start my mornings checking what ‘the gang’ has posted.  Everything from hog-nosed snakes to spadefoot toads to timber rattlesnakes have appeared in the lineup at one time or another.  It is a delight to share in the experience of discovery—if only through a screen.  Seeing other herpers spending their weekends out in the sweltering heat and pelting rain motivates me to get off the computer and get outside.  There are creatures to be found and photos to share.  Images span from slightly out-of-focus iPhone shots to professional grade photography.  In the end, it isn't the quality of the photo that matters, it’s the photo’s subject.  I often scroll through at high speed, reassuring myself that I can identify Ohio’s different herps at a glance.  

One Herping Ohio member shared a link that happened to catch my attention.  Without a photo of some interesting animal, I normally would have scrolled right past; but something about the post gave me pause. The link redirected to the Ohio Division of Natural Resources website with a short description above.

The original shot.

The caption read, “The subject of the 2017 Photo Contest is a native Ohio Snake!  The winning photo will be featured on the 2018 Ohio Wildlife Legacy Stamp.”  Had the contest subject been any other group of vertebrates I would have kept scrolling.  I would stand no chance in a bird photography competition.  It’s not that I don't like to photograph birds (in fact, I spend a ridiculous amount of my free time trying to chase down unusual bird species), it’s that everyone likes to photograph birds.  Thousands of Ohio birders (with much fancier cameras than my own) would quickly outcompete my best shots.

A snake contest, however, now that was interesting.  There are far less people who spend their time trying to photograph reptiles and amphibians compared to their avian counterparts.  For reasons I have never fully understood, herps do not hold the same appeal as twittering songbirds in the glaring eyes of the public.  I have spent much of my life trying to destigmatize the reputations of reptiles and amphibians.  In this case, however, Ophidiophobia would work in my favor.  

Another angle of the garter.

If initial fear isn't enough to scare off would-be photographers, getting down and dirty with a snake will often do the trick.  Snakes squirm, musk, and bite, often making for an unnatural shot and an unpleasant experience.  Some snakes can grow quite large and are difficult to corral into a suitable pose.  Others, like the pit vipers, can be downright dangerous.  Snakes are cryptic and flighty creatures, difficult to spot among the leaf litter and quick to disappear at the first sign of inquire.  They are a photographer’s worst nightmare in many aspects.

Luck would have it that at the time of this contest I would be in a unique position to photograph the diversity of Ohio snakes.  Working as a field tech on a box turtle study, most of my waking hours were spent in the woods.  My camera was perpetually slung around my neck—easy access in case a speedy racer (or my mythical ratsnake) appeared.  After photographing dozens of snakes that summer, I hoped one of my shots would be suitable.  I sorted through copperheads, foxsnakes, earthsnakes, and ring-neckeds.  The image I finally settled on was of an eastern gartersnake (Thamnophis sirtalis sirtalis).

Screenshot courtesy of ODNR.

I stumbled upon the snake in question one summer evening while out turtle tracking.  Stretched out like a branch on the forest floor, another field tech had stepped right over the frozen serpent without even realizing it.  Garters are a common species, and are infamously nippy and smelly when caught.  I am usually satisfied admiring them from a distance.  On a whim, I decided to catch the little guy and take a few photographs.

The garter was a healthy sized adult with a stunning yellow face and flanks.  Its dorsal stripes were broken up into black and blue checkerboard striations.  As I picked the snake up, it whipped around to glare defiantly at me.  I placed the little garter among the leaf litter where it coiled and tongue flicked.  I had just a few moments for photos before I had to return to work.  I never imagined how nicely the shots would turn out.  

Screenshot courtesy of ODNR.

Editing that night, I loved the way the snake’s colors popped on screen.  A yellow and blue body contrasted nicely with the snake’s sharp, blood-red tongue tinged with black.  Its eyes held an intense gaze fixed on my hand (out of frame) in front of it.  As the field season progressed, this image became buried beneath hundreds of others.  It only resurfaced when I began looking for the perfect shot to enter in the stamp contest.  

The Ohio Wildlife Legacy Stamp contest is an annual event featuring a different native Ohio creature each year (next year 2019 the subject will be Ohio owls).  These commemorative stamps are $15 with $14 out of every purchase going directly to conservation efforts (none of this money goes to me).  The proceeds support habitat restoration, keeping common species common, endangered and threatened native species, as well as education and research projects.  You can see and purchase the stamps HERE.  

As the contest rules instructed, I needed to print and mount my photo.  Being a college student with few art supplies and less loose cash, I recruited my mother and aunt to help me with the project.  Those two never shied away from a creative challenge.  When I was a kid, the three of us would spend days working on the various art projects I would dream up.  No endeavor was too mighty; my mom once spent over half a year constructing life-size paper mache coral reefs for my senior after-prom.  As kids, my aunt would design intricate halloween costumes for me and my brothers.

The three of us got straight to work, printing photos, buying supplies, measuring frames, and filling out application sheets.  We had a blast.  I never would have stood a chance without their help.  After submitting the photo, the wait began.  I didn't want to to get my hopes up, so I got on with class work (the homework of a biology student never seems to end).  

A few months into the semester, I received a call from Tim Daniel, a professional wildlife photographer for the ODNR.  It took me a moment to realize what he was calling about.  I was flabbergasted to here that my little eastern garter snake had won!  “It was a gorgeous photo and will make a beautiful stamp,” Tim told me.  It made my day.  I immediately called home to tell everyone the good news.  

I am incredibly honored that my photo was chosen for the stamp.  Knowing that my little garter will help fund conservation efforts is extremely gratifying.  My endless thanks go to my friends and family who have put up with my reptilian obsession over the years.  I couldn't have done this without your help.

My advisor Dr. Viorel Popescu was nice enough to write a short article about my stamp for Ohio University.  Check it out HERE!

Springs in the Fall

The late fall air carried a brisk urgency that comes with the approaching winter months.  A deep breath of the crisp autumn air seemed to sharpen my senses and sent a shiver of goosebumps down my spine. One good rainy or windy day, and the foliage would be gone, leaving the trees as bare, skeletal fingers reaching towards the sky.  With its burst of colors and scents, fall is possibly my favorite season.  Like spring, there is a sense of necessity.  Animals are on the move, each species pursuing a different chapter in their lives.  For many, including reptiles and amphibians, fall is a storm before the calm.  The waining temperatures provide the last opportunities to feed, mate, and find overwintering sites.  There is a brief period of activity before they mysteriously disappear for nearly half the year.  With the season for snakes all but past, Carl and I were on the hunt for salamanders. 

Salamanders are a fickle group of herps.  With their moist skin and subterranean or aquatic habits, salamanders are much less dependent on ambient air temperatures.  This means they can remain active long after their reptilian kin have hunkered down for the winter.  Safely nestled under rocks and logs, they can still be discovered even once the icy chill has taken hold. Carl and I hiked into the trees, along a bridal trail that brought us to the edge of a ravine.  The ravine was fed by a series of natural springs and seepages—the perfect conditions for our amphibious quarry.  

Carl had brought along a large dip net to sample the deeper parts of the stream.  Like shoveling snow from a driveway, he scooped up some of the leaf litter choking a stagnant, muddy pool.  Dumping the pile of leaves and sand onto the ground, we started sorting through its contents. As we reached the bottom of the pile, a little wormlike creature wriggled away.  We scooped the animal into a tupperware container filled with clear creek water.  Now free to move about naturally, the creature became very un-wormlike indeed.  

A larval red salamander.

Like a tiny dragon, the creature pushed its elongate body through the water on four slim legs.  Two fishy eyes sat on the top of its large head, which was lined by bushy, finger-like projections.  This little water monster was in fact a larval salamander.  A northern red salamander (Pseudotriton ruber) to be precise, evident from the shape of its head and its distinct pattern of spots.  The feathery filaments that lined its neck were gills, allowing the larvae to live full time in the stream.  At around 4 inches in length, it would soon metamorphose into an adult and make the transition to land. 

A larval spring salamander.

Carl tried the dip net again, this time coming up with another larval red and an adult northern dusky salamander (Desmognathus fuscus).  After snapping some photographs we released the salamanders back into the pool.  We continued down the creek, dip netting and gently flipping flat stones so as not to cloud the water and obscure what might lay below.  Under one stone we were able to corral a slightly larger larval salamander into our bucket.  Upon closer inspection, this salamander displayed a mottled pattern, more like the sandy stream bed.  Its longer “weiner dog” body and square snout made it clear this was something different—a larval northern spring salamander (Gyrinophilus porphyriticus).  Catching the larvae was fascinating, but now I had my heart set on an adult.

Adult red and spring salamanders are not common finds.  Like most of Ohio’s salamanders, the adults are typically more terrestrial.  In the interest of time and efficiency, we focused on the “good rocks.”  A “good rock” is less a physical descriptor and more a personal feeling.  Any rock can be a “good rock,” just as long as it strikes you as something a salamander might like to hide under.  

There is some method to this madness.  Salamanders like to wedge themselves as tightly as they can under cover where predators cannot easily reach them.  Large, flat rocks provide ample room to squeeze under, making them particularly appealing to amphibians (and to amphibian searchers).  Stones stacked on top of one another with tight gaps in between are particularly good spots to check.  It is a bewildering fact that “good rock” often yields nothing but sediment.  I lifted one particularly nice stone slab revealing the perfect gap for a salamander—but no dice. “That should have had something,” Carl commented, knowing the feeling all too well.

Usually sacrificed with adulthood, the childhood instinct to flip stones is something herpers never fully outgrow.  This quirk of stopping to check below every piece of cover can become (to my amusement) quite irksome to fellow hikers who wouldn't look twice at a lovely flat rock.  Stones are like potato chips, you can never flip just one—it's addictive.  The odds of discovery naturally increase the more objects there are to check.  Experience brings a sense of what looks right, making the “good” rocks start to stand out.  It should be noted that one of the most important rules of rick flipping is to return the rock to its original position.  This minimizes damage to microhabitats; after all, a lot more than just salamanders rely on stones to survive. 

I was born with the rock flipping gene; making the capture, however, was something I had to learn.  As a boy, I was often too slow or too shy to grab whatever slimy or scaly creature I had discovered.  When it was crunch time, I usually hesitated, allowing the animal to inevitably escape.  Luckily, I wasn't deterred.  The illusive nature of herps only added to my childhood fascination.   

As Carl and I continued along the creek bed, I flipped a large, mossy stone sitting among a pile of leaves on the bank.  A fat, rudder of a tail wriggled for cover.  I had the creature in hand before my brain could process spring salamander.  Jittery with adrenaline, I called out, “got one!”  

Our specimen was around 5 inches in length, the biggest sallie so far, but still small by spring standards.  I was sunned when I first learned that spring salamanders could grow to around 9 inches in length.  Springs are some of the most aquatic plethodontid (lungless) salamanders in Ohio. Adults can be found under cover (as ours was) or among their larvae in leaf-clogged, predatory fish-free streams.  On warm, rainy nights, when slimy creatures venture away from their daytime hide-aways, spring salamanders can be found by road cruising.  

There are two spring salamander subspecies that occur in Ohio: the northern spring (G.p.porphyriticus) and the Kentucky spring (G.p.duryi).  Both races are thinly scattered throughout forested ravine bottoms in southeastern Ohio.  Breeding takes place in underground springs during the winter, making this species even more difficult to find.

Unwary herpers be warned.  Place a spring salamander in a container with a smaller salamander species, and you will end up with one very fat porphyriticus.  Springs are infamous for being salamander hunters, often feeding on northern duskies and two-lineds (Eurycea bislineata) as well as invertebrates.  They can even be cannibalistic, chowing down on small and newly metamorphosed members of their own species.

As I placed the spring salamander on its mossy stone for photographs, I was still shaking with excitement.  I am always surprised when I actually find the fabled creature I am searching for. Photographs and species accounts are no substitute for the real thing.

Our individual was a soft cream color—Carl considered it “ugly” for a spring.  I couldn't agree. With their large muscular tails, springs are energetic, nimble salamanders (as I would soon learn). As I repositioned the salamander, it instinctively dove for the water.  Trying to grapple with a wriggling salamander is like trying to hold onto a lubed up fishing lure that is being rapidly reeled away.  It felt like trying to regain control of a hacky sack in the last seconds before it is inevitably kicked out of reach.  The salamander plopped into the water and disappeared into a tangle of leaves.  I stood up with nothing to show for my efforts except a muddy pair of knees and a two handfuls of viscous slime.

Loss aside, I ended up flipping three more springs, one in each of the four ravines we would hike that day.  Two were a stunning salmon-tone, while the fourth was a silvery, gun-metal gray.  The trip had brought us to some gorgeous locations.  Huge rock walls towered over us with waterfalls cascading hundreds of feet to patter against boulders and babbling brooks.  I left with another species to check off my list and a camera full of photos (around 350!).

I often wonder where the time goes.  With another herping season drawing to a close, I am forced to hunker down into what might be my own winter hibernaculum.  Like the snakes and salamanders that have enchanted me, I find myself waiting for vernal warmth to return. Increasingly frigid temperatures and waining daylight make it a challenge to get outside and explore.   I must constantly remind myself that even on days that feel still and lifeless, there is something, somewhere to be discovered.  Nature always has a story to tell; with luck, I hope to find those stories.