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.