A Turtle Team Update

Read part one HERE

As the weeks began to fly by, our little team of turtle researchers fell into a steady routine—or at least that’s what I would like to say.  Rather, each day brought new and unexpected hurdles and challenges.  “Adapt” quickly became the title of our project as we prepared ourselves for each new obstacle.  Mosquitos swarmed, turtles went AWOL, we contended with ticks and chiggers and horseflies, one of our 30 turtles came down with a serious upper respiratory infection (at first we feared it was the deadly Ranavirus, which could wipe out our entire population), equipment failed, and weather scorched our necks and drenched our boots (often within the span of just a few minutes).  

Throughout it all, we remained positive and optimistic.  After each grueling day in the heat and sun, Marcel and I often reflected on how lucky we were to be doing what we loved.  Each day brought the anticipation of finding something new: a coiled snake beneath cover or a young fawn spooked from its unseen hiding place.  We found immense beauty in the roadside groves and backwoods trails of our study sites.  We weren't trapped in the confines of an office; we were out experiencing life—not only our lives, but the lives of our turtles. 

Over the past several months, I have spent more time with these little cold-blooded, slow-moving, red-eyed, shell-toting, parrot-beaked, elephant-footed, scaly-skinned, mushroom-feasting creatures than I have with my own family.  The turtles' hardships became our hardships.  Their treks, our treks.  Their ailments, our ailments.  We struggled to remain detached and technical as the little round reptiles quickly stole our hearts.  They were both our companions and our study subjects.  Two conflicting states existing at once.  Schrodinger’s turtle.  

Turtle lesson number one: you cannot predict a turtle’s behavior.  Naturally, we tried.  Our initial labeling of turtle etiquette often coincided with gender.  “Oh, this female must have traveled here to lay eggs,” or “That male probably is searching for a mate—or maybe new territory.”  But these textbook explanations left us unsatisfied and missing the bigger picture.  In many instances, the turtles’ behaviors didn't appear to be oriented towards sex or egg laying—nor even feeding, travel, or obvious thermoregulation.  For all intents and purposes, one main activity appears to consume a box turtles' life.  Doing nothing.

Obviously box turtles do things.  They behave, they interact, they feed, breed, and live their turtle lives.  The fact that we so often found them apparently “doing nothing” simply exposes the limits of our human perception.  By our standards, a turtle sitting in the leaf litter is doing nothing.  But a turtle doesn't care about human standards.  To a turtle, its life is dynamic, fulfilled, chaotic, stressful, exciting, and unique.  Doing nothing is something.  The turtles chose to sit motionless in the leaf litter.  Somehow, it must be a survival strategy.  And it's working for them.  

Turtle researchers are a noisy and clumsy bunch.  It is entirely possible that moments before the turtles noticed us they were behaving.  Perhaps when they felt the vibrations of large bipedal apes lumbering, chatting, and snapping branches underfoot, they retreated into their shells and leafy forms (the shallow burrows box turtles dig with their front feet).  Once we had finished our data collection and moved on, the turtles could return to their previous activities.

I may be stepping brazenly close to anthropomorphizing box turtles, but that is a risk I take to understand them.  They are individuals, self-aware and distinct.  No two behave exactly alike.  As scientists, however, we record the things we can see and quantify.  So lets' talk about something we can see and quantify.  The early stages of our research have shown that, while humans aren’t looking, box turtles do quite a lot.  In particular, they are travelers.  

Our female Stumpy is missing both her front and back feet on the right side of her body.
Incredibly, she is able to move up and down the ravines just as much as any of our other turtles!

There does not appear to be a single time of day when all box turtles move (although the literature suggests early mornings and evenings are when box turtles are on average most active due to lower temperatures).  Movements seem to be up to each individual.  One turtle moving through an area doesn't appear to have an effect on others in the vicinity.  They come and go as they please.  Weather does play a factor.  Heavy rains cause many turtles to travel longer distances in a very short amount of time.  But not all.  

We rely on the turtles’ most recent “find points” to help us locate them quickly.  Plotted on a GPS this allows us to locate the spot where we last saw each turtle.  Sometimes this works.  A turtle might occasionally hang out in the same general area for a few days, maybe a week, possibly even a month.  Nearly all have eventually surprised us in one way or another.  They shoot off in seemingly random and bizarre directions.  They travel up and down ravines, from woods to field to woods again.  Some have traveled over a mile in just a few weeks.  I find myself trying to get inside these scaly creatures’ heads.  What are they thinking?  What makes them stay in one area and then travel somewhere identical or completely foreign at the drop of a hat?  Do they have a plan?  A set goal in mind?  There must be some motivation behind their behaviors—evidence of instinct, or intelligence.

"The wild field tech in its natural habitat." Photo courtesy of Marcel Weigand.  

It is surprising that turtles travel so much each day, and yet we almost never find them actively moving.  Not only do we find them not moving, but we often find them hunkered down in the leaf litter, half buried in their forms.  This would suggest that the turtles hadn't simply stopped moving after detecting our approach.  They weren't moving when we found them, and hadn't been moving for some time.  North American box turtles are strictly diurnal, so their treks must be happening during the day.  So why weren't we seeing them out walking across the forest floor?  There were moments when it felt like some sort of cosmic prank.  We were like children pondering the origin of the morning dew.

"Still life with Terrapene #TalkTurtlesToMe." Photo Courtesy of Marcel Weigand.

For now, I will have to be content with not knowing.  It is somehow comforting that even under such intensive observation these turtles can still keep so much of their lives a secret.  We do science at the mercy of our study subjects.  If the turtles refuse to reveal their true nature, there is nothing we can do but wait and watch.  As animals go, reptiles often get a bad rap.  They are rarely thought of as sophisticated, and yet, they have managed to outsmart us scientists on countless occasions.  Turtles are humble creatures; they are even more humbling to work with.

"Best Olympic Dive of the day goes to ... #LeapinForLizards.""
Photo courtesy of Marcel Weigand.

My season as a turtle field technician is drawing to a close.  I am heading back to school shortly and will be forced to leave the woods and fields behind (at least until the weekends).  I have grown immensely as a young scientist, as has my appreciation for the natural world.  I feel incredibly lucky to have been given a glimpse into the daily lives of box turtles.  To get to know a wild creature so intimately is no small thing and something I will forever cherish.  

Photo courtesy of Marcel Weigand.

I will continue to work on the box turtle project throughout the year with Marcel, helping in the field whenever my schedule allows.  I have a few more posts from this field season that I plan to write, in particular, the process behind testing our nail samples for corticosterone.  If all goes according to plan I will be back out next season turtle hunting again.  My endless thanks go to Marcel for being my mentor and friend, Dr. Popescu for welcoming me into his lab, my parents for their support and enthusiasm, and everyone else whom I have met and worked with this summer. 

Carpets and Cover Boards

I held my vision firmly on the horizon as we jostled along, trying to keep my eyes from rolling back in their sockets.  My stomach began doing little somersaults.  “Oh lord,” I thought; I was beginning to seriously question my decision to go herping.  The day was going to be hot, and I had been feeling ill for a week.  Add in my propensity for car sickness and you have one very unhappy camper.  “Kingsnakes,” I reminded myself, “you might see kingsnakes.”  Dr. Carl Brune, a professor at Ohio University and one of the most dedicated and experienced herpers I have ever met, had agreed to take me along herping with him (you can check out some of his awesome stuff HERE).  The last thing I wanted to do was cancel.  

After a few rushed stops to the restroom, we finally arrived in Gallia County.  Carl had been herping this location for years, and had worked out an efficient routine.  He parked his big four-wheel drive pickup on the roadside and the two of us grabbed backpacks and snake hooks from the truck’s bed.  Our first stop took us to a man-made field—a power line clearing.  The field had been neatly stripped of trees; a straight corridor cut through the forested hillside almost like it had been waxed.  “This edge habitat is important for finding snakes,” he explained, “It draws in both forest and field species to the boards.”  

As we hiked into the waist-high brush, the metal monster of a power line towering overhead, we came to our first cover board.  The piece of plywood was a little more than a square meter and sat flush with the ground.  Its grayish surface would have been easy to miss in the tangles of understory that surrounded us.  As Carl inserted the hook of his snake stick beneath the board, I angled myself for a clear view of what might lay below.  He lifted the board.  Dirt, a few bugs, no snakes.  We scanned the earth for a few more seconds just to be sure.  The board returned to its square patch of dirt with a thud.  On to the next one.

This next board was identical to the first.  As Carl lifted, a little black snake was revealed below.  Before the little guy could move I had grabbed hold of him.  It was a baby eastern black king snake!  He was a yearling by the look of him, and the first of this species I had ever seen.  I was ecstatic, completely forgetting my previous sickness.  Carl had explained to me that, where they occur, kingsnakes can actually be quite common.  I had hoped this meant my chances of an encounter were good, but I hadn't really expected to find one.  I posed the snake for photographs before checking the few remaining boards and heading back to the vehicle.

The remainder of the day (which would end up totaling nearly 11 hours of searching) continued in this fashion.  Stop along the road, hike a short distance, check cover boards.  Over the years, Carl had collected and placed cover boards throughout the reserve.  It boggled my mind how he was able to remember not only where all of the boards were located, but also what he had found under each of them during past visits.  Herping with cover boards is a kind of art.  It takes an understanding of the materials and a knowledge of what the animals prefer.

Metal sheets and roofing panels are most effective in early spring.  They provide warm, dry cover in the months that are predominantly wet and cool.  Reptiles emerging from hibernation can be found on or below the metal’s heated surface.  As summer takes hold and temperatures rise, metal quickly becomes too hot.  Herps may continue to utilize the metal’s conductive properties, but are often forced to seek cooler hides to prevent overheating.  

Wood, carpet, and plastic become safer options in the heat of summer.  Dumped carpet is often found in piled heaps, providing variation in moisture and temperature levels.  This allows snakes to be picky; they can often be found deep within the carpet’s folded interior.  Carl describes wood cover boards as “half-way between metal and carpet.”  Wood usually heats up more than carpet, but not as much as a metal tin.  It holds more moisture than metal, but doesn't tend to get musty or moldy like carpet.  It is cheap and light, making for an ideal herping tool.  

Ideal for people doesn't always mean preferable to snakes, however.  It is difficult to predict what will turn up under any variety of cover.  Some snakes, copperheads and ratsnakes, don't like the tight confines of metal, carpet, or wood.  Plastic pool liners, old hunks of plastic tables, and any assortment of discarded junk with enough space below it can provide the perfect place for these snakes to take refuge.  

Over time, most objects begin to break down as they are subject to the elements and forces of decay.  Cover that was once profitable may degrade beyond use.  Interestingly, there is a constant inflow of usable replacements in the form of illegal dumping.  It may not be flashy or elegant, but a trash pile can provide reptiles with ample hiding places.  As we drove, Carl made a point to check each dump pile we came across.  Below one piece of newly found rubbish we discovered snake eggs.  At another we collected a large pool cover to be transplanted to better snake habitat nearby.  Under an old tombstone we discovered two black widow spiders!  "I question the karma behind flipping graves," Carl chuckled. 

Herping in the heat of July and August can be tricky business.  It is often too dry for snakes to be active, pushing them underground and away from the eager eyes of snake hunters. “When it rains, it pours,” Carl told me.  “When we find some snakes, we usually find a lot.  This has been a wet summer.  Moisture keeps the snakes active and increases our chances of finding them beneath cover.”  I was happy that we had found just one little kingsnake, so when we flipped a well-used piece of carpet, my jaw dropped at the sight of a 2 1/2 foot adult king.  Luck was on our side.  “If you had told me we would have found just two snakes by now I wouldn't have guessed they would be kings,” Carl said.

Only a handful of southern Ohio counties boast eastern black kingsnake (Lampropeltis nigra) populations.  These field dwelling snakes are extremely secretive and rarely encountered out in the open.  They are sleek, smooth snakes, entirely black except for a white checkerboard belly and dabs of white painted on the sides and face.  They are heavy bodied, growing to more than four feet in length.  Perhaps the most amazing feature of the black kingsnake is its diet.  These snakes are called kings for a reason: they eat other snakes, including venomous species.  There are many famous images of kingsnakes constricting and consuming copperheads (HERE).  Kings are not actually immune to the venom, though they are so resistant to it that a bite causes little damage.  Despite this ferocity, kingsnakes are exceptionally gentle when handled by humans.  The individuals we found musked, but never tried to bite or coil defensively (though they did rattle their tails).

As the sunlight began to yellow and the shadows lengthened, we found our third and final black kingsnake beneath a slab of carpet.  It too was around 2 1/2 feet in length (the average size Carl finds).  Not far away, we also discovered a black racer (Coluber constrictor) which darted out of my hands before I could get a proper grip.  Under one of our final cover boards, we discovered an eastern milksnake (Lampropeltis triangulum).  I was thrilled to have found the other Lampropeltis (kingsnake) species native to Ohio; it made for a kind of set.  The milk was similar in size to the kings we had found but strikingly patterned with brown blotches against a creamy background.  Looking at this colorful snake, it was hard to imagine it as a close relative of the glossy black serpents we had just seen.  

The day had been long but worthwhile.  We had hiked nearly six miles, driven through two counties, and been stung by a dozen wasps.  I was eager for a shower and a nap.  Carl recounted tails of his herping adventures over the years as I tried to mentally note each of the species and locations he had found.  I was grateful for the successful trip and eager to get back out in the field with him soon.  

My Nemesis

Every wildlife watcher has a nemesis.  That species that proves elusive despite persistent  efforts to find it.  Birders speak of theirs in hushed tones, “Everyone and their grandmother had a picture! I drove two hours, hiked six, and never saw its dumb face.”  Herpetologists get glassy-eyed and distant, “Flipped every rock, every log—nothing.”  A nemesis captures the imagination in a way that other species don’t.  Each evasion feels like a personal slight.  It sparks an obsession, a lifelong quest to see what so many—or so few—have seen.  A nemesis is the creature that keeps you up at night.  It haunts your dreams with imagined delight or insufferable escape.  It resides in the recesses of your mind every time you leave the house.  Optimists hold perpetual hope: maybe tomorrow, maybe tomorrow; pessimists shake their heads: never, never.
 

I admit, I have been on both ends of the spectrum.  For as long as I can remember, the creature that has resided solely in my imagination is the gray ratsnake (Pantherophis spiloides).  In Ohio, it is more commonly referred to as the eastern or black ratsnake.  The herpers among you may be puzzled.  You may be asking yourself, “has this guy never been outside?”  Congratulations, you can understand my frustration at never having seen one.  The funny thing about ratsnakes is: they aren’t rare.  They are downright common.  Telling a snake enthusiast you have never seen a ratsnake is like telling a birder you have never seen a red-winged blackbird.  It’s like telling a mammalogist you’re dying to see a squirrel.  It’s like confiding in a cryptozoologist that you have seen exactly the same number of ratsnakes as bigfoots. 

Let me clarify.  I have seen black ratsnakes in captivity.  During high school, I volunteered with the Cleveland Metroparks, handling the same big female ratsnake, Olive, every Saturday for four years.  I can honestly say (with volunteer hours as proof) that I have spent more time with that ratsnake than with many people I claim as friends.  Black ratsnakes sparked my fascination with Ohio reptiles and amphibians.  Not only are they our biggest native snake (growing up to 8 feet), but they are also incredibly docile.  I allowed people of all ages to interact with Olive, and she never bit or acted aggressively towards anyone.  I am proud to say she captivated hundreds of visitors, including myself.  

We kept other species of snakes, turtles, and frogs at the nature center, but Olive was what always brought me back.  I often found myself transfixed by her beauty and elegance as she slowly pulled herself up the branches in her tall, rectangular enclosure (essentially a specially designed fish tank turned on its side).  Children would huddle around Olive for hours, examining her bright round eyes, laughing at the flicks of her tongue, and remarking at the smoothness of her scales.  I never missed the chance to introduce a cautious family or an excitable grandmother to our friendly resident rat.  I watched as fear always gave away to curiosity and then joy.  It was uplifting how this seemingly unlovable creature could melt the hearts of so many.  

Ratsnakes are nonvenomous members of the colubrid family (containing most of North America's harmless serpents).  They are true constrictors, feeding on mice, rats, frogs, eggs, and anything else small enough for them to catch.  Natural climbers, ratsnakes are as likely to be found in the canopy as they are in the rafters and boards of barns, sheds, and decks.  Their affinity for human habitation has resulted in their pointless persecution by fearful homeowners. Ratsnakes are mild-tempered, striking only in self defense.  They directly benefit us by keeping disease-carrying rodents in check. 

So began my quest to find a wild ratsnake.  I scoured what seemed like every inch of the metroparks, turning up garter snakes, watersnakes, turtles, frogs, owls, beavers, raccoons, herons, etc.  Everything but a black ratsnake.  During my searches, I fell in love with the other creatures of the forest.  I learned to identify the songbirds and recorded all the wildflowers I could find.  I photographed and kept field notes; I talked and shared experiences with naturalists and visitors.  All the while my eyes and ears were tuned to the slither of something larger, the glint of black scales.

I have many fond memories of camping with my father at Findley and Salt Fork State Parks.  We would hike the day away, exploring every nook and cranny for my phantom snake.  When our own searches didn't turn up a black rat, we joined the Northern Ohio Association of Herpetologists.  In NOAH I met many experienced herpers and breeders and traveled to new locations around Ohio in search of the scaly and slimy.  Still no ratsnakes.  

Black ratsnakes occur throughout Ohio, but are more prevalent in the southern portion of the state.  When I got the chance to visit The Wilds, a large mammal conservation and breeding facility in Cumberland, Ohio, I felt certain the odds were in my favor.  I woke early each day to explore the campground.  On hikes, I bombarded the naturalist guides with questions about the serpents.  They informed me that ratsnakes were so plentiful they often had to stop their tour buses to move them off the road.  Safe to say I didn't find one.

On to college.  I often joke that I chose Ohio University 30% for the wildlife and conservation biology program and 70% to look for the reptiles around it.  Naturally, my first question for the OU Wildlife Club officers was “have you seen a ratsnake?”  “Yes” was the universal reply.  I felt confident.  I didn't have to find one immediately; I had time.  Between and after classes, every chance I got, I hiked up to The Ridges (OU’s old asylum and nature trails).  I spent hours exploring every trail and field until I knew them as well as any park I had ever visited.  No stinking ratsnakes.  I went on every hike and trip the club offered.  No ratsnakes.  Those two ominous words were beginning to work their way into my consciousness.  Never?  Never?

Then I got the opportunity of a lifetime: to be a field technician for a box turtle study.  I vividly remember telling Marcel, the master’s student conducting the study, “Ratsnakes are kind of my nemesis.”  “Oh, because they can be aggressive?” she asked.  To her utter surprise, I explained that it was because I had never found one.  “We’ll find one,” she assured me.  We laugh about this now.  A fellow wildlife enthusiast told me, “It’s funny you have seen timber rattlesnakes and spadefoot toads, but never a ratsnake.”  I assured him that the irony was not lost on me.  

To date I have never found a wild ratsnake.  I have seen half a dozen dead on the road.  I have seen and photographed ratsnakes found by other field technicians on other field projects (but animals in the lab don't really count).  We have found four foot black racers and box turtles to spare.  But no ratsnakes.  I had planned to write this post once I finally found my ratsnake, but this is somehow more fitting.  I don't doubt that I will one day find a black rat.  It will probably be a day like any other.  I’ll be out hiking, or road cruising, and our paths will finally cross.  I will check another lifer off my list.  It will be like any other encounter, but it will also be a moment to reflect upon.  I will stop, snake in hand, and breath a sigh of relief.  The search will be over.  

In many ways, however, the search will have just begun.  Ratsnakes, from their hidden realms, have influenced my life in a way no other creature has.  They sparked the passion that today defines me.  My drive to find these illusive serpents introduced me to the natural world.  My fruitless searches turned out to be quite the opposite.  I found creatures I had never dreamed of finding.  I learned to be patient, to accept defeat, and to keep trying. 

I will forever be an advocate for the voiceless and defenseless creatures of our world.  In particular the hard-to-love, the uncharismatic, the slimy, the scaly, and the potentially dangerous.  I hope to change the hearts and minds of people who would look upon a snake with distain, fear, or malice.  John Burroughs, an American Essayist, famously said, “You must have the bird in your heart before you can find it in the bush.”  If the same holds true for snakes then maybe tomorrow, maybe tomorrow. . .

Some Small Snakes

When reptile enthusiasts talk about snakes, they often gravitate toward the largest and most impressive serpents.  Boas, pythons, and anacondas take the limelight.  These are the species people want to own, sell, and trade.  They are featured in zoos, serpentariums, and expos.  While big snakes are fascinating and imposing animals, they often cause small species to be overlooked.  

Smaller snakes, three feet long and less, make up the majority of snake species around the world. These gentle snakes are unassuming, often shy creatures that rarely bite.  They can be encountered in our own backyards among the leaf litter or by flipping objects like flat logs, boards, and tins.  They might not be the giants that inspire both fear and obsession, but they do possess a beauty and an elegance all their own.  I have been lucky enough to notice a few of Ohio’s smaller snake species and have been enchanted by them.  They are secretive and fossorial, but given their time in the light, will reveal what remarkable reptiles they really are.

The eastern wormsnake (Carphophis amoenus amoenus)—so named because it closely resembles a worm—grows a mere 8 to 10 inches in length.  These small snakes are found in southern Ohio in moist woodlands and hillside seeps.  I was fortunate enough to stumble upon one of these burrowers out in the open in mid-may.  They are more commonly found below logs and coverboards, where they hunt for worms and other soft-bodied invertebrates.  As summer temperatures dry up the landscape, wormsnakes burrow several feet underground to escape the heat.  

These thin snakes are a uniform glossy tan or pinkish color with smooth scales.  There is no distinction between the body and the narrow head, and the eyes are black and beady.  As I held the small, wriggling wormsnake, I felt the tip of its tail prick my hand.  An unusual feature of the wormsnake is a sharp spine projecting from the base of the tail.  This tail spine has lead many a handler to the false conclusion that these snakes possess a stinger.

Similar in size to the wormsnake, at around 7 to 10 inches in length, is the eastern smooth earthsnake (Virginia valeriae valeriae).  Earthsnakes are slightly chunkier than worm snakes, have larger, more developed eyes, and lack a tail spine.  They are a uniform brownish-tan to grayish-silver in coloration.  This species is considered rather rare throughout most of its range, which includes just a handful of southern Ohio counties.  

I discovered my first earthsnake quite by accident.  I was helping track a box turtle when I happened to notice a few exposed scales among the leaf litter.  I grabbed what, at first glance, appeared to be a very fat worm snake.  As I handled my catch, however, I was struck by how “snakey" the animal was; it didn't remind me of a worm at all.  The snake even lifted its head to periscope up at me like a tiny racer.  While examining my photos later, I realized that the snake was in fact an eastern smooth earthsnake.  

These secretive, forest-dwelling snakes feed on slugs and worms.  They are burrowers, usually found in the soil or under logs and other debris.  They are viviparous, meaning they give birth to live young.  The wormsnake lays eggs.

The reclusive northern ring-necked snake (Diadophis punctatus) is one of our most stunning species, and grows from 10 to 16 inches in length.  These snakes get their name from the distinct, yellow-orange ring around the base of the head.  This orange coloration extends along the ring-necked snake’s entire belly.  It is thought that this bright coloration could be a warning of the snakes' mildly toxic saliva.  The toxin poses no harm to humans, and the snakes never bite when caught.  Instead they secrete a foul smelling musk and struggle violently.  Ring-neckeds occur throughout much of Ohio, and are particularly prevalent in the wooded southeastern portion of the state.

When I have found these snakes beneath logs and coverboards, they are almost always with others of the same species.  Their communal nature doesn't stop there.  When it is time for a female ring-necked snakes to lay eggs, she will seek out a communal nest.  Several females will lay their eggs together in a fallen log or crevice exposed to the sun.

The northern brownsnake or Dekay’s snake (Storeria dekayi dekayi) and its close relative, the look-alike midland brownsnake (Storeria dekayi wrightorum), grow only 8 to 12 inches in length.  These small serpents are among the most gentle of our native snakes.  When handled, they make no attempt to strike.  Musk is their only defense.

Northern and midland brownsnakes are nearly indistinguishable.  Both can be a light tan, brown, or reddish color.  The only distinction between the two (other than scale counts) is the spots running the length of the body.  Midland brownsnakes display spots connected by crossbands while northern brownsnakes do not.  Their range includes many of the counties along Lake Erie and down into southern Ohio along a strip that bisects the state. 

I regularly find these familiar snakes below cover boards and rocks.  They are often discovered in groups, sometimes with other species of snakes such as the eastern garter snake.  They feed on worms and other invertebrates.  

Upon detection of each of my small snakes, I was astonished by how easily I could have walked right past these hidden gems.  Secretive creatures like snakes don't draw attention to their presence, making them all the more fascinating.  You have to do a little work to encounter them.  Small snakes, and other easily overlooked creatures, have changed the way I walk through a woodland.  I now check every crevice and possible hiding-place in the hopes of finding another small, coiled secret.

Road Cruising

The moon loomed overhead, its round face stained an unusually deep shade of nectarine orange. Mist rolled off the wet asphalt, parting like the Red Sea in my high beams.  The low hum of my car’s engine and the soft static of the radio added to the feeling of silence.  I rolled along at 15 miles per hour, eyes darting to each crack in the pavement, every stick, every rock, every dark blotch of tar.  My foot was poised to slam on the breaks at the first sign of movement.  I was road cruising. 

Always stop for "snakes!"

If you have never searched for reptiles or amphibians, then road cruising likely has little meaning.  For a herpetologist, however, road cruising provides a chance to see some amazing things.  The warm, uniform surface of roads entices ectotherms to bask and makes them easier to spot.  Driving covers more ground in less time compared to hiking, increasing the chances of a reptillian encounter.  

Road cruising is, however, a double-edged sword.  One of the leading causes of reptile and amphibian mortality is from collisions with vehicles.  Herps are often too slow to escape speeding traffic resulting in the deaths of adults, juveniles, and hatchlings.  For threatened or endangered species, the effects of roads can be particularly devastating.  Animals that are not killed by the road are often isolated from other populations due to habitat fragmentation.  To make matters worse, misunderstood animals such as snakes are often intentionally hit by ignorant drivers. 

A northern ring-necked snake.

Given the right location and conditions, road cruising can be a fruitful pastime for any wildlife enthusiast.  With a little knowledge of the right habitat (and often the right weather), a herper can expect to see everything from salamanders to turtles, frogs, and snakes.  

I often spend my evenings driving back roads, searching new locations from residential areas to state forests.  Reptiles and amphibians are unpredictable; they could turn up anywhere.  For amphibians, rain is almost always necessary.  Early spring ushers in the breeding season for many frogs and salamanders.  During amphibian migrations, the number of animals on the road becomes so dense that road cruising is no longer an option.  

Snakes, on the other hand, like hot, humid nights (rain seems to keep them off the roads).  Turtles travel to lay eggs during the spring and can commonly be seen lumbering across busy roadways during the day.  Night, however, is the best time to search for most herps.  Cooler temperatures draw these cryptic creatures out of their hiding places to hunt or bask. 

Photo courtesy of Brad Prall.

When driving, I keep my speed between 15 and 20 mph—any faster and I risk fatally missing something.  Knowing what to look for helps immensely.  Learning the patterns and habits of native species can improve the chances of spotting them.  Being able to distinguish scales from leaves or sticks is also helpful.  I have lost count of the number of times I have stopped for branches, bungee chords, or old pieces of tire.  However, it is always better to mistake something for an animal than miss one when it is actually there.  

Some of my best trips searching for wildlife have been thanks to advice from others.  Fellow snake enthusiast Brad Prall informed me of a location where he had seen nine copperheads, a dead timber rattlesnake, and a black ratsnake during a single night of road cruising.  He graciously answered my questions and helped me set up a route for my search.   

On one brutally hot July day (reaching the mid-90s), I prepared to drive the two hours down to the location.  I was accompanied by my fellow field technicians Aspen Wilson and Tyler Stewart.  Aspen, a Plant Biology major, and Tyler, a Wildlife and Conservation major, were working for Garrett Sisson, tracking his animals during the summer field season.  Upon mention of Brad's nine copperheads, they eagerly agreed to join me. 

As we approached our destination, my GPS directed (in its robotic female voice),“turn left onto The Road.”  Three college students, searching for venomous snakes, in the woods, in the dark, on an unnamed road.  I chuckled at how foreboding this was going to sound.

The first snake of the night was a DOR—dead on road—rough greensnake.  I had never seen a live greensnake in the wild and was disappointed to find one crushed.  Dead or alive, it was a snake; we were in the right habitat.  I crept down the paved road, foot hovering over the brake.  We all sat hunched forward, awkwardly peering into the night, expecting to see a serpentine figure around every bend, just beyond the high beams.  

Aspen holding an American toad.

As we continued on our way, something little and fat lit up in my lights.  “Is that a toad?”  I asked.  “That’s a toad,” we all confirmed in unison.  I pulled the car to a quick stop and we all hopped out for a closer look.  As I began to usher the little amphibian off the road, something enormous snorted behind me.  My first thought was big dog.  “Horse!” cried Aspen.  As I spun around, my headlamp illuminated a fully grown chestnut-colored stallion.  I stood just inches from its pen, separated from the road by nothing more than a thin black wire.  We made a beeline for the vehicle.  Being alone in the dark with a startled horse—well, you get the idea.  

As we sped away, I laughed, “we are out here to find venomous snakes and a horse is the reason we are going to die.” 

Then we saw it.  A little more wiggly than a stick.  A little more reflective.  Three doors flung open at once.  We approached quickly but cautiously, not wanting to startle the snake into a retreat.  It was a little copperhead, about a foot in length.  Aspen gently placed a net over the snake, allowing it to curl up defensively.  A baby copperhead's head is almost comically too large for its skinny body.  The snake's round, jewel-like eyes looked up innocently as if to say, “Who?  Me?”  

As I knelt down to photograph the snake, another car pulled up behind ours.  “What is it?” called a voice.  “Copperhead!” I called back.  A man walked into the light; it was none other than Brad Prall himself.  “Oh excellent!  I’m so glad you guys found something!” he said enthusiastically. We promptly introduced ourselves and shook hands.  Brad had been cruising this site for years, and a nicer fellow you will not meet.  He eagerly told us of good roads we should check, and was thrilled to hear about the reptile research we were involved in.  

The temperature had dropped quicker than expected, but still remained in the 70s.  Brad decided to head home and return the following night, remarking “75 and humid is when we have the best luck, but you should still find some good stuff in the lower 70s.”  Enthusiastic and knowledgable people like Brad make it possible for young herpers like myself to discover new and exciting creatures.  I was glad to be able to thank him in person.

That night we found a total of five small copperheads, all around a foot in length (one was sadly DOR).  We also found a little ring-necked snake and an eastern garter snake.  It was by far the best luck I have ever had road cruising!  We left for home around midnight, anticipating returning to this spot in the near future.