Baby Season

Rainclouds congregated overhead, tickling the back of my neck with a dusting of precipitation.  The light mist added a thin haze to the landscape, like noise in a photograph.  Compared with the dog-days of summer to which I had grown accustomed during field season, the mid-60 degree September morning felt downright chilly.  Rainstorms blown in from Hurricane Harvey had plunged Ohio’s weather into what felt like late fall.  Carl Brune and I were back in southern Ohio, herping our way through Scioto, Lawrence, and Gallia counties (read our previous adventure HERE).

We had stopped to check two sets of boards along the road, coming up empty at both.  At the third stop, Carl had a surprise.  He pulled a Tupperware container from the backseat and handed it to me.  Inside, I could see the outlines of four wriggling, blueish-green creatures.  Each was only a few inches in length, and scarcely wider than a blade of grass.  “Baby rough greensnakes!” I exclaimed.  

Carl had found the four snakes as eggs back in mid-July and had taken them home to incubate.  Seven weeks later, the mystery eggs had hatched, revealing their identity.  Over the years, Carl has hatched milksnakes, kingsnakes, and hognose snakes from eggs collected in the field.  Rough greensnakes were a first.  The little, teal noodles tumbled over each other as they tried to scale the vertical walls of their container.  I admired their shimmering, green scales and their oversized baby-snake eyes.

A baby skink found below carpet.

For many of Ohio’s reptiles, baby season begins in July and lasts through August and September and into early October.  Eggs laid in spring and summer, or incubating within the bodies of livebearing species, are ready to hatch. “As many as half the snake population can be hatchlings in fall,” Carl explained.  From forest to garden, neonate herps start popping up everywhere.  Few newborn reptiles and amphibians receive parental care.  Some salamander and lizard species will guard their eggs until they hatch.  Newborn rattlesnakes often remain close to their mother for a few days to weeks.  Most herps, however, are left to fend for themselves from birth.

Baby fence lizard in situ.

Unlike mammals and birds, neonate reptiles are far from helpless.  Baby rattlesnakes are able to deliver a lethal bite from the moment they are born.  The shells of baby turtles quickly harden to serve their protective purpose.  Baby lizards are born running and ready to drop their tails at a moment's notice (called autonomy, many lizard species can detach the end of their tail when grabbed by a predator).  During the last few warm months of the year, hatchling reptiles begin life in a frenzied search for food and a place to overwinter.  Many will not survive, falling victim to predators, roads, and exposure.  Individuals that make it through their first year greatly increase their chances of survival.  Many large snakes can live into their 20s, while box turtles can reach 100+ years.  Young herps grow quickly, but for now, they’re the smallest kids on the block.

After taking a few parting photographs, we placed the baby rough greensnakes under the same rock where they had been found as eggs.  “Live long and prosper,” Carl said as they slowly wriggled out of sight.  It was refreshing to release these newborn snakes.  Herpers often see as many dead—from road mortality and the like—as live reptiles.  Helping to head-start a few of the next generation felt meaningful—if only in a small way.

There are two greensnake species native to Ohio: the rough green (Opheodrys aestivus) and smooth green (Opheodrys vernalis).  Rough greensnakes are the more plentiful of the two, but still not a common snake species to find.  I have yet to stumble upon a live one while out herping.  Carl estimates he has seen around 40 individuals over the years.  It is likely their secretive nature and excellent camouflage that make them so tough to find.  Greens are long and thin, reaching from 2 to 2 1/2 feet in length, and grow about as fat around as a pencil.  They are limited to around 10 counties in southern Ohio.  As the name suggests, the rough greensnake is rough in texture; each scale has a little ridge running down the center called a keel.  Their beautiful grass green exterior helps them to disappear among the foliage of trees, shrubs, and grapevines.  In death, the greensnake’s brilliant green coloration fades to a peculiar blue tone as the yellow pigments quickly break down.

Earthsnake in situ below carpet.

We saw several other baby herps during our trip.  Hatchling five-lined skinks (Plestiodon fasciatus) scurried for cover as we lifted boards and carpets.  We also came across a baby eastern fence lizard (Sceloporus undulatus) basking on the side of a post.  I would likely have walked right by the little guy if Carl hadn't spotted him.  Under two slabs of carpet we discovered eastern smooth earthsnakes (Virginia valeriae) almost as small as our baby greensnakes, but fully grown adults.  The diversity of body shapes and sizes among snake species is stunning.  Read about some of Ohio’s small snakes HERE.

Reptiles aren't the only points of intrigue when traveling through southern Ohio.  As we drove up and down the back country roads we passed several old, abandoned structures.  Dilapidated barns have a certain beauty to them, standing like totems to the past.  Their wooden frames bow and fracture with age, sagging under the strain of growing vines and shrubs.  Slowly, nature’s tendrils work to reclaim the structures as her own.  

There is one building nestled away in the backwoods that will take nature some time to reclaim.  As we hiked, the exoskeleton of an enormous concrete factory loomed over the trees.  Its gray visage was weathered and stained with dark streaks.  Small trees burst from its now vacant windows like ear hair.  A stripe of rust stretched to the ground between the building’s giant concrete cylinders—the remains of a spiral staircase.  Below, we hiked across an open plateau in the middle of the forest.  The soil was artificially black and sandy from the coal that had been mined there.  This had once been a bustling company town, but now it was a forest.  A town of ghosts.  Most of the cover boards that had been scattered throughout the clearing had recently been burned or used for target practice—the only sign that other humans visited this post-apocalyptic scene.

Herping is always an adventure.  As I travel to find new and unexpected creatures, I often find myself in new and unexpected locations.  Each search is like entering a new world.  I am constantly asking myself, "what's next!?"  With so much to see, the life of a wildlife enthusiast is never boring.