Springs in the Fall 2: Kentuckies in Ohio

Part one here.

As I dropped the flattened stone I had been lifting back into place, Carl called out, “I’ve got one!” Looking up the creek, I saw Carl hunched over, a large stone slab balanced against his leg and arm.  Our hike was beginning to push the five hour marker, and we hadn't found so much as a red-backed salamander as a consolation prize.  My back and arms ached from the countless rocks I had lifted.  I had been nearly ready to give up; the day was just too warm and dry for amphibian activity.  Kentucky spring salamanders (Gyrinophilus porphyriticus duryi) might be common in cooler, wetter conditions, but today was clearly not favorable. We'd missed our best chance to find one, I had thought.  Call it pure luck or persistence, but our searching finally payed off. 

In the shallow depression where the stone had perviously lain, an underground spring trickled into a small, murky pool.  Just below the surface, sat the orange silhouette of a large salamander.  With Carl pinned against the rock, it was up to me to make the catch.  I moved deliberately, trying not to disturb the pool and scare the salamander back underground.  My hands shook from a mix adrenaline and exhaustion as I tried to cut off the salamanders exit.  It was an awkward fit, but I was able to wedge the end of my dip net below the pock-marked rock and the uneven, gravel riverbed.  If I could just get ahold of the salamander’s plump body, I’d be able to usher it into the net.  I plunged one hand into the water.  For a split second, I felt the slimy body of the salamander slide through my fingers.  Then it was gone.  

It’s fair to say I was aghast.  As I looked up in horror, Carl chuckled.  “That’s the way it goes sometimes with springs,” he said.  Our near success prompted another hour long search before we finally gave up.  That orange silhouette has haunted me ever since.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve played the scenario over in my head, imagining what I would do differently if I could have another chance.  

That was late spring 2018.  The dry, warm weather had pushed most of the Kentucky springs below ground.  All except for that fateful individual.  I would have to wait for fall before the pinkish-orange amphibians ventured back up to the surface.  Carl and I spent the summer hiking, searching for everything from rattlesnakes to racers, that one, lone Kentucky spring in the back of my mind all the while.

The Kentucky spring's cousin, the northern spring salamander (G.p. porphyriticus), is scattered across the eastern and southern portions of Ohio.  The Kentucky (G.p. duryi) is located in just a few counties in south-central Ohio (as well as western West Virginia and northeastern Kentucky).  The differences between the two subspecies are subtle.  The Kentucky is usually smaller with different body proportions and is more brightly colored compare to the northern race.  Populations of the two subspecies do not appear to overlap, although there is some integration in southeastern Ohio.

Western Chorus Frog.

As the fall semester began, Carl and I each found ourselves swamped by the work loads of professor and undergrad.  On rainy nights, we pushed what work we had aside to search out the annual fall migrants.  Autumn, I have learned, isn't just a settling period before winter.  While many creatures, like snakes, turtles, and song birds, become scarcer as winter approaches, amphibians are often more plentiful just before the cold snap.  Spring peepers and western chorus frogs reemerge in larger numbers, and some even start to call (something they haven't done since April or May).  Marbled salamanders are one of the few species to actually breed this time of year.  Spotted salamanders, Jefferson Salamanders and Small-mouthed salamanders can also be found moving across roadways on rainy nights in late fall as they search for overwintering sights.

Small-mouthed Salamander.

With the salamander activity picking back up in early November, Carl and I decided to retry our luck with the Kentucky springs.  On our first free weekend that peeked into the 60s, we set off for Pike County.  Carl’s truck rattled down the old gravel road, sloshed through a good sized stream, and came to stop at the same spot we had visited five months earlier.  Leaves that I had last seen as buds were now turning gold and falling to the forest floor.  The morning air was crisp and the nearby stream flowed with a steady pace.

Within the first five minutes of searching, Carl called out, “I’ve got one.”  I couldn't have crafted a better rematch scenario myself.  This time, there was no spring or crevice for the salamander to escape into.  Carl held the rock as I knelt down and plucked the spring salamander from the substrate.  It squirmed and struggled, but this time I had it.  The grin on my face stretched from ear to ear.

Had it not been for that initial find, we likely would have concluded this trip as laborious and unfruitful as the first.  For the next three hours we didn't find another salamander.  We flipped good rock after good rock, only to stare in bewilderment at empty pockets of sediment—the perfect size and shape for a hiding salamander.  Finally we decided to call it quits.  Just before turning around, Carl flipped one more rock.  A juvenile spring with a regenerating tail sat below, the smallest spring Carl had ever seen.  After all our hard work, we were both relieved to have found another individual.  These salamanders are clearly still abundant, but under suboptimal conditions they can be very troublesome to find.

We took a few parting shots and set off for home, homework and grading on each of our minds.  Hopefully, there will be another nice day or two before the winter months bombard us with snow and ice.  As we drove, I could tell Carl was already off at the next location in search of the next species.  Maybe northern red salamanders will still be out. . .

Thanks for reading.
Keep living the field life.
RBW