The Copperhead

Read part one HERE

As the week progressed, it became evident that little was to go as planned.  The dogs didn’t find any turtles the second day and the weather forecast for the rest of the week dropped into the forties, too cold for reptiles to move.  “55°F is the minimum temperature at which the turtles will remain active,” Marcel explained.  It looked like we would lose half our search days to bad weather.     

Coordinating with John and our various volunteers was chaotic.  John got his van stuck in the mud, and later, insisted we pull off the highway so he could move a dead deer.  Downed trees blocked the road, volunteers didn't answer their phones, and the thermometer had us constantly checking for updates.  “Ecology is all about adapting,” Marcel reminded me with a smile. 

The biggest shock of the week happened while searching a field in our control site.  The weather had surprised us with clear skies and cool but adequate temperatures.  The dogs were running and had already found us four turtles, three juveniles and a large female.  Marcel and I were ecstatic; we hadn't expected to find a thing.  Suddenly, all four dogs converged on one patch of tall grass.  Their behaviors changed.  Instead of searching confidently, tails wagging, they grew nervous and jumpy, ears cocked back in agitation.  

John knew immediately what they had found.  “Do you have venomous snakes here?” he demanded.  “Well yes, but they are incredibly rare,” Marcel replied.  Wide eyed, I walked over, watching the dogs fervently.  John took her snake stick and began ripping away the brush. “Well maybe they didn’t find—Copperhead!” he shouted.  “Grab a dog!  Don’t let them get close!”  The dogs had taken off into a whirlwind of excitement, leaping past us, trying to get at the snake.  I tried to grab Mink’s collar, but she was too quick.  She leapt dangerously close to the viper before John was able to get hold of her.  I looked up—everyone but myself held a dog; at my feet lay Marcel’s snake stick. 

Slowly, I peered over the hole in the grass that John had made.  There at the bottom, stretched out like a deadly rope, sat the snake.  Its characteristic hourglass markings sent my heart racing and adrenaline pumping.  “If you don't feel comfortable moving him, I can do it,” Marcel called to me.  “No, no.  I’ve got this,” I assured her.  For years, I had played this scenario out in my head, but now it was actually happening.  I had never seen, let alone caught, a wild venomous snake. I took a deep breath and switched into snake catching autopilot.  Using both snake sticks, I looped a coil over my hook.  The copperhead turned to glare at me, but was too cold to flee.  I lifted the snake into the air, glancing back at the group with a nervous grin.  “Ryan, you keep your eyes on that snake!” Marcel commanded.  I snapped my focus back towards the copperhead.  It calmly hung by its tail from the end of my hook.  

“Take it 500 feet into the woods, away from the dogs,” called Marcel.  Placing one foot in front of the other like I was trying to walk a balance beam, I hiked down into the trees.  When I felt I had gone far enough, I placed the copperhead at the base of a large maple.  He vibrated his tail and made a single weak attempt to strike, before sitting motionless.  As I backed away, his head swiveled, following my every move.  

The northern copperhead (Agkistrodon contortrix) is one of just three venomous snakes native to Ohio.  The other two species are the timber rattlesnake (Crotalus horridus) and the massasauga rattlesnake (Sistrurus catenatus).  Both rattlesnakes are endangered in Ohio, making a wild encounter extremely unusual.  Copperheads are considerably more plentiful, but are seldom seen due to their secretive nature.  They are adverse to human settlement, preferring undisturbed habitats, particularly rocky, wooded hillsides.  Historically, the copperhead’s range extended to just below Lake Erie; today they can only be found in the unglaciated, southern portion of the state.

True to their name, the copperhead’s head is a rich coppery tone.  The body is tan, orange, or even pink, with leaf-like or hourglass-like markings (some even say like Hershey's Kisses).  This pattern helps the snake to disappear among the leafy debris on the forest floor.  Juvenile copperheads possess a neon yellow tail which they use as a lure.  Wiggling the tail in the air like a worm helps to entice unsuspecting amphibians and rodents to come within striking range. Copperheads are ovoviviparous (my favorite word); gravid (pregnant) females do not lay eggs.  Instead, they retain the eggs inside their bodies while the young develop.  Once it is time for the young snakes to hatch, they emerge live from the mother encased in a transparent sac.  They are born with an “egg tooth” on the tip of their snout, which they use to free themselves.

Copperheads bite more people in the U.S. than any other venomous snake.  The bite from a copperhead is not normally fatal for a healthy adult person.  It is, however, excruciatingly painful.  Like many snakes that lack a rattle, copperheads will still vibrate their tails when feeling threatened.  Despite their reputation for aggression, copperheads are generally docile snakes, reluctant to bite unless harassed.  

It had been an incredible encounter.  Marcel gripped my shoulder, “I'm proud of you,” she beamed.  “There aren’t too many people I would trust to catch a copperhead their first time.  Are you okay?  You kept your cool and did great.”  I smiled, a little dazed.  “It was amazing,” I replied.  “I’ve never caught a venomous snake before.”  John walked up to me and grinned, “You realize you will remember that for the rest of your life.”  I did realize.  It was a connection with a wild creature like I had never experienced before.  It was almost spiritual, a right of passage to becoming a herpetologist.  

Now our attention turned to Mink.  She was walking with a peculiar gait, and was shaking slightly.  Marcel and I glanced at each other with concern before posing the question, “Is Mink all right?  She got pretty close to that snake.  You don't think she was bitten?”  John chuckled, “No, she’s just cold.  She’ll be alright.  If a dog had been bitten it would have been on the nose, which isn't deadly.  It’s a bite to the belly that is a real problem.”  As we hiked back to the vehicles, Mink returned to her old self.  She happily leapt up into John’s van, eager for a rest.

Read part four HERE

Turtle Dogs

“Turtle!” called John Rucker excitedly.  I leapt from the field where I had been searching and raced down the trail in time to see Mink bounding through the tall grass towards us, her tail wagging furiously.  In her slobbery jaws, she gently clutched a young eastern box turtle.  Our little assortment of researchers cheered with delight as we gathered around John and his dogs. John pried the turtle loose and examined it. “Now, you can tell this is a small female,” he explained, “she has a high dome and very little ridging around the edge of the shell.”  He motioned to the fringes jutting out from the base of the upper shell, or carapace, “In a male this would be much more pronounced.  The ridges are like a buck’s antlers; they show the male has good genes.”
 

We all peered at the little turtle with excitement; our hunt hadn't lasted ten minutes, and we had already found our first animal.  The turtle remained clamped tight in her handsome, black shell, punctuated with radiating yellow streaks.  “These grassy openings are turtle magnets,” John continued.  “They draw turtles in from all around.  This is where they find sunlight and food, and it’s where the hatchlings and juveniles are best able to hide from predators.”

       
Marcel Weigand, the master’s student conducting this study, frantically recorded data on her clipboard.  She marked the turtle with orange masking tape, and placed it in a vinyl pencil case (our makeshift turtle containers).  We took a GPS reading and then planted a little pink flag labeled with a black number one.  This would allow us to return the turtle to the same location tomorrow.

Marcel told me a month earlier about the dog team she had hired to begin her research, but until now I hadn't known what to expect.  As we hiked, the dogs zig-zagged back and forth, noses held close to the ground.  John encouraged them with the occasional whistle and a coaxing “find turtles, find turtles.” They searched every nook and cranny with frantic precision.  There was no barking and no playing; the dogs were all business. They were as devoted to finding these turtles as we were.  

John ran four dogs at a time.  His “A-team” consisted of Mink, Jay-bird, Rooster, and Jenny-wren, all about nine years of age.  They were Boykin spaniels, a small, compact breed of hunting dog with dark brown, woolly coats. The particularly curly hair on their large, floppy ears, gave them an almost poodle-like appearance.  The only hint of their age was the gray-tinged fur on their muzzles.

John hiked ahead of the group, a fascinating character in himself.  Nearing 70, he was a tall, able-bodied man, with a chiseled, weathered face, and a youthful grin.  He lived off-the-grid in Montana in a cabin with his girlfriend.  When a few of his dogs began bringing him turtles on their own, John learned to train his Boykins to be professional turtle hunters.  “It took a while to click,” he later told me, “but eventually I realized I had something special.  These dogs are natural turtle hunters.”  

A retired high school science teacher, John travels the country, finding turtles for reptile researchers.  In Illinois, his dog team found as many as seventy ornate box turtles in the span of two hours.  “We had buckets full,” he recalled, “eventually we had to shut the dogs down, they were finding so many.”

On this warm, rainy morning, we were searching our impact site: a patch of woodland along the infamous Nelsonville Bypass.  Marcel’s study would compare the home ranges and the stress levels of turtles that lived near the bypass to those of turtles that lived in undisturbed habitat in the Wayne National Forest.  She had hired me as her summer field tech to help her track the turtles and discover their day-to-day habits.  In order to follow their movements, we would attach radio transmitters to their shells.  We would also take toenail samples to test levels of corticosterone (the turtle’s stress hormone).  We expected to see reduced home-ranges and higher levels of stress in the turtles along the bypass, but only time would tell.  First, we had to find our elusive study subjects.

We had John and his dogs for five days; our goal: to catch 30 animals.  We needed 15 turtles in both the impact and control sites.  It seemed like a tall order to fill, but if there was any way to do it, it was with these dogs.  “This rain is good; the turtles should be moving.  It would be even better if after the rain stops, it would get hot and steamy.  That’s what box turtles like the most,” John said.  “If the turtles are moving, the dogs’ olfactory sense can pick up the tiniest amount of scent particles and they will catch every single one.  It’s a feeding frenzy.”

Moments after we found the first turtle, John called out again.  I looked up to see Jay-bird trotting happily over to us, a large turtle held in her mouth.  This time it was a big male.  John showed us the prominent fringes, as well as the indented belly, or plastron—a telltale male characteristic in box turtles.  As we hiked into the ravine bottom, the dogs continued to periodically pop up with turtles, much to our delight.  Our packs grew heavy as we filled them with fat reptiles.  

Marcel Weigand happily holding a young box turtle

Eventually, the weather took a turn for the worse.  The sky grew eerily dark as the light rain became a torrential down pour.  Drenched to the bone, our little crew hiked back towards our vehicles.  It had been an excellent day.  In all, we had found ten turtles, nine of which the dogs had caught, and just one that we humans had stumbled upon.  All the animals had been found within the same general area, and John had his ideas as to why this might be:  “Most people think of box turtles as solitary wanderers, but the dogs have shown us that is dead wrong.  We find little populations where we catch turtle after turtle, then there will be deserts where we don't find a thing.  These animals are much more social than we realize.”

Marcel was puzzled by our findings.  “All the literature points towards these turtles being in the woodlands, but the dogs are finding them in the fields,” she said.  It was true, John had specifically searched out open, grassy fields whenever possible, and every time we had found turtles. We had uncovered as many questions as we had answers.

We escorted John back to his campground in Strouds Run where he spent the nights.  Marcel had offered him a place to stay, but he insisted on remaining in the woods.  He even turned down the opportunity for a hot shower after this day of strenuous field work.  He was a man of the forest, distrusting of and disheartened by civilization.  We arranged to meet with him the following morning, then departed for the lab, turtles in tow.

Read part two HERE