In the Footsteps of Conant: Herping Ohio’s Hill Country

“Also, there were many objects to overturn, and there was always the chance of finding something unusual beneath any log or rock. Springs and both clear and muddy streams abounded. In short, there was a great variety of habitats to be explored. The net result was that we probably spent more man hours in the hill country than in any other part of the state. Southeastern Ohio was unquestionably our favorite collecting area.”

—Roger Conant

Herpetology in Ohio—50 Years Ago 

Northern Red-bellied Snake.

Gravel crunched under our tires as we pulled off Route 50 onto the first backroad of the day.  The morning sun was already beginning to bake away any evidence of last night’s rain, but by midday, our sweat-stained shirts and hair would look as if a storm had caught us by surprise.  My backpack held two full water bottles, a tablet of dissolved electrolytes in each.  A third and a fourth were stashed below the rear seat next to Carl’s water-filled orange juice containers.  Neither of us wanted to tempt fate by running out of water in the heat of Ohio's Hill Country.

As we pulled to a stop along the roadside, the fluttering hum of cicadas died down and the air hung still for a moment as if the forest was waiting to inhale.  I grabbed my snake stick from the bed of the truck as Carl slipped his backpack over his head.  We both knew the drill.  The hillsides all around us held promise of snakes, lizards, and turtles hidden below cover.

Eastern Black Kingsnake.

During each of our treks into Ohio’s backwoods, I can’t help but feel we are a small instance of history repeating itself.  Just shy of a century ago, Roger Conant might have hiked these very same hillsides and ravines.  In the 1930s, Conant was the first to attempt an exhaustive survey of Ohio’s reptile diversity (an undertaking sorely in need of updating since the previous survey by Kirtland in 1838).  During his six years as Curator of Reptiles at the Toledo Zoo, he would eventually make it to 87 of Ohio’s 88 counties, drive some 41,000 miles, collect countless voucher specimens, and publish his collective work in The Reptiles of Ohio in 1938.  

Like us, weekends were Conant’s designated field days.  He would travel from his home base in Toledo, accompanied by a small and variable band of zoo colleagues, local naturalists, and a few wide-eyed teenagers, all eager to indulge their persistent childhood urges to catch the scaly and slimy.  The crew would pack snake bags and collecting jars into Roger’s 1931 Chevy and set out for the unknown.  Their findings were quintessential, helping to verify species records and contributing to the state’s first range maps.

Eastern Smooth Earthsnake. 

Conant’s work wasn't limited to Ohio alone.  Take down your copy of A Field Guide to Reptiles and Amphibians of Eastern and Central North America and you’ll find a conspicuous authorship.  For most of us fascinated with reptiles and amphibians (Carl and myself included), this field guide was our ticket into the world of herpetology.  Anyone who herps Ohio today (or anywhere in North America) is indebted to the work of Conant and his colleagues.  

For over 15 years, Carl Brune has spent his free weekends and rainy evenings ‘filling in Conant’s gaps.’  Originally from California, Carl moved to Ohio to teach physics at Ohio University.  He has helped to expand the known ranges of species from copperheads to streamside salamanders, and has even authored two chapters in the Amphibians of Ohio Textbook.  

Northern Copperhead.

I began herping with him in late August 2017.  Growing up in a suburb of Cleveland, reptile diversity was somewhat lacking.  For as long as I can remember, I’ve dreamed of seeing the creatures hidden among the rolling hills of Ohio’s southern counties.  In 2016, I moved to Athens to study Wildlife Biology and Conservation.  By luck or fate, I found myself in the middle of one of Ohio’s most herpetologically diverse regions.  

A map of the physiogeographic regions of Ohio from Conant's The Reptiles of Ohio.

It is no secret that Roger Conant preferred the Hill Country over any of Ohio’s other physiogeographic regions.  Eleven of the thirty reptile species he documented there were found nowhere else in the state.  The Hill Country encompasses the southeastern third of Ohio and sits on the Unglaciated Allegheny Plateau at the base of the Appalachian Mountains.  Except for the blue grass region, the Hill Country is the only part of Ohio that was free of ice during the Pleistocene.  When the glaciers receded at the end of the last ice age, their melt waters carved out the labyrinth of ravines and hilltops that define the Hill Country of today.  

Black Racer.

Before the arrival of Europeans, 95% of Ohio was covered by huge stands of old-growth forest.  Oaks and hickories cloaked the rolling hills and provided habitat for wolves, bison, elk, black bear, and even wolverine.  By the beginning of the 1900s, the state’s megafauna would be gone, and the forest would be reduced to 10% of its former grandeur.  The trees were cleared for timber and to allow access to the exposed layers of coal, iron, and oil.  Once these natural resources were fully exploited, industry moved on, and the forests were allowed to regrow.  Remnants of old coal towns and iron districts still stand in isolated pockets of the backwoods, totems to this past age.  

Northern Ring-necked Snake.

By the 1930s, second-growth had returned to much of southeastern Ohio.  Conant described the state of the forest in his autobiography, “The charm of the hill country lay largely in the fact it was mostly wild in those days.  Agriculture was confined to some of the valleys, and second growth had re-clothed the hillsides and many other areas to the point where the forest had more or less returned to its original climax stage.”  As much as 70% of the Unglaciated Allegheny Plateau is now forested.  Glacial melt waters washed away most of the area’s rich soil, sparing the land from agriculture.  Had the soil been more profitable, the Hill Country would likely be a very different place today.

Despite the disappearance of many of Ohio’s native fauna during this era of rapid and intense deforestation, there have been no documented extinctions for any of Ohio’s 47 species of reptile or 40 species of amphibian.  Just how and where these fragile creatures survived is something of a mystery.  Logging took place over many decades, and it is possible species found refuge in small, remaining tracts of habitat, recolonizing the surrounding land once the forest had regrown.  Considering the scale of habitat loss that swept through Ohio in the 1800s, it is remarkable any native herpetofauna survived at all. 

Black Ratsnake.

One thing is clear, however, Ohio’s reptiles and amphibians are no strangers to adverse environmental conditions.  A year (or even a day) in Ohio can fluctuate wildly in temperature and weather conditions.  Winter lasts for nearly half the year, forcing ectothermic species to remain inactive for months on end.  Summer is prime herping season, but with midday temperatures easily reaching 90 degrees Fahrenheit in southern Ohio, most species are forced to seek shelter to avoid overheating or desiccating.  

Logs and rocks provide cool, moist places for snakes to hide during the heat of the day.  Nature, however, can be supplemented with a little human ingenuity.  In Conant’s time, logging operations left behind huge saw dust piles strewn along the steep slopes.  When covered with pieces of hacked-off bark, these damp, sturdy piles provided the perfect escape from the elements.  Conant recounts one exceptionally good find, “a large slab-covered pile in Hocking County yielded a fence lizard, three young broad head skinks, a northern water snake, eleven hatchling black rat snakes, and two juvenile copperheads.”   As mill practices shifted, Conant’s fruitful saw dust piles became a thing of the past.  

Eastern Milksnake.

Today, man-made cover is still important for finding snakes.  Plywood boards and tins scattered throughout the roadsides and hilltops of southern Ohio are easily flipped and are a proven way to find scads of snakes in an otherwise desolate landscape.  Reptiles aren't picky; old pool liners, ratty carpets, deck chairs, smashed televisions, and gas tanks might be an eye sore for most hikers, but for folks like us, they’re a treasure trove.  A good trash pile always gets my blood pumping in anticipation of what might be lurking below.

During the course of our search, Carl and I might flip upwards of 100 pieces of cover and hike ten miles through the ravines and hilltops, all to find a handful of serpents.  Somedays, the snakes are plentiful, others require hours of work to find the most common of species.  There is really no telling where or when a species might turn up; it's often a matter of being in the right place at the right time. 

Eastern Wormsnake.

Carl and I have been lucky enough to find more snakes in Ohio than most people will see in their entire lives.  Even where snake populations appear stable, however, the impacts of humans are plainly visible.  Whether it be road mortality, habitat loss, or direct persecution, "snakes engender mighty little sympathy from the general public," a statement that still rings true today. 

Conant was well aware that with each decade, more species were pushed closer toward extirpation.  Fifty years after his surveys, Conant lamented that, “many places that once supported thriving colonies of various species have vanished.”  Rattlesnakes, spotted turtles, Kirtland’s snakes—species Conant would have commonly encountered in his day—have all but disappeared from most of the state.

Timber Rattlesnake.  

Conant laid the ground work for our modern generation of herpetologists.  It is now up to us to protect the species and populations that remain.  Efforts to mitigate the damage we have done to our natural environment can often seem confusing and convoluted, but I have found there is something very down to earth about the study of reptiles and amphibians.  Even someone unaccustomed to the complex and long-winded jargon of scientific literature might be able to detect a hint of the adventure and mystery only thinly veiled behind tables of snout-vent lengths and scale counts.

Hobby, obsession, the ‘weird’ cousin of birding, call it what you will, but herping has captivated my life ever since I first opened Roger Conant's field guide.  In a few months time, the snakes, lizards, and turtles will begin to emerge from their frozen retreats. Carl and I will soon be back among the rolling hills of Southern Ohio, flipping logs, boards, and carpets for the secrets hidden beneath.  Only time will tell what we find.

Carl and myself after a day of dip netting for salamanders in 2018.

Ryan Wagner is a student studying Wildlife Biology and Conservation at Ohio University.  He is an avid herper, birder, nature blogger, and wildlife photographer.  You can read more of his articles at ryansweeklywildlife.blogspot.com or follow him on twitter @weeklywildlife.  You can read the guest post version of this blog at Jim McCormac's Birds and Biodiversity Blog.

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.