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.

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.

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.