Overwhelmed with Frogs

Lesser Treefrog (Dendropsophus minutus)

It hasn't been so much writer's block that has kept me from posting about my favorite feature from my stay in Ecuador, I just haven't been able to decide where to begin.  Ordinarily, I’ll drive for hours and make dozens of trips in search of new (to me) species.  In my home state of Ohio, there are only 80 species of native reptiles and amphibians.  Each new find feels that much closer to seeing them all (a dream I’ve had ever since I was young).  Finding all eighty might still seem like a lot of time and effort—and it is—but it’s a challenge that’s just on the periphery of reasonable.  With enough dedication, I can add a new species every few months (if I’m really lucky, multiple in a single trip!).  In the tropics, this ratio is blown way out of proportion.  Ecuador is home to 350 species of reptiles and 460 species of amphibians.  During a week long stay, you might see 80 or more species without much effort.  Add in a guide that knows what they’re doing, and your species list could easily reach the hundreds.  

So what’s the problem?  With so many species to see, the tropics can feel inaccessible to the average naturalist.  Don’t think I’m complaining, though.  As a wanna-be biologist, I value biodiversity over my own two legs.  Ecuador covers only 109,483 square miles (for comparison, the US covers 3.797 million square miles).  It’s remarkable that there are still places on earth that boast such a unique variety of species in such a small area.

Marbled Treefrog (Dendropsophus marmoratus)

But how are you supposed to build a reasonable biological picture of such a diverse area in a limited amount of time?  Even with the most recent field guides, there is always the chance of stumbling upon something no one has ever seen before (it is estimated that nearly 200 species of frogs have yet to be discovered in Ecuador).  More likely, however, is the chance of stumbling upon something no one has ever bothered to put in a field guide.  In the end, you might not know what you have.  Cryptic species complicate things further.  Two or more frog species may look indistinguishable unless you directly observe their calls (or sequence their DNA).

Dwarf Clown Treefrog (Dendropsophus bifurcus) 

When a night hike down a forested road turns up something new every five minutes, it's impractical to spend an extended amount of time observing any one animal.  While I want to see as many herps, birds, and what-have-yous as I can, I’m no life lister.  I don’t just want to check off each species and move on to the next challenge.  I want to see each creature intimately to try to understand it better.  

As I have discovered more and more of Ohio’s reptiles and amphibians, I’ve had to relearn just about everything I thought I knew about the herps of my home state.  Each discovery has allowed me to weigh everything I’ve read or assumed about a species against what I have directly observed in nature.  It’s all about subverting my expectations.  With so many tropical species, I never really know what my expectations should be in the first place.  Each find is exciting, but also a little jarring, “Oh! Didn’t realize you existed!”

Red-skirted Treefrog (Dendropsophus rhodopeplus)

To avoid this problem of “overabundance of species,” I have tried to place my discoveries into categories, namely Family or Genus.  This gives a wider context that (for me) makes tackling the superabundance of Ecuadorian frogs and toads a little more manageable.  I have done my best to ID each of the species I photographed, but many are still up for debate.  I am no expert and any suggestions are greatly appreciated.

Crested forest toad (Bufo margaritifer)

I will begin with the family Bufonidae.  I was on such a high that first night at the research station that you might have assumed I was running around licking toads instead of photographing them.  It was thrilling to watch my fellow biology students join in with equal levels of enthusiasm, referring amusingly to our group herping as “The Hunt.”

Crested forest toad (Bufo margaritifer)

The Bufonids are the true toads, locally represented in Ohio by the ubiquitous American toad (Anaxyrus americanus).  Tropical bufonids share the warty skin and earth tones, but many species are much more regal in their head adornments.  The Crested Forest Toad (Bufo margaritifer) is commonly encountered hopping across the forested trails.  These toads are extremely variable; some express slight ridges along their craniums, while others show exuberant crests extending above their eyes and nostrils.

The toads don’t just get fancy in the tropics, they get big too.  The Marine or Cane toad (Rhinella marina) can grow over eight inches in length and weigh nearly four pounds.  We discovered one of these behemoths the very first night, hopping confidently across the pavement beneath our dorms.  They have been introduced to many parts of the world and are driving native amphibian populations extinct by outcompeting and eating local frogs.  It was refreshing to see them in their natural habitat where they belong.

Marine Toad (Rhinella marina)

Then, of course, there are the treefrogs.  Treefrogs belong to the family Hylidae, the largest group of Amazon frogs.  Most of these frogs are distinguished by their enlarged toepads which allow them to scale foliage and buildings with ease.  Their shear diversity makes them challenging to identify.  This is complicated further by the fact that many species change color pattern from day to night.

Three hundred species represent the genus Hyla worldwide (of which, the gray treefrog of Ohio (Hyla versicolor) is a member).  Most species in this genus are arboreal, nocturnal, and posses webbed feet.  In 2005, many common Amazon treefrog species were split off from Hyla and placed in their own genus Dendropsophus based on their number of chromosomes (many of these species are pictured in the intro to this post).

Giant Broad-headed Treefrog (Osteocephalus taurinus)

There is the bizarre treefrog genus Osteocephalus: the Bromeliad or Broad-headed Treefrogs.  The skin on the head of these frogs is actually fuzed to the roof of the skull, giving them a distinct, flat-headed appearance.  They are a wary group, leaping away from the slightest disturbance.  They breed in the shallow pools that collect in the flower cup of bromeliads.  The radiated irises of the Giant Broad-headed Treefrog (Osteocephalus taurinus) are mesmerizing.  

White-lined Leaf Frog (Phyllomedusa vaillantii)

My favorite treefrogs belong to the genus Phyllomedusa: the Monkey frogs.  Elongate limbs that bend at sharp angles and opposable thumbs allow these frogs to spread waxy secretions across every inch of their bodies.  These secretions act as a kind of sunscreen, helping to prevent desiccation. Their movements are slow and methodical, very unlike many of the other rapid, nervous frog species.  The eery stillness of these frogs is almost ghostly when illuminated in the light of a headlamp.

Veined Treefrog (Trachycephalus typhonius)

While photographing one particularly bizarre species of Caque-headed Treefrog in the genus Trachycephalus, the veined treefrog (Trachycephalus typhonius), I noticed something sitting along the branch a mere inch from the frog's enlarged toepads. Shining the branch with my flashlight, I was baffled to find a salamander.  Amazon climbing salamanders (Bolitoglossa altamazonica) belong to the family Plethodontidae (many of our North American species belong to this family too).  Unlike North American species, on humid nights, these salamanders scale vegetation up to six feet high.  They sit motionless, apparently doing nothing for hours before returning to the leaf litter by morning.  

Amazon climbing salamander (Bolitoglossa altamazonica)

The family Leptodactylidea was a mixed bag.  A few species, like the enormous Smoky Jungle Frog, struck me as very familiar.  It could practically have been a leaf-colored bullfrog.  Later, I was shocked to learn it is one of the more toxic species in its range.  These jungle frogs belong to Leptodactylus, a genus containing around 55 species, most of which are moderate to large frogs.  Some species are so toxic that just holding them can cause a burning sensation on the skin (which was duly noted when I caught a large Smoky Jungle Frog the first night).  

 Smoky Jungle Frog (Leptodactylus pentadactylus)

Other frogs in this family, such as the Painted Forest Toadlet (Physalaemus petersi) were like nothing I had ever seen.  These toadlets were speckled with little red lesions that almost made them look diseased.  Otherwise, they were cute, little frogs that held their heads erect, giving the impression of an opposable neck.  

Painted forest toadlet (Physalaemus petersi)

Another member of Leptodactylidae and the only member of its genus, the Painted Antnest frog (Lithodytes lineatus), is a poison-arrow frog mimic.  Their pattern of brown with light yellow stripes is almost identical to Allobates femoralis.  This is a case of Mullerian mimicry.  Both species have converged on a similar coloration because it turns out the Painted Ant-nest frog is also toxic.  They live in the mounds of leaf-cutter ants, fending off attack with noxious skin secretions.  

Painted Antnest frog (Lithodytes lineatus)

The Microhylids, or narrow-mouthed toads are represented in the tropics by a handful of species.  Here they are commonly referred to as "sheep frogs."  These small frogs grow scarcely longer than an inch.  

Sheep Frog Species (Elachistocleis sp.)

If you’re a herper, you might be wondering, “did he see any dendrobatids?”  Dendrobatidae is the family that includes the poison-arrow frogs.  The short answer is yes.  For a while, however, I thought I was going to have to pretend I hadn’t to save face as a photographer.  

I actually saw three poison arrow frogs.  All were the same species: the Ecuadorian Poison Frog (Ameerega billinguis). These frogs are tiny.  The tropics are home to a lot of tiny frogs, but these frogs are really tiny.  I mean fit-on-your-fingernail tiny.  To escape, all these frogs have to do is hop once.  Their red back and yellow-spotted legs allow them to instantaneously disappear among the decaying red and yellow leaf litter.  I could be staring directly at the frog, ready to snap a photograph, and a single spring would mean I had to find it all over again.  This was the one frog family I felt I needed to photograph (I was even presenting a talk for the class on their family) but for most of the trip, it looked like I was going home empty handed.  It wasn't until our group teamed up with the local Wairani guides that my moment finally came.  

Ecuadorian Poison Frog (Ameerega billinguis)

Nange (pronounced Nahn-gey), the village chief, spotted the frog.  He spoke no English, and I no spanish (or Wairani for that matter) but he knew I wanted to see the frogs.  He beckoned for me to come over and pointed out the minute frog sitting innocently among the leaf litter, its throat fanning rapidly.  We positioned ourselves to make the capture.  The frog hopped and was instantly gone.  I groaned, certain the little amphibian would not reappear.  A moment later, the frog hopped back into view and I was able to grab it (and a decent amount of the surrounding leaf litter) and hand it to Nange.  

Ecuadorian Poison Frog (Ameerega billinguis)

Nange placed the frog in the middle of the trail for me to photograph.  I got some delightful shots, emphasizing the little amphibians gorgeous color pattern and texture.  When I returned home after our two weeks, I immediately downloaded my 5,000+ photos.  I had taken so many images that my computer’s hard drive filled up.  To make room as quickly as I could, I deleted the photos I had already imported from my chip.  Once that was finished I started scrolling back through the two weeks and that’s when DISASTER struck.  My computer had glitched when the hard drive had filled up, and the images of my poison arrow frog (and only my poison arrow frog) had been deleted.  

I was horrified to say the least.  Months passed and I couldn't bring myself to write anything about the amphibians without my crown jewel.  “You’ll just have to go back one day and photograph another,” I tried to tell myself.  Inexplicably, when going back through my photos last week—wallah! Unharmed on the screen in front of me: my poison arrow frogs.  I don’t know what cosmic force took pity on me, but I’ve never been so relieved.  

Even though my poison frog photos turned up, I am still certain I need to return to Ecuador and the Amazon Rainforest.  There are so many more frogs to see after all.  

Tigers by the Tail

“That’s no spotted salamander” I thought as I looked down at the large, blotched amphibian clambering its way over the paved road.  For one thing, the salamander’s head was enormous with drooping jowls that turned its expression into a grimace.  It looked so top-heavy, that I was surprised the animal didn't tumble over itself with each step.  Its sleek body was a deep purplish-brown with rich caramel spots that extended from its snout down the length of its huge, rudder-shaped tail.  As I gingerly picked the salamander up off the road, the tip’s of its fingers gripped my hand with what felt like tiny claws (not true claws of course, just hardened keratin on the finger tips)—a tiger of a salamander indeed.  

I was back home in northeastern Ohio for the 2018 Ohio Biological Survey Conference held at the Cleveland Museum of Natural History.  It was nostalgic to walk the halls lined with the same taxidermied dioramas and fossil bones that I first fell in love with as a young boy.  Growing up, my grandparents would take my brothers and I to the "Dinosaur Museum" every chance we got.  It’s only a short 30 minute drive from where we lived, but to us, a trip to the natural history museum felt like a week long excursion.  We spent hours staring at the displays, imagining worlds long past.  We traveled to space, to the rainforest, to the Cretaceous extinction—admiring everything from trilobites to terror birds.  

After presenting our box turtle poster and listening to a day of talks, I was eager to get out into the rain and do some herping.  As I considered searching a nearby spot for unisexual ambystomids, I overheard some folks talking about eastern tiger salamanders (Ambystoma tigrinum). Of course I joined the conversation. Tiger salamanders are one of those species that first sparked my interest in Ohio's amphibians. I had dreamed of finding one for years, but I never knew where to look.  My fellow natural history enthusiasts were kind enough to share some possible locations.  The perks of building connections.

Later that night, my dad and I donned our rain gear and headlamps, and set out for northwestern Ohio. Back when I was just a kid, we saw our very first salamander migration together.  It feels like a lifetime ago now.  From humble beginnings, we eventually traveled all over northern Ohio in search of different herps and birds.  My dad is more of a hiker than a wildlife watcher, but he is always interested to see what new slimy or scaly creature I've pulled out of the muck.  It had been some time since the two of us went herping together; it was nice to get back out in the field with him.  

As we arrived at our destination, I was glad to see the temperature had jumped up to the mid-40s.  Still chilly, but plenty warm enough for amphibians to start moving.  As we hiked towards the vernal pools, the rain turned the boardwalk's already slick surface into a slip n' slide.  Shuffling carefully along, I heard the first frog of the night.  Like fingers scrapping across a comb, the caller was unmistakable: a western chorus frog (Pseudacris triseriata).  I had only seen one western chorus frog before and was hopeful the night would produce a second.  

Chorus frogs and tiger salamanders breed in the temporary vernal pools associated with most early breeding amphibians.  Tigers, however, prefer deeper, more permanent bodies of water compared to most mole salamanders, and will even breed in fish-free ponds.  We scanned the shallows of the flooded woodland, trying to pick out eyeshine or a swimming silhouette.  No frogs, no salamanders, no egg masses.  The pools appeared to be devoid of breeding amphibians.  I decided to switch tactics and try our luck road cruising.

Immediately, we started to see amphibians.  As I stopped to move wood frogs and spring peepers off the road, one little, tan frog stood out.  It was slightly smaller than the average peeper, with three distinct vertical stripes running down its back.  Our chorus frog, what luck!  Western chorus frogs are some of the earliest breeders in Ohio, and can be found across much of the state and the US as a whole.  They are usually less abundant than spring peepers, and are more often heard than seen.  We found only one the entire night.

Like the western chorus frog, eastern tiger salamanders are a widely distributed species. They occur across western Ohio (and on Kelley's island) and their range extends from the east coast to the edge of the great plains.  Close relatives of the eastern tiger salamander (like the barred and the California tiger salamander) can be found throughout the west. During the non-breeding season, adults secret away in underground burrows in forest and prairie habitats. They are the largest terrestrial salamander species in the state, and in some cases, exceed 10 inches in total length.  As larvae, tigers are notoriously cannibalistic, readily consuming their smaller siblings.  

After snapping some shots of the chorus frog, we cruised up our first tiger of the evening. My shout of delight was the signal to pull over.  "It's huge!" my dad commented, as we knelt down to photograph our find.  Crouching on my hands and knees in the pouring rain, he scoffed at my indifference to the cold and wet whenever amphibians are involved.  The rain didn't bother me for good reason.  This tiger salamander was easily the largest mole salamander I had ever seen, probably 6 or 7 inches in length. It froze in the light of my headlamp, blinking its round, golden eyes in bewilderment.  After realizing we weren't about to eat him, the salamander resumed its trek towards the vernal pools.

I was glad to get some decent pictures on the road, because the tiger refused to cooperate when I placed it on natural substrate.  Despite my best efforts, I couldn't convince the stubborn salamander to lift its enormous head.  Splaying its legs out awkwardly to the sides, it squirmed and buried its snout under pine needless and other woody debris.  I tried for ages to get a good angle in the pouring rain, risking my camera for a photo I never got.  Ah well.  That's the way it goes sometimes.  We found three adult tigers by the end of the night, none of which allowed for my glamor shot.  

Note the split lip on this female.

The second tiger salamander we discovered was even larger than the first.  Its tail alone must have exceeded 5 inches in length.  Examining each tiger closely, I noticed how beat up they looked.  Old scars and battle wounds covered their spotted bodies—a chunk out of the tail here or a split lip there.  Contending with shrews and voles is the price these amphibians pay for living inside mammal burrows.  Rodents and shrews can be quite the adversaries, even for a salamander so large.  Noxious skin secretions make mole salamanders unpalatable to most mammalian predators, but predation rates can still be high.

I moved each of the tiger salamanders across the road in the direction they had been heading.  Traffic was light, but we still saw one crushed salamander and several dead peepers and wood frogs.  These slow-moving amphibians are completely defenseless when it comes to roadways and vehicles.  Helping a few to safely make it across the road was the best we could do.  As the rains dwindled, we headed for home.  With luck, the nearby vernal pools would soon be full of calling frogs, courting salamanders, and egg masses.  I hoped to return soon to witness their breeding first hand.

At the Mercy of the Rain and Weather

We crept down the dark backroad, flashlights waving over the slick pavement.  Mist pooled where the road’s winding surface bowed and dipped before arching back up like the spine of some strange sea serpent.  It was unseasonably warm for a late January night—approaching 45 degrees Fahrenheit.  The rain was a light drizzle, a fact that worried me much more than the eery isolation we found ourselves in.  It was remarkably early in the year to be looking for herps, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity.  After checking the forecast for the umpteenth time, I convinced my friend Amanda Szinte to come along on my herping escapade.  As the night wore on, we found little in the way of our amphibious quarry; perhaps it was just too early.  As we got in my car to drive the short distance back to Athens, something in my headlights caught my attention.  A Jefferson salamander (Ambystoma jeffersonianum) was wriggling off the road.

I used to think that December through February was the herping off season—at least for Ohio.  Three months to catch up on editing photos, to daydream of long past adventures, and to make plans for the next field season.  While freezing temperatures and layers of snow are sure to make the stubborn herper quite cold and disappointed, winter still offers a glimmer of potential if you know where to look. 

A young spotted salamander.

During the winter months, many dormant salamanders are poised for a burst of action.  One rainy night that peaks above 40 degrees Fahrenheit will likely convince at least a few individuals to venture above ground.  Mole salamanders (the ambystomids) are one group that can be surface active even when conditions are well below optimal.  These large, chunky salamanders spend most of their lives entrenched in mammal burrows and other subterranean hideaways.  Ambystomids are famous for their large migrations to temporary breeding pools on cold, stormy nights in late winter and early spring; the kind of nights that would make more sensible people curl up by the fireplace with a good book.  For salamanders and salamander seekers alike, these are the nights we have anticipated all year. 

It can a bit counterintuitive heading out into the dark, cold, and pouring rain, but these are the conditions salamanders require for their journey.  A good rule of thumb for most amphibians: wetter is better.  They move under the cover of night, protected from desiccation by the rain.  As ectotherms, salamanders conform to the temperature of their environment.  They require a specific range in order to become active, not too hot and not too cold (as summer heats up, salamanders become harder and harder to find).  After weeks trapped below snow and ice, a 40 degree day must feel like a trip to Daytona beach.  

A steady rain on a warm evening gets my blood pumping—tonight could be the night.  Often referred to as “the big one” by salamander seekers, just one or two nights out of the year can facilitate the movement of hundreds of amphibians.  To see one of these mass migrations requires luck and constant attention to the weather.  Misjudge the forecast and you’ll miss it.  I admit, I have never seen one of these large scale movements.  Over the years, I have enjoyed my fair share of salamander migrations and seen healthy numbers moving to and from the breeding pools.  Last year, for reasons unknown, the large migrations never came.  No one I have talked to—researchers and hobbyists alike—had the numbers that are usually expected with the rains.  Perhaps this year will be different. 

A few weeks after Amanda and I discovered that one lone Jefferson salamander, I had another good night at the same spot in early February.  I road cruised eight salamanders in total—two spotteds and six Jeffs.  I would expect these common species of Ambystomids to start migrating by the month's end, but even this is relatively early.  The warm, rainy weather seems to have affected their internal clock, making them move before it’s time.  An early spring freeze isn't normally deadly to the adult salamanders that have emerged, just a temporary setback.  Any attempted early breeding, however, could end in failure. Eggs can't handle freezing temperatures for very long.

The breeding habits of these ephemeral salamanders are fleeting.  Male Jefferson Salamanders are usually the first to arrive at the vernal pools in early to mid April.  Jeffs are lanky by mole salamander standards, with elongate bodies and long limbs.  Dark eyes bulge from their curious, rounded faces and their grayish skin is covered in light blue flecking.  By the time the Jeffs are returning to the forest, spotted salamanders (Ambystoma maculatum) have begun their immigration to the pools. Spotteds are slightly larger and more rotund.  True to their name, these salamanders are blotched with well defined yellow polkadots. Within a few weeks, both species will have returned to their underground haunts.  A handful may emerge again during fall rains, but they won't be seen in any numbers until the following spring.  

The amphibian migrations wouldn't be complete without two species of frogs.  Hundreds of spring peepers (Pseudacris crucifer) serenade the night with their deafening calls.  A chorus of their ascending peeps and wheeps can become painfully loud near breeding pools. Such a powerful voice should belong to a massive frog, but in reality, these treefrogs grow scarcely larger than a quarter.  Peepers are easily identified by the distinct X-shaped marking across their back.  Wood frogs (Lithobates sylvaticus) have a more unique call, something between a quack and a bleat.  These medium-sized frogs are the rich color of red autumn leaves.  They are some of the earliest breeding frogs in Ohio and are even capable of freezing solid in winter without any ill effects.

With this charming and boisterous cast of characters, the still woodland pools of runoff and rainwater are quickly transformed into a slurry of amorous activity.  Back country roads and empty woodlots all across Ohio briefly host this late winter spectacle.  At the mercy of the rain and weather, amphibians trek routes that generations before them have traveled.  Eyes wide, we watch from above as these single-minded creatures wriggle their way across the road and into our imaginations. For those of us that check the radar with flashlight in hand, don't forget a raincoat and a friend.  There is nothing quite like your first salamander migration.  

Baby Blanchard's

On my journey to find all of Ohio’s amphibians (and everything else), I occasionally receive recommendations from other frog enthusiasts regarding new locations to search.  Without the help of others who know the animals and their habitats better than I do, I would have little chance of discovering them all on my own.  For anyone who has helped me or who will help me in the future, I am eternally grateful.  

A double-crested cormorant drifted offshore, looking as primitive and mysterious as Loch Ness herself.  She remained above the water’s surface for only moments before diving back down to hunt for fish.  I watched the ripples left by the great water bird undulate slowly out of existence.  Thirty seconds later, she popped up with a large catfish clutched tightly in her long, hooked bill.  Before I could ready my camera, the fish disappeared down the bird’s gullet with one quick upward thrust of the neck.  

Satisfied with her meal, the cormorant drifted in my direction.  She stopped at a tree stump protruding like a little stage from the water and hopped up, knocking off a basking turtle in the process.  Like a dog shaking water from its coat after a swim, the tall, black bird began to rapidly wave her wings, drying them in the sun’s rays.  I could see the cormorant’s striking orange face and teal, jewel-like eyes.  Primitive and beautiful, she was a magnificent creature of another world.

I believe that is part of the appeal of herping and birding.  Meeting wildlife on their own terms transports us into their world.  When I look into the face of a snake periscoping above the tall grass, or watch a bird perch and tilt its head, contemplating my presence, I leave behind the bustle and stress of the human world.  For that moment, I can imagine what it is like to live free and wild.  This is, of course, my own imagination.  These animals live in my world; they are affected by my presence.  

Nature is not a vacuum; it is constantly under pressure from human influence.  It is this fact that makes wildlife watching so urgent—to see and experience as much as possible while it is still here.  This is a sad truth that only education and conservation efforts can remedy.

I had traveled to Ohio's Franklin County in search of Blanchard's cricket frogs (Acris blanchardi).  A location where the frogs were “ubiquitous” had been recommended to me by a fellow lover of frogs.  Cricket frogs can only be found in the western two-thirds of the state and require large, permanent ponds and lakes.  Upon arrival, I scanned the vast prairie plantings ending abruptly in wide, crystal clear pools—ideal habitat.  

That morning, I purchased a net in anticipation of a day hunting frogs.  As I walked among tall, spiky plants, mud and clay squishing beneath my boots, I quickly netted my first frog.  Upon closer inspection, I realized my catch was a northern leopard frog (Rana pipiens).  Its body was an elegant grass green, polka-dotted with black spots.  

As I released the leopard frog, something very small hopped out of my way.  My first thought was “baby peeper.”  But as I looked closer, what I had mistaken as a faint X (the peeper’s characteristic pattern) was actually a series of tiny warts.  This frog was bumpy.  "Cricket frog!” I exclaimed to myself.  I quickly realized my net was useless.  This frog, mere millimeters in length, would fall right through the holes in the mesh.  Carefully, I scooped the little hopper into my hand.  

Like spring peepers and chorus frogs, cricket frogs belong to the treefrog family (Hylidea).  Unlike other treefrogs, cricket frogs postpone breeding until late spring and early summer.  Some may even continue courting into mid-July (the very time I was searching).  Their call is unmistakable, a click-click-click like two marbles being tapped together.

As I searched more pond edges, I found dozens of the newly metamorphosed cricket frogs.  Some even retained their tadpole tails.  With this copious amount of babies, I was determined to find an adult.  

Every so often, my ear picked up the faint clicking of an adult male’s breeding call.  Playing a recording on my phone, I finally enticed one male to respond.  With two hands, I parted the brush from which the sound was emanating.  There, looking just as surprised as myself, sat the little, warty frog.  He evaded my attempts to catch him several times, but eventually I was successful.  After nearly 5 hours of searching, I was elated to finally have an adult cricket frog.

He was a stunning individual, with bright green markings down his back and the characteristic protruding snout.  Even as an adult, this frog was tiny, under an inch in length.  Cricket frogs lack the wide toe-pads of other tree frogs and come in a variety of colors.  Some are a uniform mud brown, while others display lustrous patterns of green, yellow, or even red.  The colors can lighten or darken depending on temperature, sunlight, and moisture levels.

Like many of Ohio’s herps, Blanchard's cricket frog is listed as a species of concern.  Once one of the most plentiful frogs across the Midwestern US, these tiny frogs have disappeared from much of their range.  This is in part due to loss of habitat as well as other, more mysterious causes.  Climate change, habitat acidification, pollution, disease, and predation have all been implicated in the declines.  In Michigan, the loss of cricket frogs has been almost total.  Repatriation efforts in northern Ohio have had mixed results.  Some of the introduced frogs have reestablished populations while others have not.  Curiously, western Ohio remains a stronghold for this species.