The Salamander Trifecta

The Salamander Trifecta (Back left: Kentucky Spring, back right: Midland Mud, front: Northern Red).

Spring break in Ohio (a luxury of us students) is usually hit or miss when it comes to the weather.  Some years bring a little taste of summer, others leave us snowed in for the week.  Usually there is at least one rainy night that peaks above 40 degrees.  That’s when the salamanders wake up.  By mid-March, ambystomids, or mole salamanders, begin their nocturnal migrations toward breeding pools by the hundreds.  Soon, every temporary rut with ample water will be chocked with eggs.  Plethodontids, or lungless salamanders, start to move out from their underground springs and rock crevices where they have spent the winter.  Larvae that have survived their second or third year (depending on the species) will soon metamorphose into adults.  

I’m not immune to the seasonal cues that tell dormant creatures it’s time to move.  As soon as the ground thaws (and sometimes before), you’ll find me clambering across Ohio’s streams and ravines in search of the year’s first herps.  Spring break is no time to relax when there is wildlife to be found.

A Northern Ravine Salamander.

My fellow herper and OU student, Aaron Crank, and I decided to meet up halfway through the week to do some hiking.  When it comes to herping in Ohio, Aaron is the one to beat.  He reminds me of a young Carl Brune.  When driving between locations, he was constantly pointing out facts about the species in the area, what he has found and where, and what he hopes to spend more time looking for.  Just passed over an indistinct bridge? Now we’re in rattlesnake territory.  See that murky stream? Great mudpuppy spot.  I can’t help but feel a bit out of my league when in the field with Aaron.  I’m certain that sooner, rather than later, the name Crank is going to start popping up on most of the herp research projects in Ohio.  Lipps, Wynn, Davis, Pfingsten, etc.—the big names in Ohio herpetology—are sure to get a run for their money.

I have had the pleasure of herping with Aaron on a few previous occasions, searching for Kirtland’s Snakes and Small-mouthed salamanders.  Now that Aaron has transferred to Ohio University to study Biology, I hope our adventures to find Ohio’s rarest herps have only just begun.

Spotted Salamander.

As I have journeyed across Ohio (and beyond), I have encountered far more species than I ever hoped to find.  Some, I was lucky enough to stumble upon by shear luck (like my hog-nosed snake), others I’ve repeatedly targeted with only marginal success (Kentucky springs).  There is one pair of plethodontid salamanders that I have searched for dozens of times without any luck: the Pseudotritons.  

The northern red salamander (Pseudotriton ruber) and the midland mud salamander (Pseudotriton montanus diastictus) have been at the top of my list for years now.  I’ve found all sizes of their larvae with Carl, but not a single adult.  To make matters worse, these salamanders have the peculiar habit of turning up where you’d least expect them.  I’ll search the perfect habitat for months and find nothing but two-lined salamanders, then I’ll hear about someone who turned up a northern red under a stone fire pit or on their paved driveway.

Reds and muds are similar in appearance; both grow to be over six inches in length and posses a bright red body dotted with black spots.  Northern reds are stockier, with a distinct, horizontal stripe running though their golden, yellow iris.  Muds, meanwhile, are longer and sleeker with a blunt, almost pug-like snout and a brown iris (with no distinct eye stripe).

Four-toed Salamander.

Both species commonly inhabit streams and the adjacent stagnant pools separate from the main stream body.  Reds are typically found in aerated headwater streams, but can venture a significant distance from the nearest water source in summer.  Muds are tied more closely to moisture, and inhabit only lowland streams and seeps (occasional alongside the more versatile northern reds).

Reds and muds are distributed in a similar pattern across the eastern US, but the midland (P. m. diastictus—the subspecies native to Ohio), is only found in a disjunct population from southern Ohio to Tennessee.  In Ohio, Muds are documented from just 10 southern counties and are listed as state threatened.   

In the right habitat, adult and larval reds and muds can be found throughout the year.  But due to their general dependence on water, they can be quite challenging to find once their springs or pools dry up.  These salamanders are able to retreat deep underground, following the receding water.  This is where they mate and lay their eggs.  No one has ever observed a wild Pseudotriton nest in Ohio.  The life history and habits of these salamanders are so mysterious that we know very little about them.

Kentucky Spring Salamander.

Growing up in the middle of their joint range, Aaron knows these salamanders better than most.  We set off for Pseudotriton country before sunrise, eager to see what creatures our search would reveal.  

The first two stops of the day brought us to healthy-looking streams where Aaron had turned up midland muds and northern reds in the past.  Even where they are present, these species make you work for it. We carefully flipped countless logs and stones and dip netted each leaf-clogged pool.  We were able to uncover dozens of northern dusky salamanders, northern ravine salamanders, and even a lone spotted salamander.  Even more perplexing than not finding a Pseudotriton (adult or larvae) was the absence of the much more abundant Kentucky spring salamander (Gyrinophilus porphyriticus duryi).

I've found just three of these unique subspecies of spring salamander in my life.  According to Aaron, they can be thick on the ground in the right spots.  By the time we had searched our second stream system without a single duryi, Aaron was scratching his head in confusion.  I was beginning to worry I had brought my bad luck (something I'm famous for among my herper friends).  On our way out, Aaron flipped a four-toed salamander (Hemidactylium scutatum).  These salamanders typically breed later in the season (April-May).  This was likely a male that had arrived early at the breeding grounds.  It was a nice find, but our three target salamanders remained discouragingly elusive.  

Northern Red Salamander.

Aaron had one last spot for us to check.  Third times the charm.  I pulled to a stop in front of a vehicle gate and we stepped out into a wide, mowed field that sloped up to meet a large reservoir.  This was his most tried and true location.  If we were going to find any of our target species, it was going to be here.  

We walked along an exposed creek that flowed out from an underground seepage.  Its margins had been completely cleared of vegetation and its shallow, rockless water was stained a deep, sickly orange from the iron leaching up from below.  Compared to the isolated and more pristine springs and streams we had searched early in the day, this looked like the last place a salamander would want to live.  Unconvinced, but committed to the search, I flipped the first log we came to.  Underneath was a healthy, larval mud salamander.  Aaron and I breathed a sigh of relief.  While not the adult we had come to look for, we could at least say, “we found a montanus.”  We snapped a voucher photo as proof, and headed for the end of the stream where the water pooled in a muddy basin.  

Northern Red Salamander.

Here, things looked more inviting.  Several large, moss-covered logs lay scattered in the muddy water.  This was prime pseudotriton habitat if I’d ever seen it.  Before we began, I set my pack on the bank.  I didn't want anything slowing me down if I had to make a quick capture.  I felt my boots sink up to my ankles as I position myself in front of one of the largest logs.  Anything might be hiding below—or nothing.  I crouched, gripped the sturdiest part of the decaying wood, and rolled the stump towards me.

Stretched out beneath was a whopper of a Kentucky spring salamander.  Heart racing, I shouted to Aaron what I had discovered as I wrangled the slippery, red-orange amphibian into my net.  Now things were getting good!  I set my net down carefully so as not to provide the feisty spring with a quick escape.  I turned to a slightly smaller log next the the first and rolled it over.

As I was just about to shift the log back into place, my brain registered something sticking out of a hole near the base of the log.  Before I could process what I had found, my hand and fingers had plucked the reddish object from its burrow.  This was my northern red salamander, and it was massive, even larger than the Kentucky spring I had just flipped.  Its six inch, chunky body was a deep red, speckled with well-defined, black spots, and its fat rudder of a tail was covered in scars.  This was an old salamander.

Midland Mud Salamander.

Aaron shifted his weight in the muck, leaning towards a third log.  “Watch the mud be under this one,” he said, only half joking.  As I looked down at my net in disbelief, I could hardly feel surprised when he lifted a small, tomato-red salamander into view and said “here it is.”  My adrenaline was already at its peak.  All this remarkable, little salamander could do was add a numb spluttering sensation as a gawked into the distance at nothing in particular.  We had done it.  We had found all three of our target species under three consecutive logs in under three minutes.  

Aaron brought over the midland mud and placed it in the leaves next to the northern red and Kentucky spring.  “Well,” he said, “that’s our salamander trifecta.”  I half expected some kind of cosmic portal to open up under our feet.

Midland Mud Salamander.

I have scarcely heard of another encounter like the one we had that day.  Aaron has seen the “salamander trifecta,” once before, but spread out across a day of intensive searching.  Neither of us had expected such luck at the very last stop.  If you’re a fellow herper, you might be thinking ‘no one is that lucky.’  A few weeks have passed, and I’m still expecting to wake up from an overindulgent dream.  Finding a single one of those species would have made the trip.  A red or a mud would have been the find of the spring (maybe even the year).  All three at once? Now that’s one for the record books.

Edit 5/5/19:
In the time since I wrote this post, as many as ten different people have search this seepage.  The mud was tromped through, leaving deep boot prints, the moss was torn off and strewn about, and the logs were left in disarray.  Several two-lined salamanders, dusky salamanders, and at least one larval mud salamander were killed.  There were no live psuedotritons to be found.  People who "herp" without respect for these living creatures are not herpers.  Conservation and protection of these misunderstood animals needs to be at the forefront of our efforts.  One person herping the wrong way is a threat to all of us pursuing this fascination legitimately.  It is up to us as a community to condemn this kind of behavior and encourage positive practices going forward.  

RBW

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