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.

Road Cruising

The moon loomed overhead, its round face stained an unusually deep shade of nectarine orange. Mist rolled off the wet asphalt, parting like the Red Sea in my high beams.  The low hum of my car’s engine and the soft static of the radio added to the feeling of silence.  I rolled along at 15 miles per hour, eyes darting to each crack in the pavement, every stick, every rock, every dark blotch of tar.  My foot was poised to slam on the breaks at the first sign of movement.  I was road cruising. 

Always stop for "snakes!"

If you have never searched for reptiles or amphibians, then road cruising likely has little meaning.  For a herpetologist, however, road cruising provides a chance to see some amazing things.  The warm, uniform surface of roads entices ectotherms to bask and makes them easier to spot.  Driving covers more ground in less time compared to hiking, increasing the chances of a reptillian encounter.  

Road cruising is, however, a double-edged sword.  One of the leading causes of reptile and amphibian mortality is from collisions with vehicles.  Herps are often too slow to escape speeding traffic resulting in the deaths of adults, juveniles, and hatchlings.  For threatened or endangered species, the effects of roads can be particularly devastating.  Animals that are not killed by the road are often isolated from other populations due to habitat fragmentation.  To make matters worse, misunderstood animals such as snakes are often intentionally hit by ignorant drivers. 

A northern ring-necked snake.

Given the right location and conditions, road cruising can be a fruitful pastime for any wildlife enthusiast.  With a little knowledge of the right habitat (and often the right weather), a herper can expect to see everything from salamanders to turtles, frogs, and snakes.  

I often spend my evenings driving back roads, searching new locations from residential areas to state forests.  Reptiles and amphibians are unpredictable; they could turn up anywhere.  For amphibians, rain is almost always necessary.  Early spring ushers in the breeding season for many frogs and salamanders.  During amphibian migrations, the number of animals on the road becomes so dense that road cruising is no longer an option.  

Snakes, on the other hand, like hot, humid nights (rain seems to keep them off the roads).  Turtles travel to lay eggs during the spring and can commonly be seen lumbering across busy roadways during the day.  Night, however, is the best time to search for most herps.  Cooler temperatures draw these cryptic creatures out of their hiding places to hunt or bask. 

Photo courtesy of Brad Prall.

When driving, I keep my speed between 15 and 20 mph—any faster and I risk fatally missing something.  Knowing what to look for helps immensely.  Learning the patterns and habits of native species can improve the chances of spotting them.  Being able to distinguish scales from leaves or sticks is also helpful.  I have lost count of the number of times I have stopped for branches, bungee chords, or old pieces of tire.  However, it is always better to mistake something for an animal than miss one when it is actually there.  

Some of my best trips searching for wildlife have been thanks to advice from others.  Fellow snake enthusiast Brad Prall informed me of a location where he had seen nine copperheads, a dead timber rattlesnake, and a black ratsnake during a single night of road cruising.  He graciously answered my questions and helped me set up a route for my search.   

On one brutally hot July day (reaching the mid-90s), I prepared to drive the two hours down to the location.  I was accompanied by my fellow field technicians Aspen Wilson and Tyler Stewart.  Aspen, a Plant Biology major, and Tyler, a Wildlife and Conservation major, were working for Garrett Sisson, tracking his animals during the summer field season.  Upon mention of Brad's nine copperheads, they eagerly agreed to join me. 

As we approached our destination, my GPS directed (in its robotic female voice),“turn left onto The Road.”  Three college students, searching for venomous snakes, in the woods, in the dark, on an unnamed road.  I chuckled at how foreboding this was going to sound.

The first snake of the night was a DOR—dead on road—rough greensnake.  I had never seen a live greensnake in the wild and was disappointed to find one crushed.  Dead or alive, it was a snake; we were in the right habitat.  I crept down the paved road, foot hovering over the brake.  We all sat hunched forward, awkwardly peering into the night, expecting to see a serpentine figure around every bend, just beyond the high beams.  

Aspen holding an American toad.

As we continued on our way, something little and fat lit up in my lights.  “Is that a toad?”  I asked.  “That’s a toad,” we all confirmed in unison.  I pulled the car to a quick stop and we all hopped out for a closer look.  As I began to usher the little amphibian off the road, something enormous snorted behind me.  My first thought was big dog.  “Horse!” cried Aspen.  As I spun around, my headlamp illuminated a fully grown chestnut-colored stallion.  I stood just inches from its pen, separated from the road by nothing more than a thin black wire.  We made a beeline for the vehicle.  Being alone in the dark with a startled horse—well, you get the idea.  

As we sped away, I laughed, “we are out here to find venomous snakes and a horse is the reason we are going to die.” 

Then we saw it.  A little more wiggly than a stick.  A little more reflective.  Three doors flung open at once.  We approached quickly but cautiously, not wanting to startle the snake into a retreat.  It was a little copperhead, about a foot in length.  Aspen gently placed a net over the snake, allowing it to curl up defensively.  A baby copperhead's head is almost comically too large for its skinny body.  The snake's round, jewel-like eyes looked up innocently as if to say, “Who?  Me?”  

As I knelt down to photograph the snake, another car pulled up behind ours.  “What is it?” called a voice.  “Copperhead!” I called back.  A man walked into the light; it was none other than Brad Prall himself.  “Oh excellent!  I’m so glad you guys found something!” he said enthusiastically. We promptly introduced ourselves and shook hands.  Brad had been cruising this site for years, and a nicer fellow you will not meet.  He eagerly told us of good roads we should check, and was thrilled to hear about the reptile research we were involved in.  

The temperature had dropped quicker than expected, but still remained in the 70s.  Brad decided to head home and return the following night, remarking “75 and humid is when we have the best luck, but you should still find some good stuff in the lower 70s.”  Enthusiastic and knowledgable people like Brad make it possible for young herpers like myself to discover new and exciting creatures.  I was glad to be able to thank him in person.

That night we found a total of five small copperheads, all around a foot in length (one was sadly DOR).  We also found a little ring-necked snake and an eastern garter snake.  It was by far the best luck I have ever had road cruising!  We left for home around midnight, anticipating returning to this spot in the near future. 

The Copperhead

Read part one HERE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read part four HERE