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

Tale of Two Salamanders

I held tight to my camera as the truck lurched forward, front tires plunging into several inches of mucky water.  Carl and I had chuckled at the prominent yellow signs, declaring “road may flood,” on the way in.  With each pass around the forested wetland, the water had risen by several inches, sinking our tires further and further into the oily blackness.  With the road now well under a foot of water, I was beginning to question our bravado.  “What is that!?” Carl exclaimed as something furry and brown half scurried, half swam out from under our advancing vehicle.  It was a muskrat, swimming over the two lanes like this was just another stream.  As the aquatic rodent dove under the surface, its body undulated, revealing a long, flattened rat-like tail.  

Getting stuck on some back country road an hour south of Athens wasn't on my to-do list for the night. Thankfully, Carl's trusty four-wheel drive pickup rumbled heartily through the deepest stretches of water. I hadn't anticipated how quickly the surrounding wetlands would overflow, turning the entire landscape into one big vernal pool.  As the rains picked up, the light traffic dropped to about zero.  This was good for migrating amphibians and other water-logged wildlife, but I wondered how long it would be before anyone noticed us if we did get stranded out here.

Cambarus bartonii cavatus an undescribed species.  Note the dozens of babies under its tail.

Reaching higher ground, we spotted something small and shiny crawling lamely over the asphalt.  Expecting an injured amphibian, I was instead met with the largest crayfish I had ever seen.  This land-dwelling crustacean (Cambarus bartonii cavatus, evidently an undescribed species) was a good sign for the mole salamanders we were looking for.  Crayfish dig extensive burrows in the surrounding woodlands, lawns, and agricultural fields, providing fossorial amphibians with a refuge during the summer and winter months.  Rain floods these burrows and forces their occupants to find new hiding places.  Whether it be invertebrates, amphibians, reptiles, or even mammals, rain makes wildlife move.  As we drove along, the eyeshine of an opossum was illuminated by our headlights; the two eery points of green light faded back into the darkness as the gray, shaggy marsupial moved away.

Spring peepers and wood frogs hopped across the road every few feet.  Their high pitched whistles and guttural whines resonated from the nearby pools and streams.  Carl hadn't visited these routes for a few years (save for a brief trip we made in late autumn).  I was impressed that he retained a mental map of the area.  When I road cruise (the term herpers use for driving around and looking for amphibians and reptiles), I usually creep along at 15-20 miles per hour.  Any faster and I worry I’ll miss or hit something.  Carl, on the other hand, does something more like speed cruising.  Rocketing down the backroads, he straddles anything that could be alive, then rapidly backs up for a better look.  It’s efficient and effective, but for someone like myself who can get motion-sickness sitting in a parked car, it’s a bit of a challenge.  I tried to focus on scanning the pavement for movement as we zipped along.  It was a good distraction, but no replacement for getting out into the fresh air.  

The streamside salamander (Ambystoma barbouri)

After a few stops to inspect peepers, wood frogs, and spotted salamanders, there, stretched across the pavement—a salamander I had never seen before.  Upon closer inspection, nothing was particularly striking about this unassuming salamander.  Its body was chunky, though smaller proportioned than a spotted or a jefferson.  It displayed no bright colors or distinct markings; two shades of light gray frosted its back and sides.  The head was held high, peering up at us—an unusual behavior for this stubborn species.  Its head was also disproportionately small and snub-nosed, at least for a member of the “logger-headed” mole salamanders.  A thin, yellow line stretched across its rounded face—giving the salamander a content smile.  

“That’s our barbouri,” Carl commented as he looked down at our find.  Ambystoma barbouri, the streamside salamander.  Streamsides are unique among mole salamanders—not for their appearance, but for their behavior.  They don't breed in the temporary vernal pools that other members of this group migrate to every spring or fall.  Instead, their courtship and egg laying takes place in shallow headwater streams.  They attach their eggs to the underside of flat stones, and after hatching, the larvae grow and develop in these streams.  A. Bourbori occupy a limited range in southwestern Ohio and other nearby states where they inhabit upland forested hillsides during the summer.  

Travel just a few counties north of the streamside’s range, and you might encounter a salamander that looks nearly identical.  Until as recently as 1989, the streamside salamander was thought to be a stream-dwelling form of Ambystoma texanum, or the small-mouthed salamander.  Small-mouthed salamanders differ in appearance from the streamside in a few unremarkable ways.  They have a slightly longer snout, unique dentition with two rows of teeth, and a more wedge-shaped tail.  The most important behavioral difference is that small-moutheds breed in vernal pool habitat like the rest of the mole salamanders.  It is thought that about 4 million years ago, these two species split when A. barbouri began utilizing stream habitats.  However, breeding behavior is not a sure-fire way to tell these species apart, as both texanum and barbouri have been reported utilizing both streams and pools.

The following night, Carl and I traveled an hour north of Athens.  On a short stretch of road that cut through a patch of forest between a cornfield and tiny town, Carl spotted a single small-mouthed salamander.  Another lifer for me.  Small-moutheds inhabit lowland forests, floodplains, and fields.  If I hadn't known differently, I never would have made the distinction between this individual and the salamander from the night before. 

The small-mouthed salamander (Ambystoma Texanum)

This classic case of a cryptic species is made even more confusing by the genetic netherworld that these salamanders emerge from.  The more widespread and abundant Small-mouthed salamander (found from Ohio to Texas) is commonly parasitized by the ambystoma unisexual complex.  This group of all-female salamanders actually steals genetic information from other salamander species and incorporates it into their polyploid (more than two sets of chromosomes) genome.  This can result in animals that look quite like small-mouthed salamanders but who don't belong to the species and who might also contain the genetic information of blue-spotted salamanders and even tiger salamanders.  

In areas where A. texanum and A. barbouri overlap, some interbreeding, either historically or on going, is thought to occur.  This can blur the line between these two species and endanger the unique genetic identities of each (particularly A. barbouri due to its much smaller population).  To determine range maps where different species live, genetic testing is often helpful when dealing with cryptic species.  

When it comes to barbouri and texanum, however, genetics is another hurdle herpetologists must overcome.  The interbreeding that has taken place between these two species has left its signature in the genes of some A. texanum.  This phenomenon is called mtDNA introgression.  Mitochondrial (mt) DNA is inherited from the mother, and doesn't change much from generation to generation.  This makes it important for determining unique species lineages.  What's so difficult for this species in particular, is that entire populations of small-mouthed salamanders possess the mtDNA of streamside salamanders left over from interbreeding events.  Individuals with this condition can still be told apart by their anatomy, but this often requires collection or dissection, something most herpers aren't prepared or willing to do.  

The small-mouthed salamander we found on the second night was from a population that possess the mtDNA of the streamside salamander.  While this lends some question as to the true identity of these salamanders, the population is continuous with the known small-mouthed range.  For this reason, as well as anatomical features, we are comfortable calling them true small-moutheds.  This really shouldn't be the stopping point, however. Countless more questions need to be asked in order to expand our knowledge and better our understanding of these unique and unusual creatures. 

Even when they seem dull or indistinguishable, herps often hide some baffling secrets.  Salamanders are funny that way.  These slimy puzzles force us to think outside of what's familiar and comfortable.  I think that's why they fascinate me so much.