Fires, Fields, Turtles, and Trees

“Do you have muck boots with you?” Todd asked.  I kicked myself.  When packing for my Magee Marsh trip, I had neglected to bring either my boots or waders.  Would they be necessary to look for snakes, I inquired?  “Depends on whether you want to see spotties or not,” he said with a winky emoji.  My eyes widened and my pace quickened.  I hadn’t even considered looking for spotted turtles.  Finding my first Blanding’s turtles (and a mating pair at that) had seemed like a dream come true.  Now I was confronted with an opportunity so good I couldn’t pass it up.  Luckily, Todd had a pair he could lend me.  I raced back to my car, leaving the birds behind (again).  

Todd was out front loading his van as I arrived.  His open trunk was filled with boots, aquatic measuring equipment, and books from recent trips afield.  A wetsuit hung drying on his back fence near a sign that designated his garden the winner of the “best native wildflower planting.”  As a lecturer at the University of Toledo, Todd is an educator at heart.  His hands-on, in-your-face enthusiasm is contagious.  

The complexities of the ecosystem are what really get Todd excited.  He has managed everything from wet prairies and watersheds to local fish species and endangered mussels.  Todd was an excellent guide through the unfamiliar (to me) landscape of northwestern Ohio, pointing out fascinating hydrological phenomena and natural history at every turn. 

“See that field?” He gestured to a small woodlot along the road no bigger than my suburban backyard.  Widely spaced trees allowed a dense understory of vegetation to grow.  “Over 30 state listed plant species can be found right there,” he said.  

Most wouldn’t think of Toledo as a land of extremes—or that some of the rarest ecosystems on earth sit just west of the city.  Stretching over 180 square miles across three Ohio counties (and one Michigan county) the Oak Openings is perhaps the most unique part of the state.  Here, vast sand barrens intersperse with mesic prairies and oak flatwoods.  As many as 145 state listed plant species have been recorded from the Openings, including our only native cactus (Opuntia humifus).  

Wild Lupine (Lupinus perennis), a rare Ohio plant found only in the Oak Openings.

These rare ecosystems are maintained by annual cycles of extreme wet and extreme dry.  The secret lies in the sand.  The Oak Openings look as if someone dropped a little piece of the Mojave Desert into Ohio.  These rolling dunes are actually ancient sandbars, first deposited by a late-glacial precursor to Lake Erie between 11,000 and 9,000 years ago.  The sand can be 50 feet thick in some places, obscuring another important geologic layer: the till.  This impermeable clay holds any water that soaks through the porous sand.  Oak forests grow in uplands where the sand is thick and dry, while emergent open-canopy wetlands form where the till sits just below the surface.

The need for boots was immediately apparent as Todd and I stepped off the road.  The trail quickly opened up into a wide expanse of whispering Bluegrass, submerged in ankle-deep water.  We sloshed along, peering intently into every grassy hummock, hoping to catch the inky glint of a yellow polka-dotted shell.  Spotted turtles don’t typically bask on exposed logs like the more common painted turtle.  Instead, they bask nestled among vegetation, slipping into the shallow water at the first sign of trouble.  When the wetlands dry up by late summer, a complex network of underwater turtle highways are revealed.  Turtles not traversing their typical routes disappear into the muck without a trace, making them near impossible to find—unless you’re lucky enough to step on one.  “If you feel a rock beneath your foot,” Todd said, “it’s not a rock."

A female spotted turtle.  Note the pinkish-orange chin.

Once a common species throughout the state, spotted turtles (Clemmys guttata) have declined across the east coast and the Great Lakes region.  Ohio has lost close to 90 percent of its original wetlands, including most of the suitable spotted turtle habitat.  These turtles rely on wetlands to overwinter, moving into upland woods by late spring and summer.  The prime time to look for spotties is April and May while they are still basking near their aquatic hibernacula.  Once the temperatures start to heat up, these turtles become harder and harder to find as they spread out into the surrounding landscapes.

Todd called to me from several yards away.  I ran as best I could through the ankle-deep water, heart pounding at the thought of my first spotty.  Todd had bumped a small female with his boot, exposing the turtle’s hidden basking spot within the grass.  Held firmly but gently in his hands, the little turtle didn’t seem the least bit concerned.  She looked around bright-eyed and curious, legs waving as if walking in slow motion.  I was immediately struck by just how tiny this turtle was; she could fit comfortably in the palm of my hand.  Adult spotted turtles max out at around four inches in carapace length, making them one of our smallest native species.  

I was beyond delighted.  We took copious photos before releasing her back into the shallow water.  An hour later, I stumbled upon another, larger female basking out in the open.  We could tell these turtles were female for two reasons: one, the classic flat belly (males have a concave plastron) and two, her chin was a soft pinkish-orange.  Male spotted turtles have a much darker black or brown chin. 

As we half hiked, half sloshed our way back towards the vehicle, my foot brushed something hard.  Looking through the vegetated water, I was just able to make out a strip of bone nestled in the sediment.  My mind jumped to the sun-bleached shells of long-dead box turtles and snapping turtles that I’ve been lucky enough to stumble upon in the past.  I flipped the object over and was surprised to find a black plastron.  I knelt and plucked the small shell from the water.  Surprise number two: clenched between my thumb and index finger, a very much alive spotted turtle squirmed for freedom.  The large, keratin scutes that normally cover the animal’s back had completely fallen off, revealing the smooth bone beneath. 

A male spotted turtle missing the scutes along its back

It is unclear just what would could cause this kind of bizarre and dramatic disfigurement in a spotted turtle's shell.  It is possible this turtle survived being caught in a controlled burn that scorched just the outer layers of keratin and left the rest of the animal unharmed.  Alternatively, it could be suffering from some other physical trauma, exposure to toxins, malnutrition, or a bacterial or fungal infection. The fungus, Fusarium semitectum, is known to cause skin lesions and scute necrosis in desert tortoises.  Regardless of its ultimate cause, this deformity is symptomatic of many larger issues impacting the habitat these turtles call home. 

"A few years ago, this whole wetland would have been overrun with buckthorn," Todd explained.  Despite its natural appearance, the Oak Openings is anything but pristine. Human impacts are evident everywhere you look.  Settlers cut down the old growth oak stands and drained and channelized the groundwater in an attempt to farm the sandy soil.  Agriculture proved unprofitable, but the damage was done. As the surrounding areas developed, suppression of fires and a lower water table transitioned many natural openings into closed canopy forests. Even where the ground held enough water to exclude trees, introduced plants like buckthorn and cattails turned the once diverse fields of grasses, sedges, and rushes into mono-cultures. 

Intensive management is now necessary to maintain the Oak Openings’ unique ecosystems.  A strict regimen of selective cutting, herbicide use, and prescribed burns are integral to the plant and animal communities that depend on open habitat.  Without these scheduled burns, many native species, from butterflies to birds, would disappear. Spotted turtles would quickly become a distant memory.

Three spotted turtles by mid-afternoon was better than I could have hoped for, but I couldn't help but notice that another wet meadow species was conspicuously absent.  “There used to be massasaugas here?” I asked, knowing that the pygmy rattlesnake had been extirpated from all the lake counties thanks to human persecution.  “Yup,” Todd replied forlornly, “they were last recorded here in 1981."

Spotted turtles don’t suffer from the same violent disdain as snakes, but they face their own gauntlet of human mistreatment.  Plenty are killed on roads each year by oblivious drivers. Roadways and development have heavily fragmented the Oak Openings, splitting off habitats the turtles depend on.  Spotteds not killed crossing are commonly scooped up by star-struck drivers and taken home to waste away in captivity.  The pet trade is one of the biggest threats to the persistence of spotted turtle populations.  Black-market poaching focuses on adults (often gravid females) and can quickly collapse healthy turtle populations. 

Upwards of 500 breeding adult turtles is considered a viable population.  Many Ohio locality records are known from just one individual turtle, and groups of as many as 50 are still not considered sustainable long-term.  Being such a long-lived vertebrate, it can take decades before local extinctions are realized.  The Oak Openings is home to some of the larger remaining populations of spotted turtles in Ohio, but this rare wetland-loving woodland-dweller can still be found in isolated prairie remnants, bogs, and fens from northern to southwestern Ohio.  Their numbers are often so low that detecting them can be tricky, but given space, respect, and a little human help, they will hopefully persist long into the future.

Thanks for reading.
RBW  

Herping PA: Concrete and Canoes

Short-headed garter snakes (Thamnophis brachystoma) only occur in one or two counties in extreme eastern Ohio.  Truth be told, it isn’t even known whether they are true natives to the buckeye state.  It is possible they have expanded their range or have been introduced from Pennsylvania, one of only two other states they are known from (the other being New York).  Growing just over a foot in length, the short head is an inhabitant of fields and meadows along waterways.  These elegant earthworm eaters are much smaller than the eastern gartersnake, with a narrow, neckless head and pleasing tan and gray stripes.  They are a species I had written off.  The likelihood of encountering one was just too slim.  I’d have to travel to PA to find one, and even then, where would I start my search?

Luck would have it that Dr. Popescu’s new PhD student, Matt Kaunert, was beginning his project smack dab in the middle of their range.  Within an hour of our arrival in northwestern Pennsylvania, he found us three individuals (and seven eastern garters).  This was going to be a trip to remember.  Andrew Travers, Christine Hanson, and myself had traveled the five hours from Athens, Ohio to help him begin his project.  Matt was studying another rare species of herp I never imagined I would get to see: North America’s largest salamander species, the eastern hellbender (Cryptobranchus alleganiensis).

That morning, Matt had driven to check each of the creeks we were scheduled to survey, and his report didn’t look good.  It had rained the previous night, and the normally clear streams were now cloudy with sediment and debris.  Visibility would be so poor that finding the large, flat rocks hellbenders like to hide under would be next to impossible.  Even if we could stumble upon a suitable rock, the water would be too murky to see anything lurking below.  We would have to wait and hope for dry weather and check the streams again in two days.  In the meantime, we would get started on another aspect of his project: building hellbender nest boxes.  

Matt led us to his family’s campground where he was preparing for the field season.  We crept down the dirt road at 5 miles an hour and emerged into a neighborhood of little, ramshackle buildings and trailers in varying states of disrepair.  Not 200 meters from their back porches, the enormous river flowed under a skyline of forested hills.  Kayakers drifted lazily along as juvenile bald eagles soared overhead, practicing their flying.  I felt goosebumps rise on my arms at the thought of hellbenders hiding just feet below the water’s surface.  Matt’s camp was a delightful, two room trailer-mobile home hybrid, with running water, four beds, and a flat screen TV.  Out back, sat several rows of what appeared to be miniature, concrete coffins. 

Each coffin was about a meter long, with a rounded top that narrowed into an open tunnel at the base.  A removable lid provided full access to the hollow interior of the concrete box.  Placed in the appropriate streams, these baby coffins should mimic the natural rock cavities that hellbenders require to reproduce.  Matt has already completed some 60 nest boxes and hopes to nearly double that by the time he gets the go ahead to deploy them.  

Christine Hanson and Andrew Travers working on a nest box.

With the streams out of commission the following day, we got started on four new boxes.  It was taxing work—for me anyway.  Matt and Andrew are big guys, and had little trouble carrying bags of sand and concrete, shoveling the steaming mixture, and hammering out old molds.  I mostly took pictures and provided moral support.  By this point, Matt has the system down to a science, but he still showed us his first attempts—crumpled concrete heaps hidden behind the shed.  These boxes will be the first of their kind deployed in Pennsylvania, but only time will tell if they really work.  A narrow PVC pipe protruding from the rounded top allows access with a submersible camera.  With luck, we will be the first to film hellbender breeding activity in a nest box setting. 

Once the four new boxes were set, we had the rest of the day to enjoy ourselves.  We went herping of course.  The day was simply gorgeous, mid-seventies with a cool breeze and clear, blue skies; we were all itching to get on the water.  We loaded canoes and paddle boards into the truck and headed for the river.  Matt had turtles on the brain.  Spiny softshells and snappers are a common sight basking along the shore, but it takes lightning fast reflexes to catch them before they slip into the water.  I’d never herped by canoe before; it is definitely one of the more relaxing ways to seek slimy and scaly creatures.  We drifted along (I let Andrew do most of the paddling), scanning the banks for signs of turtles.  “They will look like a shiny pancake,” Matt said, referring to the spiny softshells.  Matt went into full paddle, standing on his canoe, heading for a series of rocks.  I watched as several shiny circles plopped into the stream long before Matt reached them.  Luckily, he wasn’t deterred. 

Matt has herped this river ever since he was a boy.  He knows the best spots and has encountered just about every creature that can be found here.  Where the rest of us had just seen mud, he pried an enormous snapping turtle from the muck with a grin.  He taught us how to feel for softshells with our feet and crept up sandbars on his belly—a trick to spot turtles before they disappear into the water.  As we paddled back towards camp, Matt saw something on the bank none of us had noticed.  He leapt from his canoe, clipping his eyelid on a branch, and pinned a softshell turtle in the water.  With blood streaming down his face, he lifted the struggling turtle—larger than a dinner plate—and placed it on the bank for us to photograph.

Eastern spiny softshells (Apalone spinifera) are an impressive creature.  They display all the ferocity of a snapping turtle with the agility of a frog.  They launch themselves into the water leaving nothing but a trail of sediment in their wake.  A snorkel-like snout and a serpentine neck allow them to reach the surface for air while remaining buried in the sediment.  Softshells are essentially a river turtle and can be quite common throughout Ohio and western Pennsylvania.  I had never seen one so large—having caught only young individuals on the OU campus.  

It seemed the weather was not going to cooperate for our hellbender survey.  That night, the forecast called for rain.  We tried to will the storm past, but as the winds picked up, a heavy thunderstorm swept through camp, extinguishing our electricity and with it the last of our hellbender hopes.  We went to bed with heavy hearts.

We woke late the next morning, packed our gear and headed for one of the survey streams.  Matt craned his neck to peer through the passenger window at the murky creek flowing below.  “Uh oh,” he said distantly.  Seeing my crestfallen expression, he added, “uh oh in a good way.”  The water was the color of tea, but even from the road I could see large slabs of rock resting several inches below the surface.  Despite the rains, the river had cleared significantly.  “Let’s take a drive,” Matt said with growing confidence.

Hellbender Hopes.  To be continued. . .

A Turtle Fairwell

Tomorrow I will release the last of our box turtle study subjects.  After two years and countless miles and hours of field and lab work, the box turtle project will finally come to an end.  I’ve been so busy with life and work that I haven’t had a chance to update the blog.  A lot has changed this season.

After a winter hiatus, tracking started back up in mid-March, just as the turtles were emerging from hibernation.  All 30 animals survived the cold, and after climbing out of the soil and leaf litter, they took off in every direction with a vengeance.  We had become efficient trackers by the end of last season, but now the turtles were putting our skills to the test.  We once again chased them up and down ravines, across clearings, under fallen logs, and even to the edge of rocky cliffs.  We sweated in the heat of an unusually hot spring, and shivered in the early morning fog.  In order to get enough GPS points by the end of the project, our four day schedule was changed to a full seven (luckily I worked only 5 days each week).

Our little turtle team has grown substantially over the past year.  Where once there were just three of us, now some 16 volunteers have joined the party.  Most are wildlife, marine bio, or plant bio undergrads, as well as a group of students from Hocking college.  Marcel Weigand is still the brains behind the project, but preoccupied with her thesis, she has left the field work up to us.  I have since taken a leadership role on the project, co-leading the tracking and data collection and training new members.  My fellow leads include Christine Hanson—another wildlife undergrad, and Eva Garcia—a master’s student from France.  I can’t thank them all enough for their passion, dedication, and humor that kept us going throughout the season.  I have made some wonderful, mosquito-bitten friends.

The tracking season went as smoothly as could be expected.  I think we ruined about 10 of the telemetry cords, and used up more batteries than I care to admit.  We clipped the turtle’s nails just as we had last season (this time in the field) and took all their measurements.  We quickly realized that the epoxy holding the antennas to each of the turtles’ shells was beginning to break down.  By late June, Trevor slipped his transmitter—never to be seen again.  This unfortunate loss of data left us fearful that other turtles would soon go missing as well.  Shear luck led us to Lonesome George after he lost his transmitter under a fallen log.  

Many of the turtles once again traveled within meters of the road, but none ever attempted to cross—a puzzling relief.  Our data has shown that the effects of major roadways like the Nelsonville Bypass may be more complex than expected.  Turtles not killed on the road are not necessarily subject to higher stress than their control counterparts.  Likewise, we found little difference in home range size and habitat selection between sites.  What we did find interesting is the fact that female box turtles travel a lot more than males.  This is contrary to what the literature says for most turtle species.  We also verified a novel technique for measuring corticosterone as a proxy for stress in eastern box turtles, and added to our knowledge of mitigation and management requirements for this species. 

It was bitter sweet saying goodbye to our 30 study animals.  They had endured our research long enough, and it was time for them to be fully wild again.  Even after 2 years, I am still surprised by these animals almost every day.  Just when I think I’ve cracked these armored fiends, they prove me all wrong.  I suppose I’ll never completely understand them, and that’s the way it should be.  I have gotten to know these animals as individuals—each one special and unique.  Below, I have included a photo and description of nearly all our study subjects.  This project was for their benefit, and I hope our data can help to protect these remarkable reptiles long into the future.

Rumple-"scute"-skin

If I had to pick a favorite turtle it would probably be this one.  Rumple almost always stayed in the same field and surrounding woodland and was never shy when encountered.  He happily posed for photos, and rarely closed up his shell.  He was also one of the prettiest looking turtles I have ever seen.

Ethel

This turtle had one of the biggest home ranges of any of our study subjects.  She moved from the woods near where we parked, up and over the ravines, all the way to the roadside. She began our trend of naming these animals like old ladies.

Scar 

This old boy is named for his damaged shell.  We think that years ago a coyote chewed on him, causing his scutes to heal in a rugged pattern.  

Glados

A reliable female that likes to hang out not far from another turtle, Max.  She did occasionally hide from us in the soil or at the bottom of the ravines.

Zaphod

He may not have two heads, but this turtle moves enough that he might as well have his own spaceship. He proves that this project was full of excitement, adventure, and really wild things.

Penelope
This is the only turtle that bit me!  And she actually drew blood too.  Otherwise she is an attractively marked turtle that rarely gave us much trouble.

King George

One of our biggest males.  He's right up there with rumple as one of the favorites.  He is always on the move and usually crawls away while we are still taking his data.

Gertrude

This turtle traveled all the way from the parking area of our impact sight clear up to the ridge side!  I am always stunned where we end up finding this girl.

Hidey

This is the best picture I could get of the aptly named Hidey.  When trying to clip his nails, he stayed clamped in his shell for three days.

Rose

A reliable female that hangs out by the trail.  Turtles like Rose quickly became favorites in the heat of the summer.

Phil 

A little male who is always reliable.  Good job Phil!

Max 

He likes to hang out near Glados.  Those two are always good turtles to track.

Beyonce 

Definitely our most famous turtle.  She wasn't always named Beyonce, but she quickly earned the title. This turtle moved over a mile in a week, all the way from our control site to the Hocking College Nature Center in order to lay eggs.  She was our first clue to the fact that turtle tracking was not going to be easy.

Albert

A turtle that usually hangs out around the field in our control.  He is usually easy to find, although he occasionally will disappear on us for a few days.

Dorris

Dorris spent most of the active season in the open field adjacent to the bypass.  She regularly moved within 20 meters of the road, but thankfully, never attempted to cross.  She nearly gave me a heart attack each time I tracked her up to the brush along the right of way.

Lonesome George

This turtle gave us more grief than any other.  He came down with a serious upper respiratory infection that we feared was the deadly ranavirus. Luckily he was negative and even recovered well from his infection.  He is named Lonesome George after the last Galapagos Pinta Island tortoise because he stayed far away from any other turtle.

Poopzilla

She earned that name.  When we first opened the pencil case in which we carried this turtle back to the lab, there was more poop than turtle.  Despite her less than flattering name, the male turtles can't seem to get enough of Poopzilla.  We have found her mating with a large male nicknamed Romeo on multiple occasions.

Timber

I'm proud of this turtle's name.  Without fail we find him mixed in with fallen logs, branches, and other woody debris.

Bertha

This big female is the only turtle in our study that does not have red eyes (its a myth that you can tell the sexes apart by eye color).  She was almost certainly full of eggs when we found her. 

Bo   

A little male that likes to endlessly go up and down the ravines.  

Stumpy

One of my personal favorites.  Stumpy is missing both front and back legs on her right side. We worried she would be an outlier in the study, but she was able to travel just as much as any other animal.  She truly showed us how resilient these reptiles can be.

Sir Turt

Sir Tert was always eating.  Mushrooms, slugs, leaves, caterpillars.  Whenever we found him, his beak was covered in the goo of his last meal.

Lady Macbeth

The scars on this turtle's back earned her this name.  She has seen some stuff. Out, out.

Cofefe

My liberal is showing.

Storm 

Don't even get me started on Storm.  This turtle was the bane of our existence.  We found her in a torrential downpour halfway through the first season right on the trail.  She proceeded to take off down the steepest ravine at least a half mile from any other turtle. Ugh.

Five Alive

This turtle was always on the other side of the fence.  We would track in ravine one day and it would be on the other side.  The next day we would be at the ridge on the opposite side of the fence and this turtle would have crossed over in the meantime.  He evaded us in this way most of the season.

It feels like a lifetime ago that we found each of these animals with John Rucker and his trusty turtle dogs.  Marcel and I often fondly recall that week as the longest of our lives.  Last Tuesday, Marcel defended her thesis.  She passed of course, as we all knew she would.  But that didn't stop our lab’s collective blood pressure from sky rocketing in preparation for the big day.  It was a delight to watch Marcel present on our findings and accomplishments.  “A little more statistics, and this could easily be a PhD project,” Marcel told me.  Her talk was excellent, full of passion for the animals and hope for their long term survival.  The little classroom was packed wall to wall—it seemed everyone in the wildlife biology department wanted to hear about our turtles.  

The following day, the turtle team met one final time for a bon fire at Stroud's Run.  We gathered at the very same campsite where we had picked up John and his dogs every morning, now over a year ago.  It was a poetic ending to the coolest experience I have ever been a part of.  Marcel has begun the daunting task of writing the publication and looking for her next job.  I wish her luck in all her future endeavors.  Her passion and dedication in the face of so much adversity has inspired me to work as hard as I can each and every day.  

It really is the end of an era.  So where do I go from here?

Next week, I join Christine Hanson, Andrew Travers, and Dr. Popescu’s new PhD student, Matt Kaunert, on a trip to Pennsylvania in search of the world’s third largest salamander species.  I’ve wanted to see eastern hellbenders ever since I was a kid.  Now could be my chance. . .

Black Sand and Green Seas

The childhood dream to swim alongside a sea turtle is shared by all who grew up fascinated by wildlife.  Perhaps it is the nomadic nature of these sea fairing transients that seems to tie the world’s ecosystems together.  These reptiles can be found in oceans worldwide, from Alaska's Gulf Coast to the shores of Florida, Hawaii, Guam, Australia, and beyond.  Like the polar bear, African elephant, or kangaroo, sea turtles are a landmark species.  Anyone—wildlife enthusiast or not—can recognize a sea turtle.  They are icons of nature’s untamed beauty, as well as its fragility in the face of environmental atrocities.  They teach us to appreciate what we have, and to protect all that we stand to lose. 

Most people will only ever read about sea turtles in books or watch them on film. The idea of a 1,500 pound leatherback, hauling itself through the sea at over 20 miles per hour, or the prospect of hundreds of thousands of Olive Ridleys coming ashore to nest in a famed arribada, seem almost too fantastic to be true.  Turtles tease us with the wisdom of time itself, locked away in their boney shells.  They are immortalized in our pop culture in the form of logos, T-shirts, and children’s movies.  There is perhaps no creature so familiar, and yet so mysterious; for we know little of the daily lives of these sea-fairing giants. 

As a young boy, I remember curling up on the couch with my parents to watch our nightly episode of The Crocodile Hunter.  Steve and Terry Irwin introduced my generation to the world of wildlife.  The imagery of Steve coaxing an elderly and emaciated green sea turtle into an Australian harbor has never left me.  The khaki-clad duo didn't interfere with the aging reptile; they admired it for its tenacity and allowed nature to take its course.  Every child who watched their show dreamed of wildlife encounters, and longed to chase adventures on far off islands.

Click to enlarge.

This past December, I had the chance to visit the big island of Hawaii.  After spending all day on a plane, I had to pinch myself to check that I wasn't still a daydreaming eight-year-old.  This was my first time to the Aloha state and I had little idea what to expect.  Tracking down some of Hawaii’s rare and endemic wildlife was the first thing on my mind.  Sitting over 2,000 miles from the nearest mainland, Hawaii’s isolation makes it a laboratory for evolution.  Few plants or animals made it to the island; there are no native land dwelling reptiles, amphibians, or mammals (except for a bat).  Those (likes birds and drosophila flies) that did make it to Hawaii’s rocky shores, diversified into countless species.

Hawaii is the most isolate archipelago on earth.  This chain of volcanic islands spans 1,500 miles across the middle of the Pacific Ocean.  Hawaii’s highest mountain Mauna Kea rises over 33,000 feet from sea floor to summit, making it taller than Mount Everest.  The Hawaiian chain was born from a magma hotspot that has been pushing up through the ocean floor for millions of years.  As the pacific plate drifts northwest (at about the same rate finger nails grow), the hotspot continues to spit out new volcanic islands, while older, extinct volcanoes sink under their own weight.  Today, 8 main islands and over a hundred smaller islands make up the Hawaiian chain.

One creature that had no trouble finding its way to the islands was the Honu, the Hawaiian name for the green sea turtle (Chelonia mydas).  Sea turtles can travel thousands of miles across the ocean as they move from feeding grounds to breed.  Five species of sea turtles are known to frequent Hawaii’s waters, but only the green is seen with any regularity.  These gentle giants feed on seaweed, jellyfish, and crustaceans around Hawaii’s shores.  Few turtles actually nest on the main islands; most lay their eggs on the French Frigate Shoals—a tiny island in the Hawaiian chain, comprised of only 67 acres.

During the first few days of the trip, we had no luck finding these apparently common reptiles.  After striking out at several beaches, we decided to drive to Punalu’u, one of the best known black sand beaches in the world.  The black sand is actually hardened lava rock from the nearby Volcanoes National Park. Lava spewed into the sea by Kīlauea, one of the most active volcanoes on earth, is pulverized into a fine, black sand.  Green sea turtles are a common visitor to Punalu’u along with the occasional hawksbill sea turtle.  Upon arriving at the beach, I wasn't disappointed.

Like a smooth, rounded stone that had been weathered by the ocean surf, the turtle’s carapace glistened the same shade of black as the sand.  Huge, wrinkled eyelids hung slackly over fist-sized eyes.  Oblivious to the gawking beach-goers, the turtle slept, only moving to lift its head above the occasional wave.  Like a painted turtle soaking up sun rays on a log, this sea-fairing behemoth was thermoregulating.  Hawaii, Australia, and the Galapagos are the only places on earth where green sea turtles come ashore to bask.  Most green turtles, along with other sea turtle species, never leave the water except to nest.  They bask at the ocean’s surface, using patches of seaweed to stay buoyant.  

It isn't fully understood why some sea turtles bask on land while others do not.  Basking helps kick start the metabolism, aiding digestion and improving the immune system.  Egg development may be another benefit, but since both male and female turtles can be seen ashore, this isn't the whole story.  Seasonal fluctuations in the number of beach baskers points toward water temperature as a deciding factor.  Scientists have found that when sea temperatures are below 23°C the turtles are more inclined to come ashore.  February through April provide the best chances to see turtles hauled up on the beach.

Most reptiles are not thought to be social, and the same holds true for sea turtles.  However, green turtles often bask in close proximity to one another rather than spreading out.  Large, off-shore congregations are also common during the breeding season.  As I moved down the beach, I came across three more of the huge turtles, all within a few feet of one another.  With shell lengths of a meter or more, these were the largest wild turtles I had ever seen.  Their huge flippers sunk into the black sand like leathery wings.  Not your ordinary, everyday box turtle.

As global sea temperatures rise, land basking may be on the decline.  The waters around Hawaii are increasing by 0.04°C per year—three times higher than the global average.  By 2039, Hawaii’s waters will be permanently warm enough to sustain ocean basking.  By the century’s end, sea temperatures around the world will have warmed beyond the land basking threshold.  With the benefits of land basking still shrouded in mystery, it is unclear what warmer temperatures will do to sea turtle ecology. 

6 of the 7 sea turtle species are listed as endangered.  Like many of Hawaii's native wildlife, the green sea turtle was almost wiped out by the mid-1900s.  Their name comes not from the color of their skin (which is usually brown), but from the green shade of their fat and cartilage.  These turtles were exploited for their meat, shells, and eggs for centuries.  The federal government established protection for these turtles in the 1970s making it illegal to hunt, harass, or even touch these giants.

Despite protection, sea turtles still face a host of threats.  The illegal wildlife trade destroys countless nests for sale to foreign markets.  Adult turtles are illegally harvested for their meat and their leathery skin is used to create commodities.  Human development of important turtle nesting beaches and degradation of the ocean through pollution are also major problems for marine wildlife. 

Found in sea turtles the world over, fibropapillomatosis or FP is a herpes virus thought to be linked to pollution.  This disease causes enormous cauliflower-shaped tumors to develop on the turtles’ skin and internal organs.  FP obstructs vision and locomotion, making turtles vulnerable to predation.  Despite being first observed in the 1930s, this disease is still poorly understood. 

Possibly the greatest threat to sea turtles is being accidentally caught by fishing vessels.  Turtles that become trapped or entangled in nets often drown and are thrown back as bycatch.  Fisheries may discard as much as 40% of their catch as undesirable.  Turtles are not the only creatures to fall victim to these snares.  Sea birds, dolphins, sharks, and seals are common victims of bycatch. To learn more about threats to sea turtles and things you can do to help save them, visit seeturtle.org. 

As an aspiring turtle researcher, getting to see wild sea turtles at the black sand beach was a thrill.  I even had the chance to snorkel with two huge individuals.  They carelessly drifted past me with the bulk and grace of an armored submarine.  I tried to keep a respectful distance, but the turtles often swam towards me faster than I could retreat.  They didn't seem to mind my presence, or even take much notice as they munched away at algae-covered rocks.  

As I looked closer at one of the huge reptiles, I noticed something odd near the front of the animal's shell.  It was a white, rectangular patch of epoxy.  Could it be the remnants of a radio transmitter?  I stood there speechless for several moments, paralyzed by the coincidence. It didn't seem possible, but halfway across the world I was seeing an echo of my own Ohio box turtles in this huge prehistoric sea creature.  These endangered marine reptiles have given me a new perspective and an even greater appreciation for wildlife conservation and research. Perhaps some day I'll be the one tracking them.

Next on my list: Hawaii's endangered native forest birds.