A Spadefoot Experience

In one hand I hold my camera, in the other I fumble to dial my iPhone.  Rain is pattering all around me, down the brim of my hat, and fogging my glasses.  I am crouched along the side of a back country road in Athens, Ohio.  To one side of me, agricultural fields stretch out into the hazy darkness; on the other, a steep hill obscures my view of the residences above.  If anyone had glanced out their window at that moment, I’m sure I would have looked like an ominous figure, silhouetted against my car’s high-beams.  

The phone rings; Kyle Brooks picks up on the other end.  Before he has a chance to say anything, I stammer out, voice shaking with excitement, “I’m staring at two spadefoots!”  “Ooooh, aaah, OK,” he replies, “I’ll be right down.”  15 minutes later, I spot the headlights of a car creeping down the road.  I am wary at first, being out here all alone in the dark.  Minutes ago, a woman had yelled from her car window, “watch out for a man, emerging from the fields or brush.  He has given the neighbors problems around here.”  But then I see the car stop, and the beam of a flashlight waving about.  The light focuses on something on the road, and I hear a distant cheer of delight.  

I jog up to see Kyle, Marcel, and Cassie, all running around in a flurry of excitement, illuminating toads and frogs on the road.  “They’re everywhere!  Spadefoots everywhere!” Cassie squeals.  I kneel down to examine one of the pudgy, little amphibians—more closely resembling the consistency of warm play-doh than flesh.  It’s skin is yellow and purple-ish brown.  The wide-set eyes are luminous gold with unsettling, vertical pupils.  The toads don't seem to be in any hurry, as they plop along the road at their leisure.

Eastern spadefoot distribution in Ohio.  Map courtesy of the ODNR.

Eastern spadefoot toads (Scaphiopus holbrookii) are notoriously difficult to find.  These endangered frogs are at the very northern tip of their range, occupying just a half dozen Ohio counties.  To make matters worse, spadefoots spend the majority of their lives buried under the earth.  They only emerge on warm nights from April to July, when their sandy homes become flooded with heavy rains.  The peculiar name, spadefoot, comes from a distinct adaptation to their fossorial life.  The heels of their rear feet display a hardened, sickle-shaped protrusion, used for burrowing.  

My journey to find these illusive amphibians began several months prior.  I had been scrolling through my Facebook feed, checking for interesting wildlife sightings and keeping up to date with the seasonal migration of song birds, when I stumbled upon a post by Jim McCormac.  Jim, a renowned Ohio wildlife blogger, had posted photos of some eastern spadefoots he had found the previous Friday, and a location for his sightings—Athens, Ohio.  I made a mental note to ask around the OU Wildlife Club to see if anyone knew of where I could seek these endangered toads.  “No,” Kyle Brooks, club president, informed me, “locations for rare animals like that are usually kept secret.”  And besides, the toads would have emerged that night, and that night only, while the weather was temporarily perfect.  That was that.

I forgot about the spadefoots until a chance encounter with Jim McCormac himself on the Cedar Bog boardwalk in Champaign County.  After introducing myself and talking to him about what I was there looking for (Massasauga rattlesnakes), I remembered the spadefoots.  He agreed to send me the location where he had seen them, and told me, “They start calling around 10 pm, a little later than the other frogs.” 

Over the coming weeks, my mind was on the weather.  There were a few rainy nights, but nothing heavy enough to bring out the fastidious frogs.  Then, on a day in late June, the forecast was perfect.  It rained off and on all day, and looked to keep raining well into the night.  It was steady, full rain, reaching a heavy downpour by late evening.  I sat anxiously, waiting for dark, passing the time reading Lost Frogs by Robin Moore.

At twenty to nine, I couldn’t take it anymore.  I grabbed my boots, headlamp, and camera, and rushed out the door.  As I pulled off the highway, I started scanning for movement.  I dropped my speed to around 20 miles per hour (the fastest I’m comfortable road cruising).  It was a good night for amphibians;  I spotted several Cope’s gray treefrogs and American toads hopping across the road.  The night air rattled with the trills of treefrogs; but the bizarre whine of the spadefoot never came.  

I sat in my car, listening to the frogs and the steady rhythm of the rain.  Then, just within the range of my headlights, I saw an amphibian hopping across the road.  The frog was about the size of an American toad, but something about it struck me as unusual.  As I jumped out of my car to get a closer look, the face stood out—yellow eyes.  I stared in disbelief, unsure if what I was seeing was real.  Those yellow eyes could only belong to one frog—the eastern spadefoot.

By the time Kyle, Marcel and Cassie arrived, the toads were emerging from the fields, crossing the road, and burying themselves in the sandy, unplanted field on the other side.  During this short-lived spectacle, we saw around 15-20 spadefoots.  They were a lifer (a new species) for all of us.  “Spadefoots were a species I never thought I would see in Ohio,” Kyle would later tell me.  

The entire time we were searching (well past 10 pm) we never heard the spadefoot’s distinct whaar call.  The rains, while heavy enough to bring the toads above ground, hadn't created the temporary pools the spadefoots needed to lay eggs.  There wouldn't be any courting tonight, just movement to more productive feeding grounds.  Within hours, the toads would be back below the earth—leaving no evidence of their terrestrial activities.

  

Ohio’s only endangered species of frog, the eastern spadefoot needs our help.  To date, only five distinct breeding populations have been recorded in Ohio.  These toads require river valleys with sandy soils where rain water can collect to form breeding pools.  Sites that meet these requirements have been repeatedly paved, developed, or planted.  Road mortality and pollution continue to decimate spadefoot numbers.  Being such a secretive amphibian, few ever get the chance to see these toads or hear their curious calls.  

We need to act now to save these magical and mysterious amphibians before it is too late.  You can help by participating in FrogWatch, a citizen science program designed to document species of calling frogs.  Participating in this project was one of my first introductions to science and my local environment.  It is an excellent way to learn more about native frogs, as well as help scientists to understand long term population trends and range distributions.  Don’t the bizarre, the slimy, and the inspiring deserve a place in our world and in our hearts?  We can make a difference.

Eastern spadefoot population statistics.  Graph courtesy of the ODNR.

Tents and Treefrogs

Since the semester began, my ornithology class has been collectively anticipating our South Carolina trip with a mix of excitement and apprehension.  Many of my classmates had never been camping before, and this was going to be the longest most of us had ever gone without running water.  To further complicate things, the recent hurricanes posed a serious flood risk for many of the areas we hoped to visit.  With our date of departure fast approaching, Dr. Miles was constantly checking the forecast and the state's water levels.  We feared our primitive campground would be inaccessible, and the weather too harsh for birds or birders alike.  If conditions didn't improve, the trip might not happen at all, but we remained optimistic.  On the morning of October 4, we met at Irvine at 5 am, packed our gear Janga-style, and braced ourselves for the long ride to the Palmetto State.  

Eastern Narrow-mouthed Toad

Ten hours, two vans, seventeen birders, and too few bathroom breaks later, we arrived at our campsite.  I rushed out of the van, eager to be on solid ground.  We quickly erected a city of multicolored tents around our picnic table and portable camp stove (Dr. Miles is a damn good cook).  That’s when we first noticed the mosquitoes.  DEET chocked my lungs and throat as a dozen spray bottles appeared from pockets and bags.  In the long run, these efforts would do little to ward off the incessant insects.  By the end of the four days, I received more mosquito bites than I have ever had (my multitude of red bumps could have easily been mistaken for poison ivy).

As I scanned the darkening campground with my headlamp.  Dozens of pinpricks of light winked back like stars hidden in the grass—eye-shine from countless prowling wolf spiders on the hunt for unsuspecting invertebrates.  This particular discovery was met with horror from most of the group.  The spiders were large, but clearly harmless—that is, until someone found a black widow near the base of a tree.  We all grew much more cautious as we swept our way through the underbrush after that.  

Eastern Spadefoot

Now that we were in a new state, birds were not the only thing on my mind.  South Carolina is home to a diverse array of herpetofauna vastly different from Ohio’s.  Every divot in the substrate, every lump of sand, every shiny rock, slick with dew, held false promise of frogs.  The day had been horribly hot, near 90 degrees, and muggy.  As darkness set in, the night grew comfortably cool, but the humidity remained.  It seemed like a good night for terrestrial amphibians.  

Eastern Spadefoot

Something small and reflective scuttled past my shoe.  Frog or Spider?  Bending down, I was delighted to find that the little creature was a narrow-mouthed toad (Gastrophryne carolinensis)—a species I had hoped we might find.  Plucking the toad from the earth revealed one of the smallest adult frogs I had ever seen.  It was scarcely bigger than a quarter with small, thin legs, a clay-colored back, and purplish sides and stomach.  Small-mouth toads are a wide ranging species, found in moist habitats and under cover across much of the southeastern United States.  As the group admired the little toad, another, larger frog was discovered—one I never imagined we would see.

My jaw dropped as someone brought over a medium-sized purplish-brown frog with enormous, luminous yellow eyes.  In Ohio, eastern spadefoot toads (Scaphiopus holbrookii) are extremely endangered, found in only a few southern counties where they are active during heavy rainstorms a few nights each year.  To see one here, in our campground, on a clear night, baffled me.  Eastern spadefoots occur throughout the coastal planes, only reaching Ohio at the extreme northern tip of their range.  In the south they can be downright common.  We found ten easily as they grumpily hopped through camp.  

Barking Treefrog

The third and most beautiful frog species of the night was also discovered on a whim.  I noticed the stunning green frog as we weaved between spiderwebs and branches.  It was poised motionless at the end of a stick like a glittering green stone.  I knew immediately it was a treefrog, but what species alluded me.  I later learned that the specimen we found was a barking treefrog (Hyla gratiosa), identifiable by its large size and granular skin.  The barking treefrog is another inhabitant of the coastal plains region where they can be quite common in wooded areas.  

Green Treefrog

By the end of the trip we would add the green treefrog (Hyla cinerea) and the pine woods treefrog (Hyla femoralis) to our list.  I can only imagine the amount of amphibian diversity we could see if we had spent more time searching for them.  Luck would have it that a former professor of Appalachian college was herping around our campsite.  The final night of our trip he brought over several jars full of native salamanders and a few snake species he had caught the night before.  I couldn't believe our luck.  I will definitely need to return to South Carolina in the future to seek out its more obscure herpetofauna.  

Pine Woods Treefrog

The following day, we woke early and packed ourselves back into the vans (thankfully we had only a short distance to drive).  We were in search of a rare and endangered species of woodpecker.  Dr. Miles pointed out a longleaf pine with two freshly painted white rings around its base.  The forest service had marked one of the bird’s nesting trees.  Now all we had to do was wait and listen. . .

Yellow Ratsnake

More soon.

Keep Living the Field Life.

Ohio Wildlife Legacy Stamp 2018

I am pleased to announce that my photograph of an eastern garter snake was chosen to be the Ohio Wildlife Legacy Stamp for 2018.  It will be featured on the ODNR website.  Sales for the stamp begin March 1, 2018.  

I never in my wildest dreams expected to write this post.  It all started one afternoon in late August 2017. I happened to be checking my Facebook feed (I know, I know); social media is often cast in a negative light, but for a wildlife enthusiasts like myself, it can be a god-send.  The group Herping Ohio has been one of my favorites for a while.  This Facebook group is an amazing collection of nearly 1,000 members interested in Ohio’s native reptiles and amphibians.  It unites both newcomers to the world of herps as well as seasoned veterans.  I have had the good fortune of interacting with many of its members both online and in person.  Scrolling through the group’s feed is a great way learn what others have seen around the state. It provides a necessary tool for building connections with other like-minded and passionate herpetologists.

I often start my mornings checking what ‘the gang’ has posted.  Everything from hog-nosed snakes to spadefoot toads to timber rattlesnakes have appeared in the lineup at one time or another.  It is a delight to share in the experience of discovery—if only through a screen.  Seeing other herpers spending their weekends out in the sweltering heat and pelting rain motivates me to get off the computer and get outside.  There are creatures to be found and photos to share.  Images span from slightly out-of-focus iPhone shots to professional grade photography.  In the end, it isn't the quality of the photo that matters, it’s the photo’s subject.  I often scroll through at high speed, reassuring myself that I can identify Ohio’s different herps at a glance.  

One Herping Ohio member shared a link that happened to catch my attention.  Without a photo of some interesting animal, I normally would have scrolled right past; but something about the post gave me pause. The link redirected to the Ohio Division of Natural Resources website with a short description above.

The original shot.

The caption read, “The subject of the 2017 Photo Contest is a native Ohio Snake!  The winning photo will be featured on the 2018 Ohio Wildlife Legacy Stamp.”  Had the contest subject been any other group of vertebrates I would have kept scrolling.  I would stand no chance in a bird photography competition.  It’s not that I don't like to photograph birds (in fact, I spend a ridiculous amount of my free time trying to chase down unusual bird species), it’s that everyone likes to photograph birds.  Thousands of Ohio birders (with much fancier cameras than my own) would quickly outcompete my best shots.

A snake contest, however, now that was interesting.  There are far less people who spend their time trying to photograph reptiles and amphibians compared to their avian counterparts.  For reasons I have never fully understood, herps do not hold the same appeal as twittering songbirds in the glaring eyes of the public.  I have spent much of my life trying to destigmatize the reputations of reptiles and amphibians.  In this case, however, Ophidiophobia would work in my favor.  

Another angle of the garter.

If initial fear isn't enough to scare off would-be photographers, getting down and dirty with a snake will often do the trick.  Snakes squirm, musk, and bite, often making for an unnatural shot and an unpleasant experience.  Some snakes can grow quite large and are difficult to corral into a suitable pose.  Others, like the pit vipers, can be downright dangerous.  Snakes are cryptic and flighty creatures, difficult to spot among the leaf litter and quick to disappear at the first sign of inquire.  They are a photographer’s worst nightmare in many aspects.

Luck would have it that at the time of this contest I would be in a unique position to photograph the diversity of Ohio snakes.  Working as a field tech on a box turtle study, most of my waking hours were spent in the woods.  My camera was perpetually slung around my neck—easy access in case a speedy racer (or my mythical ratsnake) appeared.  After photographing dozens of snakes that summer, I hoped one of my shots would be suitable.  I sorted through copperheads, foxsnakes, earthsnakes, and ring-neckeds.  The image I finally settled on was of an eastern gartersnake (Thamnophis sirtalis sirtalis).

Screenshot courtesy of ODNR.

I stumbled upon the snake in question one summer evening while out turtle tracking.  Stretched out like a branch on the forest floor, another field tech had stepped right over the frozen serpent without even realizing it.  Garters are a common species, and are infamously nippy and smelly when caught.  I am usually satisfied admiring them from a distance.  On a whim, I decided to catch the little guy and take a few photographs.

The garter was a healthy sized adult with a stunning yellow face and flanks.  Its dorsal stripes were broken up into black and blue checkerboard striations.  As I picked the snake up, it whipped around to glare defiantly at me.  I placed the little garter among the leaf litter where it coiled and tongue flicked.  I had just a few moments for photos before I had to return to work.  I never imagined how nicely the shots would turn out.  

Screenshot courtesy of ODNR.

Editing that night, I loved the way the snake’s colors popped on screen.  A yellow and blue body contrasted nicely with the snake’s sharp, blood-red tongue tinged with black.  Its eyes held an intense gaze fixed on my hand (out of frame) in front of it.  As the field season progressed, this image became buried beneath hundreds of others.  It only resurfaced when I began looking for the perfect shot to enter in the stamp contest.  

The Ohio Wildlife Legacy Stamp contest is an annual event featuring a different native Ohio creature each year (next year 2019 the subject will be Ohio owls).  These commemorative stamps are $15 with $14 out of every purchase going directly to conservation efforts (none of this money goes to me).  The proceeds support habitat restoration, keeping common species common, endangered and threatened native species, as well as education and research projects.  You can see and purchase the stamps HERE.  

As the contest rules instructed, I needed to print and mount my photo.  Being a college student with few art supplies and less loose cash, I recruited my mother and aunt to help me with the project.  Those two never shied away from a creative challenge.  When I was a kid, the three of us would spend days working on the various art projects I would dream up.  No endeavor was too mighty; my mom once spent over half a year constructing life-size paper mache coral reefs for my senior after-prom.  As kids, my aunt would design intricate halloween costumes for me and my brothers.

The three of us got straight to work, printing photos, buying supplies, measuring frames, and filling out application sheets.  We had a blast.  I never would have stood a chance without their help.  After submitting the photo, the wait began.  I didn't want to to get my hopes up, so I got on with class work (the homework of a biology student never seems to end).  

A few months into the semester, I received a call from Tim Daniel, a professional wildlife photographer for the ODNR.  It took me a moment to realize what he was calling about.  I was flabbergasted to here that my little eastern garter snake had won!  “It was a gorgeous photo and will make a beautiful stamp,” Tim told me.  It made my day.  I immediately called home to tell everyone the good news.  

I am incredibly honored that my photo was chosen for the stamp.  Knowing that my little garter will help fund conservation efforts is extremely gratifying.  My endless thanks go to my friends and family who have put up with my reptilian obsession over the years.  I couldn't have done this without your help.

My advisor Dr. Viorel Popescu was nice enough to write a short article about my stamp for Ohio University.  Check it out HERE!

My Nemesis

Every wildlife watcher has a nemesis.  That species that proves elusive despite persistent  efforts to find it.  Birders speak of theirs in hushed tones, “Everyone and their grandmother had a picture! I drove two hours, hiked six, and never saw its dumb face.”  Herpetologists get glassy-eyed and distant, “Flipped every rock, every log—nothing.”  A nemesis captures the imagination in a way that other species don’t.  Each evasion feels like a personal slight.  It sparks an obsession, a lifelong quest to see what so many—or so few—have seen.  A nemesis is the creature that keeps you up at night.  It haunts your dreams with imagined delight or insufferable escape.  It resides in the recesses of your mind every time you leave the house.  Optimists hold perpetual hope: maybe tomorrow, maybe tomorrow; pessimists shake their heads: never, never.
 

I admit, I have been on both ends of the spectrum.  For as long as I can remember, the creature that has resided solely in my imagination is the gray ratsnake (Pantherophis spiloides).  In Ohio, it is more commonly referred to as the eastern or black ratsnake.  The herpers among you may be puzzled.  You may be asking yourself, “has this guy never been outside?”  Congratulations, you can understand my frustration at never having seen one.  The funny thing about ratsnakes is: they aren’t rare.  They are downright common.  Telling a snake enthusiast you have never seen a ratsnake is like telling a birder you have never seen a red-winged blackbird.  It’s like telling a mammalogist you’re dying to see a squirrel.  It’s like confiding in a cryptozoologist that you have seen exactly the same number of ratsnakes as bigfoots. 

Let me clarify.  I have seen black ratsnakes in captivity.  During high school, I volunteered with the Cleveland Metroparks, handling the same big female ratsnake, Olive, every Saturday for four years.  I can honestly say (with volunteer hours as proof) that I have spent more time with that ratsnake than with many people I claim as friends.  Black ratsnakes sparked my fascination with Ohio reptiles and amphibians.  Not only are they our biggest native snake (growing up to 8 feet), but they are also incredibly docile.  I allowed people of all ages to interact with Olive, and she never bit or acted aggressively towards anyone.  I am proud to say she captivated hundreds of visitors, including myself.  

We kept other species of snakes, turtles, and frogs at the nature center, but Olive was what always brought me back.  I often found myself transfixed by her beauty and elegance as she slowly pulled herself up the branches in her tall, rectangular enclosure (essentially a specially designed fish tank turned on its side).  Children would huddle around Olive for hours, examining her bright round eyes, laughing at the flicks of her tongue, and remarking at the smoothness of her scales.  I never missed the chance to introduce a cautious family or an excitable grandmother to our friendly resident rat.  I watched as fear always gave away to curiosity and then joy.  It was uplifting how this seemingly unlovable creature could melt the hearts of so many.  

Ratsnakes are nonvenomous members of the colubrid family (containing most of North America's harmless serpents).  They are true constrictors, feeding on mice, rats, frogs, eggs, and anything else small enough for them to catch.  Natural climbers, ratsnakes are as likely to be found in the canopy as they are in the rafters and boards of barns, sheds, and decks.  Their affinity for human habitation has resulted in their pointless persecution by fearful homeowners. Ratsnakes are mild-tempered, striking only in self defense.  They directly benefit us by keeping disease-carrying rodents in check. 

So began my quest to find a wild ratsnake.  I scoured what seemed like every inch of the metroparks, turning up garter snakes, watersnakes, turtles, frogs, owls, beavers, raccoons, herons, etc.  Everything but a black ratsnake.  During my searches, I fell in love with the other creatures of the forest.  I learned to identify the songbirds and recorded all the wildflowers I could find.  I photographed and kept field notes; I talked and shared experiences with naturalists and visitors.  All the while my eyes and ears were tuned to the slither of something larger, the glint of black scales.

I have many fond memories of camping with my father at Findley and Salt Fork State Parks.  We would hike the day away, exploring every nook and cranny for my phantom snake.  When our own searches didn't turn up a black rat, we joined the Northern Ohio Association of Herpetologists.  In NOAH I met many experienced herpers and breeders and traveled to new locations around Ohio in search of the scaly and slimy.  Still no ratsnakes.  

Black ratsnakes occur throughout Ohio, but are more prevalent in the southern portion of the state.  When I got the chance to visit The Wilds, a large mammal conservation and breeding facility in Cumberland, Ohio, I felt certain the odds were in my favor.  I woke early each day to explore the campground.  On hikes, I bombarded the naturalist guides with questions about the serpents.  They informed me that ratsnakes were so plentiful they often had to stop their tour buses to move them off the road.  Safe to say I didn't find one.

On to college.  I often joke that I chose Ohio University 30% for the wildlife and conservation biology program and 70% to look for the reptiles around it.  Naturally, my first question for the OU Wildlife Club officers was “have you seen a ratsnake?”  “Yes” was the universal reply.  I felt confident.  I didn't have to find one immediately; I had time.  Between and after classes, every chance I got, I hiked up to The Ridges (OU’s old asylum and nature trails).  I spent hours exploring every trail and field until I knew them as well as any park I had ever visited.  No stinking ratsnakes.  I went on every hike and trip the club offered.  No ratsnakes.  Those two ominous words were beginning to work their way into my consciousness.  Never?  Never?

Then I got the opportunity of a lifetime: to be a field technician for a box turtle study.  I vividly remember telling Marcel, the master’s student conducting the study, “Ratsnakes are kind of my nemesis.”  “Oh, because they can be aggressive?” she asked.  To her utter surprise, I explained that it was because I had never found one.  “We’ll find one,” she assured me.  We laugh about this now.  A fellow wildlife enthusiast told me, “It’s funny you have seen timber rattlesnakes and spadefoot toads, but never a ratsnake.”  I assured him that the irony was not lost on me.  

To date I have never found a wild ratsnake.  I have seen half a dozen dead on the road.  I have seen and photographed ratsnakes found by other field technicians on other field projects (but animals in the lab don't really count).  We have found four foot black racers and box turtles to spare.  But no ratsnakes.  I had planned to write this post once I finally found my ratsnake, but this is somehow more fitting.  I don't doubt that I will one day find a black rat.  It will probably be a day like any other.  I’ll be out hiking, or road cruising, and our paths will finally cross.  I will check another lifer off my list.  It will be like any other encounter, but it will also be a moment to reflect upon.  I will stop, snake in hand, and breath a sigh of relief.  The search will be over.  

In many ways, however, the search will have just begun.  Ratsnakes, from their hidden realms, have influenced my life in a way no other creature has.  They sparked the passion that today defines me.  My drive to find these illusive serpents introduced me to the natural world.  My fruitless searches turned out to be quite the opposite.  I found creatures I had never dreamed of finding.  I learned to be patient, to accept defeat, and to keep trying. 

I will forever be an advocate for the voiceless and defenseless creatures of our world.  In particular the hard-to-love, the uncharismatic, the slimy, the scaly, and the potentially dangerous.  I hope to change the hearts and minds of people who would look upon a snake with distain, fear, or malice.  John Burroughs, an American Essayist, famously said, “You must have the bird in your heart before you can find it in the bush.”  If the same holds true for snakes then maybe tomorrow, maybe tomorrow. . .