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by Ryan Morra

SpottedSalamander800x600April showers bring more than May flowers, and birds aren’t the only creatures producing fantastic choruses in the springtime. While birders will set their alarms for 5:00am in order to catch the rainbow of spring migrants arriving in Vermont, herpetologists – that is, aficionados of amphibians and reptiles – will spend the wee hours of the night up to their knees in muck and water to glimpse the bizarre courtships of frogs and salamanders.

Rain and warmth sets the stage for the drama. Just last week, the temperatures began rising above 50°F and light rains were predicted to start around 7:00pm on Tuesday night. Every herper in the Champlain Valley was on alert. Sure enough, the rains came, and my friends and I descended upon Shelburne Pond, where dozens of others, from child to adult to childlike adult, had also gathered in hopes that this would be a “Big Night,” as we say in herp lingo.

Nearly all amphibians need to keep their skin moist, so they won’t venture out of their over-wintering huddles in the forest until a good rain soaks the leaf litter. The spring snowmelt and rains fill in woodland depressions, creating temporary water bodies – or “vernal pools” – a perfect place for laying eggs without being eaten by fish. Spotted salamanders, blue-spotted salamanders, and wood frogs are the earliest breeding amphibians in Vermont. They will travel up to hundreds of feet from their forest dwelling to court, mate, and lay eggs in these predator-free pools.

Pond Road is a hotspot for viewing amphibians migrating to vernal pools. While these migrations are happening in forests all over Vermont, when a road bisects the forested and wetland areas, it provides an easy way to spot these intrepid travelers. All you need is a good flashlight, rain jacket, and rubber boots.

The chorus of spring peepers was almost deafening in some spots along Pond Road, but in the background we could also hear the clattering of wood frogs, enraptured in their eccentric courtship, known as “amplexus.” The smaller males grab a female from behind (holding on is easy due to his enlarged thumbs) and deposits his sperm as she lays her eggs (if he is the chosen one, of course). In the confusion of the darkness, males will sometimes grab each other in amplexus, in which case the male’s body will vibrate intensely as a way of saying “hey, hands-off me!” You can simulate this effect by holding a male in your hands and very gently squeezing on his sides.

Some spotted salamanders, which are almost cartoon-like in their bulky size and large yellow spots, were still engaging in their own stunning mating orgy in a vernal pool down the road. Male spotted salamanders gather in groups to perform for the females by writhing around each other, bobbing their heads under one another’s tails, and clumping into huge twisting masses known as “congresses.” If a female spots a male she likes, she will accept the offer of his spermatophores (little capsules of sperm bundled together) and take them up into her cloaca. She will then find a nice twig submerged in the water and deposit her fertilized eggs around it.

This was probably one of the last glimpses of spotted salamanders in their group mating, as the window for catching this is narrow, and confined mostly to early spring. Like many other migratory phenomena, amphibians stagger their movement and calling during the season. In higher elevations, you may still see the spotted and blue-spotted salamanders and wood frogs. We realized that last week wasn’t quite a Big Night, because we were right in the middle of two major breeding periods. The cold-tolerant species were finishing up, and the temperatures weren’t quite warm enough for the next round of breeders.

But right now in the Champlain Valley, I am keeping my ears alerted for the low knocking sounds of northern leopard frogs (so called because of their dark spots outlined with a light halo), the high buzzing of gray treefrogs, the deep humming of the American bullfrog, and the singular “gulp!” of the green frog.

Beginning in late May and into early June – look for little tadpoles and tiny gilled salamanders to start swimming around in these ponds. Their challenge is to mature and head for the woods before the pools dry up with the summer heat.

In the meantime – Happy Herping!

Get to know your frog calls at: http://www.pwrc.usgs.gov/frogquiz/

Learn about Vermont’s Reptiles and Amphibians, and submit your findings: http://community.middlebury.edu/~herpatlas/index.html

Herping-in-the-night

Herping in the night.

Ryan Morra is a jack-of-all-trades and soon-to-be Master of Science when he completes the Ecological Planning program this May. He is a high school science teacher, polyglot, cyclist, and forever-developing naturalist with a particular pull towards hepetofauna these days. 

 

Fir Waves

by Gus Goodwin

Fir_Small

The author finding the ideal balance between proximity and appreciation of fir waves on Mt. Katahdin.

I suspect there is a positive correlation between one’s appreciation for fir waves and one’s distance from them.  From a distance, fir waves etch a pleasing pattern on the landscape, pose interesting ecological questions, and remind us that turmoil can be a form of stability.  Up close, they inflict scrapes and puncture wounds, incite expletives, and remind us to plan the next vacation to California, where the mountains have no trees (and it hardly ever rains).

For now, let’s keep a respectful distance.  Fir waves are a pattern of forest regeneration (sometimes also described as wave-regeneration) found in sub-alpine forests.  Unlike more familiar disturbances, such as micro-bursts or insect outbreaks, fir waves leave a striking pattern of mortality—dead trees lying in a network of undulating rows separated by patches of living trees.

As the name implies, this phenomenon affects forests dominated by fir (locally, Balsam Fir, Abies balsamea).  However, despite the fact that the forest is nearly a monoculture of fir, the forest between the waves of dead trees is far from uniform.   The diagram below depicts the linear, predictable variation in age and height in a forest experiencing wave regeneration.  To understand the forces that drive them, we’re going to have to grit our teeth, roll down our sleeves, and wade in. Continue Reading »

Lessons from Snow Geese

by Liz Brownlee

SnowGeeseBeating wings fill my view. The snow geese are stark white, and the black tips of their wings pulse in contrast with their bodies. Hundreds – no, thousands – of these meaty birds move in unison. They squawk and honk, thousands of calls melting into an urgent and persistent roar.

At least that’s what I envisioned.

I had never seen snow geese, but I set out confidently to find the birds. I wanted to feel the wind from a thousand birds taking off at once. I wanted to feel their thunderous calls in my chest.

Greater snow geese move in large groups as they migrate, and they often stop in Vermont farm fields to feed on leftover grain in spring and fall.  I assumed that finding a few thousand large, white, honking geese would be an easy task. I was wrong.

I checked for the geese at the Dead Creek Wildlife Management Area in Addison, where they often stop to feed, but left empty handed. A news report I found explained that the snow geese had largely abandoned Vermont fields in exchange for New York fields, so I drove through rich farmland west of Lake Champlain. But I could not find a single bird at any of their usual haunts.

Continue Reading »

The Tangle Test

Bobcat5by Clare Crosby

There are many ways to rate a day. Perhaps you determine a day’s merit by how many to-do items you’ve crossed off, how many hours you spent outside, how many friends you ran into around town. My personal favorite rating system is the tangle test. By this measure, the best days leave me with bits of the field tangled in my braid as I untwist it in the evening.

Take February 20th, so good I couldn’t even wait until evening to untangle the mess and try to force my hair back into some semblance of order. As our van pulled away from the LaPlatte River Natural Area in Shelburne, my fingers battled a bird-worthy nest of twigs. Apparently that’s what happens when I, in true naturalist form, try to be a bobcat.

Professor Matt Kolan explained to our wildlife management class that simply following an animal’s trail as long as you can is one of the best ways to learn about wildlife behavior and habitat needs. Beyond just knowing which animals are present, you begin to piece together stories of how they use particular habitat features or interact with other animals.

Continue Reading »

By Kelly Finan

__________

Rattle my bones

Dripping with cultural history and utterly unique, the objects cradled in Connor Stedman’s excited hands burned with sentimental value. Their glow reflected in Connor’s eyes and didn’t flicker for an instant upon the delivery of my first question.

“So, what are they?”

To the untrained eye, they were two pieces of wood roughly the size and shape of tongue depressors, but slightly heftier and square at the ends. Connor explained it was a set of bones: A historically Irish one-handed musical instrument that is played by holding one bone stationary while rattling the other bone against it.

connor

While the traditional instrument was made from sheep’s bones, Connor’s version originated as the South American tree palo santo, or “holy wood” in Spanish. Palo santo’s use as a good luck charm and a cleanser of bad energy dates back to the Inca era. Connor says that he’s never heard of another pair of bones made from palo santo.

Connor carved his bones in anticipation of a local visit by Irish bard Gerry Brady, who described bones as “the only instrument you can play with a pint in the other hand”. Gerry blessed this set of bones himself.

Dripping with cultural history and utterly unique, Connor had produced an item that was quintessentially Connor. I was pleased to find that I was not the only Field Naturalist with a very special item in my backpack.

Lovin’ spoonfuls

The “What’s in your Backpack?” project began with an orange spoonfork. No, not a spork. “Spork” implies tiny tongs on the end of a spoon. My beloved spoonfork has a spoon on one end of the handle and a fork on the other.

kelly

The spoonfork lives in my backpack for the obvious reason: It is saving the ocean. Continue Reading »

Trapped Under the Ice

by Claire Polfus

ice

Staying warm in the winter is hard. Chickadees eat constantly in order to survive long, cold winter nights. Squirrels spend precious time and energy creating complex insulated nests. Deer browse on nutrient-poor twigs to get as many calories out of their surroundings as possible. Yet compared to fish and other aquatic organisms, terrestrial wildlife breathe easy – literally. As fish battle the cold through the long winter, they are steadily running out of oxygen.

Life underwater would be impossible without a unique characteristic of water: its solid form is less dense than its liquid form. In other words, ice floats.  As air temperatures plummet in the fall, ice forms on the tops of lakes and ponds and stays there. In deep lakes, the temperature under the ice remains above freezing and allows fish and other aquatic organisms to remain active.

However, the same ceiling of ice that allows aquatic life to persist causes one of the main problems for fish in winter. When fish respire through their gills, they absorb oxygen that has been dissolved into the water through two main mechanisms. Aquatic plants produce oxygen during photosynthesis, and waves and currents mix oxygen from the air with surface water. When the surface of the water is frozen in place, both mechanisms stall.

Continue Reading »

Orion Rising

by Joanne Garton

orionWe all have our routines, those mental checklists we complete to make sure that our day will run smoothly. Some are entirely rational, others seem almost ridiculous, but all are part of what makes our own worlds go around. One of my self-affirming habits each winter evening is to look for Orion, to make sure that his giant frame is poised for battle in the night sky as he has been since the ancient Greeks raised his mortal body into the heavens almost 3,000 years ago.

Orion’s nighttime traverses actually began long before the Homer immortalized his character in The Iliad. The configuration of the constellation has been visible from Earth for about 1.5 million years and should stay recognizable for about 1 to 2 million more years. Ultimately, the stars will rotate within our galaxy and change their relative positions to each other, as well as to Earth. In the current wintertime sky, Orion routinely rises in the south to southeast at sunset, big and broad, early enough to entertain those of us who aren’t night owls. Betelgeuse, the supergiant that is his right shoulder, is by far the reddest object on the dark horizon and holds the allure that it may explode at any moment, collapsing under its own weight and rebounding into fiery supernova glow. The odds that this impressive event will occur tonight are “astronomically small,” but it is always worth another look.

Continue Reading »

Reflections

By Matt Cahill

Sundogs over Huntington, Vermont.

My third-floor office is a commanding venue for a nap.  Reclined in a worn swivel chair with my unsheathed feet stacked on the heat grates, I slip into my best unproductive hours.  When my eyes deign to open, the scenery is ripe for a Chamber of Commerce brochure.  The golden chapel domes and brown brick mortar of the university sit regal and prim before the white speckled ribs of New York and the glass pool of Champlain.  It’s plain lovely.  Especially on biting cold mornings, near 10:00, when some change of guard ushers students out from every academic pore to wade the gray salty paths to their next nook.  It’s one vain pleasure up in my aerie, watching without sympathy the cold scholars scurry.

New Englanders are a bundled bunch this time of year, thick in flannel and knitting, under scarf and hood, huddled up and looking down.  They don’t glance up or over or about.  I’m of course the same when I’m between doors.  At those blistering and miserable moments I’m not concerned with scenery or smells; I’m concerned with thawing my fingertips and eyelashes.  But one small pearl of wisdom I’ve learned up in my sanctuary, watching the poor, huddled masses, yearning to be warm, is that those bitter winter mornings are the perfect hours to stop and look up.

Muggy summer sunsets are swell and soft spring dews lovely, but winter skies are epic.  They are also easily missed, so fixated are we on being anywhere but outside lounging with our eyes lilted poetically skyward.  Try it on some clear day, preferably close to sunrise or sunset.  Bundle up and find one wide view, sprinkle with mountain scenery to taste.  You need only a cursory dose of luck too, since your quarry is not rare.   You’ll be set to find nature’s own smoke-and-mirrors light show. Continue Reading »

Icy Romance

By Bryan Pfeiffer

During this arctic grip on Burlington, when almost anything outside seems to groan or crunch or crack, when the cold itself seems evil, a drama begins each morning in frigid waters off Perkin’s Pier. In Lake Champlain, Common Goldeneyes are getting hot.

These perky ducks bob and dive, lunge and flutter, cavort and compete. Nearly four months before our woods will glow with a rainbow of migrating songbirds, Common Goldeneyes are already courting – proof that icy water doesn’t necessarily put a chill on carnal desire.

The male does most of the strutting and gyrating. One of his signature moves is the “head-throw-kick.” While paddling near females, he’ll thrust his head forward for a moment, then jerk it backwards so that his nape touches his rump and his bill points skyward. Finally, he utters a weird grating call and whips his head forward while kicking water outward with his feet.

This is a genuine turn-on for female goldeneyes. Continue Reading »

Considering Crows

By Nancy Olmstead

I stopped running because I was surrounded by hundreds of crows.  It was dusk on the bike path along Lake Champlain.  Great masses of crows were flying in from the east to roost on the cottonwood trees along the shore.  They fed on sumac fruits along the train track; they mobbed the tree-tops and hop-flew from one twig to the next; they perched all over the bare branches of the trees.  In the light of the setting sun, their black feathers shone glossy and strong.  More kept arriving almost continuously from the east, flying in over the barge canal.  As they flew in they gave these weird, multiple-part calls, not at all like the usual “caw-cAW-CAW!”  What were they saying and why were they gathering here?

Crows get a bad rap: harbingers of death, marauding pranksters, cunning gang of villains.  But they are ubiquitous, precocious, smart, social, and we get to see them.  So many other birds skulk in the bushes, maddeningly out of sight.  Crows are in your face, and never more so than when they are forming a winter roost.  I’ve seen two of these big, dense roosts lately: the one on the Burlington bike path and one in downtown Portland, Maine, in a couple of scrawny trees sandwiched between a large parking garage and one of the city’s busiest streets.  The city lights and traffic created a strange juxtaposition with the murmur of this great mass of wild creatures.

Ornithologists have several hypotheses for why crows roost together in fall and winter (during the breeding season, crows do not form large roosts).  The idea that makes the most sense to me is that crows seek safety in numbers.  Great horned owls are a crow’s night-time enemy; if an individual crow joins a large roost, it reduces its risk of becoming owl lunch.  Fear of predation could also explain why roosting crows jostle for position – no one wants to be sitting exposed at the edge of the pack. Continue Reading »

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