Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Spring Amphibians


The rain started after midnight on March 11th.  The first night of warm spring rain.  Each year, this night marks an event of epic magnitude, the timing of which has been perfected by millions of years of evolution.  This night belongs to the amphibians.  Out in the woods, millions of frogs and salamanders descend on seasonally filled pools to fulfill a singular mission: to breed.

Unlike the long and drawn out migration season of birds, the movement of amphibian species that use vernal pools is more like an invasion.  In this area, this invasion consists of three main players, the Spring Peeper (Pseudacris crucifer), Wood Frog (Rana sylvatica), and Spotted Salamander (Ambystoma maculatum).  The first to sing in early spring are the Spring Peepers (one of these thumbnail-sized entrepreneurs was singing at 9:15 on a relatively warm night on my birthday, January 31st).  The Peepers are followed by perhaps a handful of early Wood Frogs, and finally, on the next warm, rainy night, by the much anticipated invasion of all three species to the woodland pools.

A gorgeous female Wood Frog  

The day after the rain I was out at the largest of the four vernal pools in the woods at my home on Honey Branch Farm.  At this time of year, I can hear the amphibian chorus from my house, more than a quarter-mile away.  As young children, my siblings and I cleverly named this pool the “Woods Pond,” and were well aware of its springtime inhabitants.  I’m happy to say that, fifteen years later, I again find myself thigh-deep in the same pond, albeit carrying an expensive camera instead of a cheap dip net.  The rain that had started the night before had just slowed to a drizzle.  After they grew bored with my presence, the Wood Frogs’ and Spring Peepers’ singing quickly rose back to a deafening chorus.  Spring at last!

A spectating Wood Frog

Wood Frog egg masses


In the two hours I spent wading in the pond and taking pictures, I failed to see any evidence of Spotted Salamanders.  So at sunset, I hopped in the car and headed about ten minutes north to the Sourland Mountains, where dozens of vernal pools decorate the forest floor among the diabase boulders.  Early Spring is one of the few times these largely sub-terrestrial salamanders can be seen above ground, as thousands of individuals converge on these pools from the surrounding woodlands, crossing whatever barriers that stand in the way of their natal pools.

A male Spotted Salamander crossing a road in the Sourlands.  
Roads are the cause of a large number of amphibian deaths 
during their spring migrations to vernal pools.

At the pools, the salamanders were already hard at work.  Dozens of salamanders were in the water, lazily walking across the pool bottom and looking quite prehistoric.  These giants of eastern amphibians have converged here from the surrounding woodlands, the males arriving well before the females, gathering in so-called congresses near the center of the pool.  Their spermatophores, packets of sperm that resemble white bird droppings, had been deposited in clusters on top of the submerged leaf litter.  When the larger females arrive, they are courted by the males, whose displays involve nudging and swimming in circles around their prospective mates.

A male Spotted Salamander resting on the bottom of the pool

The salamanders, Spring Peepers, and Wood Frogs put on a terrific show – one amorous male Wood Frog even attempted to hold a male Spotted Salamander in amplexus, much to the salamander’s annoyance.  The night was spectacular.  I crawled into bed at 2:00am. 

A much larger female Spotted Salamander on her way to the pool

The Vernal Pool Strategy:
When you’re an amphibian in the vernal pool business, arriving early counts.  Early arrivals can claim the best real estate, call for mates longer, and breed and lay eggs sooner, all of which improves the chances that they will reproduce and give their offspring adequate time to develop.  However, for exothermic amphibians that are at the mercy of ambient temperatures, early activity also means risking exposure to sub-freezing temperatures.  Without freeze-safe adaptations, punctuality would be suicide.  For Spotted Salamanders (Ambystome maculatum), that simply means staying underground below the frost line until the time is right.  Wood Frogs (Rana sylvatica) and Spring Peepers (Pseudacris crucifer), however, have an adaptation that allows them to be more opportunistic: Just before freezing, fast-acting enzymes convert the glycogen that had been stored in the frog’s liver into glucose in the bloodstream.  The glucose spreads throughout the frog’s body and, like the antifreeze in a car, lowers the freezing temperature and protects the individual cells from rupturing.  It makes good sense, then, that in some spring-breeding amphibians, liver glycogen accumulates in the fall in anticipation of sub-zero winter temperatures, and decreases again after the breeding season in spring.  This handy adaptation allows these frogs more leeway for trial and error.

The reliance of many amphibians on vernal pools is probably largely a result of one important characteristic: aquatic habitats that remain filled for only a portion of the year lack some of the potential predators of amphibians and their eggs and developing larvae.  While predators still exist in the vernal pool environment, the risk of predation is presumably greatly reduced.

Sunday, February 17, 2013

Owling in Rosedale Park


I’m not sure why, but this winter, I’ve been psyched for the owls.  In truth, I hadn’t had the patience for owls in previous winters.  I liked owls just fine, but my interest in going out in the cold and searching conifer stands for a single bird just wasn’t there.  I’ve only made a few excursions exclusively for owls, and most involved written directions to the bird’s precise location.  Winter wasn’t the time to waste hours in a pine grove for the small odds of seeing an owl.  Winter was the time to visit the marsh to spy on dabbling Shovelers and Gadwalls, or the grasslands to spot lingering Meadowlarks and visiting Harriers, or the Jersey shore to risk your life and your optics on a slippery jetty to see Harlequin Ducks and Razorbills.

I have no shame in admitting that I’m easily trained, and a little positive reinforcement can go a long way.  So when I went owling with my girlfriend and two friends, the success of finding the Saw-whet we were looking for made me an instant convert.  Suddenly everything that was awful about owling seemed like a charm; the monotony, the challenge, and then the reward of finding what you had been searching for. 

This is how this morning, several weeks later, I found myself in a dense stand of Eastern Red Cedar in Rosedale Park, following a well-worn deer path and scanning the surrounding forest floor for white-wash and pellets.  On my way to this cedar stand I nearly stepped on a pellet, although this one did not belong to an owl.  Two pellets and a few white wash stains littered the ground below a thin tree leaning over the trail.  The trail runs alongside the Stony Brook, which has swelled several feet and was flowing briskly from the past several days’ snowmelt. 

An intact pellet, possibly belonging to a Belted Kingfisher 

The pellets were incredibly delicate; as I was dissecting them they would crumble with the slightest contact.  The contents consisted exclusively of the chitinous exoskeletons of crayfish and the bones of small fish; based on the roost tree’s proximity to the water and the size and contents of the pellets, they presumably belonged to a Belted Kingfisher.

Pellet contents

As I was searching the cedar stand I would occasionally come across a pellet, once or twice with some white wash; each time I would look up eagerly into the tangle of branches for the creature that expelled them.  Then there was a row of about 6 flecks of white wash.  Two pellets.  I looked up.  Two big, yellow eyes stared back.  These peepers belonged to a brown bird the size of a Guinea pig, staring down at me the way a frightened cat would stare daggers at a strange dog in the house.  This was the Northern Saw-whet Owl.

Northern Saw-whet Owl staring down from its day roost

My camera had died earlier while photographing some scat loaded with fishing lures, and refused to take another picture.  Hoping that warming it would give it some more life, I removed the battery, unzipped my coat, and held it in my armpit.  Thirty seconds of warming allowed me to snap a single photo, so I put it back under my arm.  I noticed a thin, leaning neighboring cedar that looked as though it might offer a vantage point from which to photograph the owl at its height.  After about five minutes, I replaced the warmed battery into the camera.  I didn’t know if the warming trick would work again, but I didn’t want to test it in fear of losing the last bit of charge.  So I started climbing.  The roots and thin trunk cracked in protest as I ascended, and with each crack the tree would bend a little more.  When I got to the crown of the tree about 20 feet up, the top of the trunk was bent nearly horizontal.  I balanced on the last branches large enough to support my weight, and slowly stood.  The scrawny tree swayed in the breeze.  My legs shook.  With one hand on a needly twig for stability and the other on the camera, I managed to shoot nearly a dozen photos before the battery died completely.

Northern Saw-whet Owl

Friday, February 15, 2013

Dedication

On the inside, I'm the same kid today as I was at age nine, exploring the outdoors with a pair of binoculars and a nature journal.   I know there are more of those kids out there, and it is to these young explorers of the outdoors that I dedicate these pages, although I hope it will be read and enjoyed by all.