A special evening, part II

It really isn’t much to look at—that old farm pond on the top of the hill. Most summers it goes completely dry—the only water, rainwater and runoff from the small grassy ring surrounding it. Muskrats have moved into the banks, painted turtles bask in the summer sunshine, but with another “real” pond so close, this relative puddle seems unnecessary.


We’d thought, in fact, about flattening it several years ago—running a bulldozer across it several times would’ve given us a lovely expanse of field here.
Instead, we have what is probably the county’s greatest population of spring peepers—and a snarled mat of grasses lining a basin of cool water where a mockingbird regularly enjoys his afternoon bath.

A warm night rain falls here, following a day of unusual spring warmth—70 degrees. The ground has become an enormous sponge, saturated and oozing mud from countless mole holes erupting in the softened earth. Boot-sucking mud on a cloud-thickened night.

Unlike the murky clay-painted water in the big pond, this little pool is clean and clear. Squatting at the rim, my boots barely pressed into the soft edge growth, I can scan the bottom easily with the beam from my flashlight. It is brown and still. The only motion--drops of rain sprinkled across the black surface. They must not be here—the salamanders I’d hoped to find--tonight.

My ears ring with the thousand voices of spring—each little male peeper clinging to his water-level perch in his 4 by 4 inch world. They call incessantly, not concerned that I sit inches away, watching. Waiting.

My study pool is not this one.
I’ve stopped here only to immerse myself in the deafening sounds of so many, before walking deeper into the woods. And wonder if I’ve fooled myself into hoping salamanders will be here at all, in this area so rapidly changing.

Amphibians are an indicator of the environment’s health. Their permeable skins so susceptible to the toxins we spread on the earth, their breeding sites, the wetlands, disappearing daily, a maze of heavily-trafficked roads between them and their breeding pools.
Mole salamanders live solitary lives in total darkness, tunneling underground except for this brief period of nighttime migration to breeding areas—vernal pools. They are seldom seen except in early spring.
And never by me.

The rain has become heavier now, my jacket’s waterproof claim being tested—and failing. I can feel tomorrow’s cooler weather approaching in my chilled fingers. As I stand to return to the house, my flashlight beam catches the misty warmth of my breath.

On the berm behind me, he marches slowly forward in the wet grass.
A spotted salamander.
He has come home.
And behind him, nine more!

Spotted Salamander, Ambystoma maculatum
March 3, 2008
Butlerville, Ohio

Jefferson's Salamander, Ambystoma jeffersonianum
March 3, 2008
Butlerville, Ohio.