The calls of cricket frogs greeted us as we walked down the banks to the creek below. The little frogs were common along the edge of the water up and down the creek, and their choruses of “grick-grick-grick” started up several times during our walk, from several dozen tiny frog throats. Cricket frogs are among the commonest critters at my favorite creek.
Casey, Shelsea and I walked downstream, soaking in the experience and the creek water, listening to cricket frogs and looking for a turtle or watersnake to show up in the pools and riffles of this shallow creek. I also thought I would catch a few fish in my net, taking a good look at the mosquitofish and maybe see a black-striped topminnow. If we were lucky, we could see ghost shrimp. At least, I’d seen ghost shrimp in the Clear Fork of the Trinity River near Benbrook Lake, where Nic Martinez had netted several of the nearly transparent little crustaceans. He had also netted water scorpions, a slender aquatic bug (literally bugs, in the order Hemiptera, probably in the genus Ranatra) with a breathing tube at the back and strong grabbing front legs reminiscent of the praying mantis.
We didn’t see water scorpions or ghost shrimp, but we did see a couple of spiders worth noting. One was what I’m presuming was a long-jawed orb weaver, legs gathered together under a sycamore leaf.
The other was a little terrestrial spider I’ve seen scampering among the limestone rocks at Mary’s Creek since I was a teenager. They hug the rocks closely and scamper under cover if disturbed. I’ve never identified them, but I bet one of my spider-loving friends can put a name to this critter, despite the fairly fuzzy photograph I took.
Meanwhile, I wasn’t seeing mosquitofish (Gambusia affinis) like I ordinarily do, and I really don’t see the beautiful little black-striped topminnow (Fundulus notatus) much any more. We did see lots of sunfish (Lepomis sp.) and small bass (Micropterus sp.) in deeper pools. Here and there, a scooped out “bowl” of clean gravel showed us where sunfish were nesting.
The fish that were most common appeared to have been shiners, in the genus Notropis. Some appeared to be spot-tailed shiners, but the one I photographed had no black spot at the base of the caudal fin so it will, for now, be a mystery (Nic?). What I do know is that these fish swim in small schools of six or eight or a dozen, and they stay near the bottom (as opposed to the mosquitofish and topminnows which are, well, “topminnows,” feeding on things at the surface of the water).
For a herpetologically-inclined person such as me, the reptiles and amphibians command the most attention. And among the limestone rocks near the water, Shelsea spied a beautiful little western ribbonsnake (Thamnophis proximus) and said “snake!” – instantly getting my attention. It was small enough to be this year’s baby, about ten inches of slender little stripes. The ribbonsnake darted under rocks, emerged somewhere else, and stayed just ahead of us. When the snake plunged into a mass of sticks and flood debris, we gave up the chase. Quite often while you are taking apart the pile of debris, the snake makes an unseen exit where you are not looking. We settled for the glimpses we had of this tiny reptile.
I don’t see these snakes as much as I did in the 1960s, when they outnumbered the watersnakes. I don’t know why this is, because those cricket frogs we saw everywhere are a principal prey item for the snakes. Something apparently isn’t working as well as it used to for ribbonsnakes at the creek, but I don’t know what it is.
(I’m writing about some of these outings at www.livesinnature.wordpress.com. I want to write about how time spent in nature affects us, including its effects on stress and attention. If you’d like to “listen in” or, for that matter, participate in the discussion, please look at “Lives In Nature.”)
The first day of June seems like the first day of summer, and today it definitely felt like summer. The temperatures topped 90ºF today with humidity above 40%, and the lens of my camera fogged as soon as I took the lens cap off. But it turned out to be a great day to take some photos of a young person photographing a snake. I had that in mind as a possible cover photo for my book that’s working its way through the publication process at Texas A&M University Press.
Readers who want to learn about the
natural history of reptiles and amphibians will find, in that book, plenty of
vignettes of snakes, turtles, frogs, and other herps living their daily lives.
In the process, they will read about how they eat, how snakes move, the
adaptations of American Alligators for aquatic life, how Marbled Salamanders
lay eggs in just the right places, anticipating spring rains, and so on. Later
chapters talk about how readers can go into the field and find these animals,
along with some cautions about getting guided practice and experience in order
to stay safe. Although I think the book is practical and well-researched, there
are places where I try to describe how a day spent in the field can make you
feel. The book is full of objective facts, but I hope the subjective
experience, the beauty and sense of peace, shine through.
At any rate, my goal this morning was to get a photograph of a young lady doing what field herpers do: photographing some stunning creature. My luck is not the kind where you just go and hope you find something; I brought along a trusty Great Plains Ratsnake, “Lucky” by name, as a photographic subject. If you watched the TV interview with me about the book, Herping Texas, on the College Station PBS affiliate, you have seen Lucky. I brought her along to give the camera something to focus on much more telegenic than the co-author! And today, she posed nicely and stayed put while I took several photos of Embry photographing her. Embry remained cool and poised while the temperatures rose and I wiped the condensation off the camera lens. It was truly like a sauna out there.
The rest of our walk included lots
of butterflies. Embry’s mom and I identified Tiger Swallowtails and a Common
Buckeye, along with the smaller sulphurs and a Pearl Crescent. Not all the
invertebrates were as welcome as these butterflies; the black-and-red paper wasps
(a species in the genus Polistes, I
believe) were very active today. I did my best to advocate for them, saying that
they really didn’t want any trouble, and we walked past several without any
problems. Embry and I traded stories of childhood trauma involving
invertebrates – she with wasp stings and me with a tarantula.
At the marsh, we saw a young American
Alligator sunning itself on some broken remnants of a boardwalk, and we looked
for Green Treefrogs. These frogs make the night quite magical when a chorus of
male frogs is calling with their honking and quacking voices across the marsh.
During the day, they hang out quietly on vegetation and are usually well-camouflaged
and often not seen. However, Embry’s mom took the treefrog prize today, spotting
one of them snoozing away on the stem of a big reed. And while I took a so-so picture
of it, Embry’s was a much better photo. The treefrog was a highlight of a muggy,
hot, but wonderful morning walk. A big “thank you” to Marsha and Embry!
Increasingly, I wonder about how fellow Texans see the natural world, including the reptiles and amphibians of our state. Texas has 284 “taxa,” or – roughly speaking – “kinds” of these animals, according to the 3rd Edition of Amphibians & Reptiles of Texas (Dixon, 2013). They play important roles in ecological communities, as predators and prey, and their skin secretions and venoms have provided various medicines and are being explored for additional uses to treat cancer and other maladies. They also figure importantly in different cultures, from the myths and beliefs of indigenous people to the tall tales in J. Frank Dobie’s book, Rattlesnakes (1965). In other words, they have been significant in our world and, for some of us, in our lives. The relationships we have with these creatures, including fascination, fear, use and abuse, make an interesting story that ought to be told.
And, at least broadly speaking, they are declining. The global declines of various frog species are being matched by disappearances of turtle species. Various lizard and snake species are not faring much better. This makes our relationships with them even more important, because as the dominant species on the planet, what we do will make all the difference in the futures of many living things, including herps. How we value them and what (and whether) we think about them will make a huge difference in their future prospects.
To those Texans who have experiences, recollections, and opinions about the turtles, alligators, lizards, snakes, frogs, toads, and salamanders of our state: I am interested in talking with you to document your thoughts about these animals. I would like to talk with enough people to put together a picture of the reptiles and amphibians of Texas as seen through the eyes of Texans. I am not sure how this project might see the light of day, but in articles or other media, you could either remain anonymous or could be identified to the extent that you choose.
You do not have to be an expert, nor is it important whether you like reptiles and amphibians or dislike them. I want to talk to regular folks who have experiences and thoughts to share. I am not interested in talking about pet reptiles – my interest is in how people see the ones that live in the wild in our state. Unfortunately, I would not be able to pay you for your time, except in gratitude for what you can share.
I would come to you, or to a place that is workable for both of us, and we might talk for an hour or so. For those who don’t mind, I would record our conversation so that I can focus more on our discussion than on taking notes. Any such recording and any information about you personally would either remain private or be shared only to the extent that you give your permission.
In our meeting, I would ask some questions. I might ask about what kinds of turtles, snakes, frogs, and so on that you have seen and how your observations have changed over the years. I would probably ask what you think about these creatures, and whether you think people would notice if they were no longer here.
If this sounds interesting to you, please feel free to contact me and we can discuss whether you might want to contribute to this project.
I spend as much
time as I can in woods and prairies, or wading creeks and watching turtles slip
into the water or cricket frogs jump away as I approach. From my first
gartersnake in the early 1960s to now, I’ve spent a lot of time in the field,
looking for reptiles and amphibians. But that first gartersnake led to a sort
of addiction. Ribbonsnakes, watersnakes, box turtles, massasaugas – a list of
species that seemed ever-widening as I discovered more of the herpetological
That world expanded to more of the natural world when, as a young teenager, I spent some of the most valuable time of my life in a couple of Texas museums. I learned how my favorite animals were connected with other species, predator and prey. I learned about plant succession, symbiosis, food webs and the like, as we spent time in the field, patient teacher and eager learners like me, eyes opening to layer upon layer of the lives of forests and prairies, worlds within worlds.
It was as if my mentors and my experience in the field revealed a real and beautiful world to me. I waded in clear streams running along rocky bluffs, where map turtles basked on limestone boulders and little aquatic predatory larvae would transform into beautiful dragonflies soaring on cellophane wings. I learned about tallgrass prairies teeming with diverse plants and animals, adapted so that they required periodic fires and occasional grazing by bison in order to keep on being prairies and not be overrun by shrubs and trees. This seems to me to be the “real” world, while urban landscapes of steel and concrete are an alternate reality in which I may have to spend time, but never quite feel at home.
are more likely than most people to understand this “real” world and find
beauty in some things that others would overlook, or maybe be repulsed by.
Flipping tin to find snakes in the cool of the morning, we might think about
how ingeniously an ectothermic animal can make use of its surroundings to get
to the right temperature. The sun heats those sheets of corrugated tin and
might help get that racer up to speed and ready for a day of chasing down prey.
We could find a red-spotted gartersnake in Oregon and imagine the long-running
arms race these snakes have had with rough-skinned newts. The newts’ skin produces
a neurotoxin that is fatal to many animals and there is even a human fatality,
someone who is said to have swallowed the newt on a dare. That toxin that the
newt secretes from skin glands, tetrodotoxin, protects the newt from most
predators, but not from the red-spotted gartersnake. Perhaps early on the
tetrodotoxin killed some of the gartersnakes, but some with greater tolerance
for the poison survived. This new generation of snakes was more able to eat
most of the newts, but populations with stronger toxins were still protected,
and passed along their genes for more powerful secretions. And so it
progressed, with newts developing stronger toxin, followed by gartersnakes
developing greater resistance. Stories like this teach us so much about
predation, evolution, and survival. They continue to hook some of us into a
greater fascination and love for the natural world.
And so we go on hikes to look for reptiles and amphibians, and in the process may learn more about the living world around us. Successful searches depend on our understanding a few things about habitat, and we learn more about how an upland oak forest is different from a bottomland forest with its periodic flooding and rich soil. Finding herps depends on understanding a bit of their natural history, and so we learn to look in places favorable for shelter and prey, and we discover how a species’ activity can shift from daytime in the cooler spring and fall months to nighttime in the hot summer. Somewhere along the way, the natural world (which can seem foreign and exotic to some people) comes to feel like home.
That home is shrinking. What used to be a continuous mural of forests, plains, mountains, and deserts across the continent has been clipped into fragments and marked over until it is now a series of portraits and thumbnail images of what once was. A report from the Intergovernmental Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services (IPBES) says:
“Compared to pre- European settlement status, over 95 per cent of the tall grass prairie grasslands in North America … have been transformed into human-dominated landscapes. … over 50 percent of all wetlands in the United States have been lost since European settlement, with up to 90 per cent lost in agricultural regions.” (IPBES, p. 27)
Focusing in on herps in particular, the situation is very concerning. Amphibians are in decline globally, and similar declines in reptiles have been discussed for going on two decades (Gibbons, et al., 2000). Habitat loss and fragmentation, toxic pollution, invasive species, climate change, diseases, unsustainable use by humans, all these things are threatening herps and other species.
To borrow a movie (or book)
metaphor, it’s like The Neverending Story, in which a young boy reads a book telling
about a fantastic world that is being consumed by the “Nothing,” gradually
disappearing, bit by bit. Like in our world, where forests are cut, grasslands
ploughed, and the animals disappear along with the land. As Bastian reads, he
gradually discovers that by reading the book, he has entered the story, and has
become a character in it. And by going into the field, we have entered the
story, and we are a part of whatever happens to wild places and wildlife. What
can we do to fight the Nothing?
Among the things we can do
is to keep the remaining wild places as healthy as possible. This is important
not only in tracts of wilderness, but also in small local preserves. For
example, in a woodland we know that some herp species might be sheltering under
big loose sections of bark on dead trees. The easiest way to search would be to
pull those sections of bark off, but that would destroy a bit of microhabitat
that was used by lizards, snakes, and other animals. Once the bark is pulled
off, it cannot be put back. So maybe
it’s a big woods with a number of other dead trees, and it might seem like
we’re just doing something that is going to happen anyway, eventually as the
wood decays. But we probably don’t find what we’re looking for under the bark
of that first dead tree, so maybe we go on to the next one and peel the bark
off of it. Soon, we have done a lot of damage.
I would rather carry a small flashlight in the field and shine it into
such places, so I can see what is there without destroying the places where
these animals live.
“Rock-flipping” is a
time-honored, though back-breaking field herping practice. Big, flat rocks with
just the right amount of gap under them can be great places for herps to
shelter. The environment under them can be just right – they may gather the
radiant heat of the sun when needed but insulate against severe heat, and the
humidity will be a little higher than in exposed places. The easy way to flip a
rock is to simply turn it over and leave it there, but that destroys the “just
right” conditions under the rock. I am so thankful for those herpers to go out
of their way to re-position the rocks just like they were. Researchers
in Australia looked at whether herps used rocks that were left out of place and
found that they did not. A rock that had been carefully put back in its
original position was much more likely to be used by lizards and snakes. They
also found that the temperature and humidity were different under rocks that
had been moved by humans. A field of rocks that have been turned over and left
is the herp equivalent of a place that has been invaded by the Nothing.
Diseases are significant threats to
wildlife. Many of the well-known threats are fungal, like white-nose syndrome
that has killed millions of bats. More recently, snake fungal disease has
emerged as a significant disease in wild snakes, causing fungal lesions of the
skin and mouth. One of the biggest culprits in world-wide amphibian die-offs
are a couple of species of chytrid fungus. They attack the delicate skin of
frogs and salamanders, thickening the skin and harming its ability to exchange
gases and water. Field researchers working with amphibians have adopted protocols
to make sure they do not spread any such fungus, and we should consider some of
the same measures. We might, for example disinfect nets and other equipment as
well as the parts of boots that have gathered mud, before visiting a different
location. Bleach solutions work well for this.
You explore a hillside all
afternoon, being careful to pull rocks up just enough to look underneath, and
then put them back just like you found them. Under one of those rocks, you find
the most magnificent kingsnake! Its scales are a beautiful, glossy black, each
one with a little dab of canary yellow, speckled from head to tail. Do you pick
it up? Just take a photograph, or stare in quiet admiration? Or do you take it
home? Unlike birders, herpers get to pick up and hold many of their finds. In
many cases, perhaps with a hunting license or other permit, we can take
reptiles and amphibians home to keep in cages or terraria. Whether that is a
good thing is a long and complicated argument.
First, let me tell you about my
experience over the years. When I got started, I collected most of the reptiles
that I found. My parents accepted my hobby and helped me build cages, and I
brought home coachwhips, ratsnakes, box turtles, the occasional snapping
turtle, and others. Chances are, I did little harm to most of the populations –
I was just another predator, a two-legged boy taking a ribbonsnake rather than
a two-legged heron stabbing the snake with its long bill. Predation is a fact
of life for wild animals, and unless the predation is too high, the population
withstands it. (By the way, it is worth noting that collection by herpers is
just like being captured and eaten by a raccoon or hawk or other animal – the
herp is dead as far as the population is concerned.)
When increasing numbers of
collectors work over a small area, the losses can drive populations down in
that place. This is especially true for turtles, which mature slowly and live
long lives. A female turtle has to lay lots of clutches of eggs over her long
lifetime, because many eggs and young are killed and eaten, and only a few make
it to adulthood. This makes every adult box turtle or snapping turtle very
valuable. They have to stick around for a long time in order to contribute to
the population. Removing a box turtle takes away many years of reproductive
potential from the population. Being run over on the highways is a big threat
to turtle populations, but collection can harm them, too. In Connecticut, wood
turtles were studied both before and after an area was opened to hiking by
permit. The population of turtles was gone in ten years, likely because of
people who meant no real harm collecting them and taking them home (Internet:
Vermont Fish & Wildlife Dept.).
Over the years, I collected fewer
herps. This was partly because a large collection of reptiles demands a lot of
time and work if you care for them properly. It was also because I noticed that
a velvety-black coachwhip cruising gracefully through grassland and scrub loses
a lot of its magic once it is at home, in a box. As I came to appreciate them
more, I didn’t want to see them confined in a tiny area from which they would
gladly escape if they could (and on occasion they did). I learned more by just
watching, about how they moved and hunted when undisturbed. I remember watching
a watersnake periscope up and look around, and then take a leisurely swim
across the creek. I watched a racerunner lizard nervously make its way across
sand and grass with quick, jerky movements as if barely restraining its energy.
It grabbed an invertebrate to munch it down, and turned this way and that to
look for prey and watch for predators. More and more, these moments seemed more
valuable to me than chasing the herp down (maybe breaking the lizard’s tail in
the process) to collect it.
I don’t want you to think that I am
a purist who never captures anything. If it can be done without harming the
animal, I may capture it briefly and pose it for a photograph. I also think
that some collection of herps for scientific collections is justified – those
collections have increased our understanding of these animals greatly, and we
need scientific collections. But I found that I did not need much of a personal
What would I do with extra
animals kept at home, ones that I didn’t want to keep? I couldn’t (or shouldn’t
have) let them go, for several reasons. First, of course, I would never release
anything that was exotic. Quite often, something that isn’t adapted to the area
will simply die, but if it doesn’t, it can become quite a problem. I’d learned
about invasive exotic species, starting with the story of the cane toad,
introduced into Australia to control the cane beetle. Apparently the toad did
not help with that beetle, but it did eat lots of other things, adding extra
pressure on native wildlife. The toad’s toxic secretions were also a problem
for wildlife species that attempted to eat it, further harming local wildlife.
There are plenty of other stories of exotic wildlife that have gotten loose or
been released, such as in Florida.
Thinking about the problems
with spreading diseased like chytrid or snake fungal disease, I would not want
to release a native animal, either. Being collected is a source of stress, and
even if my local ratsnake was feeding and acting healthy, I cannot be sure if
that snake might be harboring some pathogen that got established because stress
can compromise the immune system. With weakened immune functioning,
microorganisms that had been present at low levels might now flourish, and my
ratsnake might pick up new pathogens while in my collection, because I did not
practice hospital-level infection control when taking care of that collection.
And even if the animal is
native and could be proven to have no disease that it could spread, there’s one
more problem. Out in the wild, as they grow and move around in their habitat,
herps generally stay within an area referred to as the “home range.” They get
to know the landmarks and resources of an area and generally stay within that
home range. The size of the home range varies a great deal across different
species and to some extent for different individuals. A home range might be
bigger for larger, active animals and when the resources are limited, forcing
the animal to move over a larger area to find what they need. When we capture a
reptile and later release it somewhere else, trouble often follows. The animal
may not settle down, continuing to search for “home” and having a greater
chance of being killed. This problem has been studied, and the results are
often similar. Plummer and Mills (2000) radio-tracked eight resident eastern
hog-nosed snakes and eight that were translocated. The resident snakes moved
about within their home ranges but the ones that had been moved traveled more,
often in straight line movements, and were three times more likely to die
during the study. Nowak & van Riper (1999) translocated western
diamond-backed rattlesnakes in Arizona and found that the translocated snakes
moved greater distances, and some found their way back to their original home
range while others experienced greater mortality. Overall similar results have
been seen with box turtles (for example, Cook, 2004; Sosa & Perry, 2015):
when moved out of their home range, adults often move greater distances, may
not stay in the area to which they have been moved, and may have greater
There have been a few successes when translocating herps, but overall the news has not been very good. Sometimes moving an animal is justified. When a herp is found in some high-traffic, developed location where it will be killed or be unable to find food and shelter, then moving it to the closest available place with suitable habitat may be the best we can do. Otherwise, moving the animal just because we think we know where it would live a better life, or in an attempt to re-establish it in some place where that species has disappeared, is really not a good idea.
So I guess that over the years I have learned a lot of “don’t do this” stuff. But you know what? It’s really stuff that lets me do what I love in a way that helps me protect the places and animals I love. Think of them as ways to fight “the Nothing” while still having a great time exploring forests, wetlands, and deserts, and seeing amazing animals.
Nowak, E.M., & C. van Riper. 1999. Effects and
Effectiveness of Rattlesnake Relocation at Montezuma Castle National Monument.
Flagstaff, AZ: USGS Forest and Rangeland Ecosystem Science Center Technical
Pike, D.A., Croak, B.M.,
Webb, J.K., and R. Shine. 2010. Subtle
– but easily reversible – anthropogenic disturbance seriously degrades habitat
quality for rock-dwelling reptiles. Animal Conservation, Vol. 13, Pp. 411-418.
Plummer, M.V., & N.E. Mills. 2000. Spatial Ecology and Survivorship of Resident and
Translocated Hognose Snakes (Heterodon
platirhinos). Journal of Herpetology, Vol. 34, No. 4, Pp. 565-575.
J.A., & G. Perry. 2015. Site Fidelity, Movement, and Visibility Following
Translocation of Ornate Box Turtles (Terrapene
ornata ornata) From a Wildlife Rehabilitation Center in the High Plains of
Texas. Herpetological Conservation & Biology, Vol. 10 No. 1, Pp. 255-262.
Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be utterly lost, That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly, softly, wash again and ever again this soiled world. — Walt Whitman
Caddo Lake is a big, relatively shallow body of water on the Texas-Louisiana border. Its backwaters are a maze of waterways tracing through big stands of cypress and water tupelo, trees whose trunks broaden at the base and are draped in the bromeliad that is referred to as “Spanish moss.” Just south of the lake, on the Texas side, is a mixed pine and hardwood forest that is set aside as the Caddo Lake National Wildlife Refuge. But its history involves much more than a quiet pine forest with the calls of birds in the tree tops. It is a place where the forest is gradually recovering from a time when a workshop of war was built among the trees.
In the war years of the last century, the Army acquired 8,493 acres south of the lake, and in 1942, the Longhorn Army Ammunition Plant began making the explosive TNT. During the 1950’s the plant made rocket motors and incendiary bombs, and this continued during the Viet Nam war. In 1988 it was the site where some U.S. missiles were destroyed as part of the INS treaty, beginning to de-escalate the arms race with Russia. Finally, in 1997 the Army indicated that the plant was no longer needed, and the land was transferred to U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service the next year. Some places where the worst pollution had occurred were designated Superfund sites by EPA, and efforts were made to remove toxic chemicals. And so, we are really only about twenty years out from the time when concrete buildings scattered through the woods gave birth to bombs and rocket propellant.
Clint and I first visited the refuge in
2011, during a terrible drought. It was very surreal to walk along the
partially overgrown paved lanes through the forest, running across a big open
expanse of concrete where some building appeared to have been razed, and then
find a small concrete shell of a building, or maybe a series of upright walls.
Walking through beautiful pines and sweetgum trees, we would emerge on yet
another tombstone from the war effort – sometimes they were concrete pillars
that would have held some tank full of who knows what, or a hollow bunker where
a couple of bats roosted. And some areas had a vague pesticide smell, places
behind a fence with a sign that said, “restricted area.”
Yesterday, Kelby Dupriest and I visited
the place again, a road trip for a restorative walk in the woods. Caddo was the
best of our regional options, with less chance of rain and more moderate
temperatures, and the wildlife refuge is certainly an interesting place. I have
seen it as a place struggling to hold on to its integrity as a beautiful upland
forest and stately cypress wetland. It seemed to me to be a place out of the
Twilight Zone: “Picture, if you will, a quiet southern forest, but a forest
that hides secrets.” The wind sighing through pine trees, the soft carpet of
pine needles, and the ferns and mosses, all make the sudden appearance of
concrete skeletons from a bomb factory all the more jarring. These structures
do not look like they housed the precise and efficient mechanisms of 20th
century technology; they look crude and rough, like something shamefully hidden
away in the woods.
Walking through the winter woods with
Kelby, I also remembered that the scars from the Longhorn Army Ammunition Plant
should not blind me to the beauty of the place. There were signs that spring
will soon return to this forest. Trees are starting to bud, and in places there
were clusters of white blossoms. On the thick branches of a big oak, mosses and
ferns grew in a little garden where rain and fog and humidity make it possible for
them to survive, their roots digging into the tree bark. Life goes on, and
because of it, things begin to heal. Despite the things that we may do, this
earth is determined to create and sustain life, and to return things to the way
they work best, as soil and water, lichens, plants, and animals.
Maybe this time the walk was a little more hopeful.
The damage was done, and the place isn’t yet healed, but the forest is
gradually reclaiming the concrete and the fallen apparatus of war production.
Mosses and plants take hold and begin to break it down, and even the poisons
might one day be converted and filtered away. A garden is growing where the
work of war was once done. Think of it as a place where, year by year and inch
by inch, life has the last word. I don’t know how long the forest’s full
redemption will require, but someday it will come.
Our Relationships With the Earth, and the Wisdom in “Braiding Sweetgrass”
We live by certain rules. They may or may not be written down somewhere, but by observing what we do, we can see the priorities and patterns in our actions. These are the rules or principles that govern our lives. It seems to me that, across most major countries of the world today, the governing principles are to make as much money as you can, and fight against anything that could limit how much you can make. In order to do that, the harvesting, mining, and extraction of “stuff” in order to make money must continue and even accelerate, if possible. Everything else is secondary to those rules.
People may say that they follow different principles. Many of the world’s faith traditions, and many of the ways we like to talk about ourselves, emphasize caring for others, caring for creation (or at least enjoying nature), and sharing what we have. But I am not talking about what we say, but rather observing what we do. With some important exceptions, what most of us do seems to conform pretty well to the rules mentioned above.
What’s wrong with that? We are taught that economies must grow, and if they do not grow they will stagnate and fail, and so we must feed the machine at a faster and faster rate in order to be productive. It is as if we have to break up all the furniture in the house to keep the fireplace roaring, as if the furniture would never run out and there would be more and more tables and chairs to break apart and feed the fire. We have been living in a very big house, but sooner or later we will run out of fuel for the fire.
From the first century, when the world population may have been between 150 million and 330 million (World Population Estimates, Wikipedia), the human population has grown to a mind-boggling 7.7 billion people (Worldometers), practically covering the continents in an endless hive. All of those people deserve a good life, but only a minority will have one that is materially secure. Too many will be hungry, homeless, sick, or preyed upon by others. However, all of them – anyone with so much as a pocketful of change – is a consumer. And with the majority of the planet trying to make the most money by selling the maximum amount of stuff to those 7.7 billion people, we are stripping and poisoning the earth, the garden that many believe we were put here to steward.
That’s an old-fashioned term, “steward,” meaning to manage and look after something that is not ours. What if we thought of the earth as something that we don’t own, but that we had the responsibility to care for? The alternative view is that we own it. Ownership is a completely one-way relationship – the thing we own is there to please us, we don’t have any obligation to it. We can use it, sell it, destroy it, and that is perfectly fine in an “I own it” relationship. If we are stewards, the relationship is very different. We are put in charge of something that is not ours, so we must take care to use it wisely, so that it is not harmed. But that places some constraints on our own behavior; we cannot sell it and we cannot strip all the value out of it for ourselves. Stewardship is not a relationship that works for those who are driven to create wealth regardless of the cost. It is not a business plan for the mega-rich.
When the population of the earth was counted in the millions, humans could ignore the idea of stewardship and the earth only suffered in a few places. Over the centuries, more people meant more impact as we went about the business of each obtaining as much power and wealth as possible. There are billions more of us, and we need that much more of everything. Our roads penetrate most of the land area of the planet, and our mines, factories, and agricultural fields cover vastly more of the planet than in the past.
The consequences of our continually growing population and our drive for endless economic growth are all around us. A recent paper in the journal Sciencepredicts the collapse of all fisheries by 2050 because of the loss of marine biodiversity. In various places across the globe, loss of insect populations is causing alarm, as reported recently in Scientific American. Perhaps it is easy for some people to dismiss the loss of pollinators as some sort of inconvenience to gardeners, but insects are incredibly important. Not only do they pollinate our crops, allowing us to be fed, they help break down dead things so that we do not live in a rotting graveyard. Insects are a fundamentally important part of most food chains, so that the loss of insects would bring about the collapse of a wide variety of insect-eaters, leading to the collapse of other wildlife that depend on those insectivores. The oncoming effects of human-induced climate change are in the news everywhere: heat waves killing people, sea levels rising and threatening coastal communities, loss of species that cannot adapt to a rapidly changing climate, and on and on. We are losing all kinds of wildlife species, leading some to speak of our causing a sixth global catastrophic loss of species.
Because large ecosystems can absorb little disturbances pretty well, we have believed that the earth is too big for us to harm. Years ago I had a climate-denying friend who argued that we were too small to change the atmosphere, that it was arrogance to think we could change the climate. That point of view comes from the time when we were a younger species, far below the 7.7 billion that we now number. But we are beginning to overwhelm the only livable place we know in the universe. There’s no place else to go.
I do not have practical answers. Like so many others, I contribute to the problem; I drive a car, use air conditioning, and so on. As the clock nears midnight, I don’t know how, or if, these problems will be solved, but I know it is wrong to give up, to surrender to the trap we have caught ourselves in. And since we got into this mess through a particular kind of relationship to nature, we should explore other possibilities.
There are other ways of being in a relationship with nature, other than by owning it, selling it, stripping it of valuable materials. It is possible to see it as a garden to tend with care, as in parts of the Judeo-Christian tradition. If we truly lived in that relationship, we might not turn the garden into a wasteland, but we would still be separate from the garden, benevolent but not really a part of it. There is also the possibility of placing ourselves within nature, as part of it, one of many lives that work together in partnership. Among the traditions and belief systems that see our lives and the lives of plants and animals as part of the same cloth are those of some Native American cultures. I am no expert on these cultures, but I can recommend a brilliant, lyrical, and wise book written by someone with one foot in the scientific tradition and one foot in the Potawatomi Nation of indigenous Americans. Robin Wall Kimmerer is a Professor of Environmental and Forest Biology at the State University of New York and a member of the Potawatomi Nation. Among her books is Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants.
Throughout the book, Kimmerer tells us the indigenous stories that create a relationship with nature consisting of reciprocity and gratitude, starting with the creation myth in which Sky Woman falls to the earth and is rescued by the animals. Together, each bringing their own gifts, Sky Woman, birds, an otter, and a great turtle create the world – Turtle Island. It is a shared effort, and the world would be incomplete without the contributions of every species. There is also the Windigo myth that warns about how unbridled appetite can separate us from all that we love and consign us to an existence of eternally consuming and never being satisfied. Sound familiar?
Importantly, stories of the natural history of trees and other plants are interwoven throughout the book, clear and lucid portraits of sweetgrass, maple, as well as animals such as mink or salmon. These are not simply scientific profiles (though her training as a scientist means that we learn many things about the biology of these species). She places us there in the field beside her, helping us appreciate small observations like raindrops in moss for their incredible beauty, and also the big, grand pictures of forests and coastlines. And along with that, she weaves Native American ways of being in relationship with nature into her narrative. Like braiding sweetgrass, she braids field observation, culture, and philosophy into a beautiful narrative.
It is important to understand that the book is not selling some indigenous religion in which we are to believe certain propositions in order to receive something (not that I think that any Native American religions work that way). Instead, what is described are ways of seeing the world and being in the world, marked by respect, gratitude, and reciprocity. How different those are from the ways our societies treat the earth now! Everything embodied in this book feels like a satisfying way to live life, a way to escape the insatiable greed of Windigo. The book is not a “fix” for the ecological problems we face, but it sure seems like a good, healthy foundation from which we might search for solutions.
A final note: get it in audiobook form – Kimmerer’s voice is perfect, like sitting comfortably by the fire, listening to a story told with compassion, friendly good humor, and wisdom.
On December 30th of 2018, I hit the road to San Antonio Texas for New Year’s Eve, a tradition that I have had for about the past twelve years. We have gone mostly to get our fix of some really good Mexican food. Typically, I don’t eat Mexican food north of San Antonio.
I try to take advantage of any opportunity to find herps when I am in a different region of Texas. One of the endemic species of turtles that occurs in this region is the Texas Cooter (Pseudemys texana). With a fairly wide range across the central part of Texas, it can be a fairly easy species to locate.
The Texas cooter was the very first species within the genus Pseudemys that I found as a kid. One summer in the mid 90’s my family took a little trip to San Antonio and Austin. My dad took my sister and me to swim at the famous Barton Springs pool. It was there I found a big beautiful female texana hanging out on the limestone in the shallow part of the swimming area. I picked her up and checked her out. I called my parents over and we all admired her. You can see the look of delight on my face in these pictures. After we took pictures I followed alongside her for as long as I could until she finally disappeared into the deep end under the diving board.
Lucky for me in these past few years I have been able to work with and admire many Texas cooters. As a part of the Turtle Survival Alliance – North American Freshwater Turtle Research Group, we have two long term population monitoring sites. Both locations, Comal Springs and Bull Creek in Austin, are places where Texas cooters call home. Since I see these turtles on a regular basis, I and others have noticed an interesting difference in the look of P. texana from Comal Springs and the ones from areas surrounding Travis county. Since this has been something of interest to us turtle nerds, I make sure to document the differences and similarities in photographs. Carl Franklin even makes a point to do this on the Texas Cooter page of the Texas Turtles website.
“Did you say cooter? *Aheh-heh-heh hehh*
Yes, we turtle nerds get this question quite a bit from non-herp people. Cooter? Why do we call it cooter? Cooter is derived from an African word for turtle: “Kuta.” When slaves were brought to America the word “kuta” got vernacularized into “cooter.” There ya go!
During the day on New Year’s Eve while my non-turtle friends went to do non-turtley things, I set off to find some cooters in Bexar county. It did not take me long! I ventured to an area off the San Antonio River walk in a very developed location. One of those parts of the city that has recently been renovated with hipster breweries, coffee shops and apartments. To my surprise, I spotted some cooters right away. In Texas we can have all types of weather at any moment in time, and even all at one time. (Seriously!) The weather was rather chilly, overcast and cloudy and 57°F at about 2:30pm. Not what one would normally think of as turtle or herp weather. I have noticed that if days are warmer before leading up to a cooler/ overcast day I still have a decent chance of seeing turtles.
I photographed these turtles as they sat alongside red-eared sliders and of course the always handsome melanistic male sliders. I made note of the stripes that ran down the side of the cooters’ heads and necks. Many have thicker yellow stripes toward the back of their heads near the ear. Their head shapes always stick out to me. I don’t exactly know how to describe it, but there is an almost blunt shape to their faces. They have a bicusbid upper beak, meaning that the upper jaw drops down in two little points, leaving a notch at the center, just below the nostrils. Along the carapace, at the edges, the underside of each marginal scute has a pinkish-orange circular or ring-shaped blotch. The back legs and feet often carry the same coloration. The carapace can be olive to brown with yellow lines creating a reticulating or even swirl pattern. They also possess amazing bluish/green eyes.
I walked a good distance down the river. As I neared the section where I needed to turn around, I noticed a great blue heron with feathers fluffed up. It looked as if it felt cold, and temperature was cold, that is for sure! Seeing birds is a great side-benefit to exploring waterways for turtles. In these winter months I do become more of a bird nerd since turtle/herp activity slows down. On my walk back, I noticed a little blue heron hunting for whatever creatures it could find under the bank. I watched this little blue heron for quite a while to see what it caught to eat. As I pressed on, I came across a snowy egret that was also hunting. This little snowy egret was shuffling its feet below the water, at what looked to be the top of the mud or sediment. I watched it flush out whatever it could from the muddy water and then eat it. I am sure this is a behavior well known among birders and ornithologists. It was cool for me to watch!
On the rest of my walk, I spotted a few more turtles and many of the same turtles I saw earlier. I finally called it a day and headed back to my friend’s house to partake in “normal” New Year’s Eve festivities.
New Year’s Day, 2019.
All I really had on my mind with it being a new year was getting out to see what turtles, and particularly what texana, might be out. My friends decided to join me on this stop at a very popular and well-known San Antonio city park. It was 51°F – much colder, more cloudy and overcast than the day before. I was starting to think that I was not going to see any turtle activity.
However, it did not take me long to spot a small Texas cooter and red-eared slider “basking” on a small log. I was pretty happy with that, thinking that those were all I would see. We all decided to call it quits since it was so chilly. On the drive out of the park I spotted more cooters out on logs and tree limbs in the water. I quickly pulled over and photographed five more cooters. Again, I thought it was still pretty awesome that they were out in such chilly weather!
Texas has three endemic species of turtles that is, they are found only in Texas. These are the Texas cooter, Texas map turtle, and Cagle’s map turtle. The Texas cooter distribution is throughout central Texas in the Colorado, Llano, San Saba, Brazos, Guadalupe, Nueces and San Antonio river systems. We even have speculated that they may be as far up as Tarrant county. We have caught a few during our Trinity River Turtle Survey that have quite a “texana” look to them. (This is a discussion for another time maybe!) Here are some pictures that may show a bit of the difference between cooters in Comal County, Travis County, Bexar County and even Gonzales County.
For a while P. texana was grouped under Pseudemys concinna (eastern river cooter). It was described as P. texana in 1893.
As I mentioned before, these turtles are bicusbid. The insides of their mouths are pretty interesting. Along the surfaces of the jaws are “tomiodonts,” which look almost like stalagmite and stalactite formations. These structures probably come in handy since Texas cooters are known to be primarily herbivorous. ( these images courtesy of Carl Franklin showing tomiodonts for three different cooter species throughout Texas)
Perhaps the newest bit of information that we have found is that females grow to 13.5 inches (34.3 cm) and adult males reach 11 inches (28 cm) in straight carapace length. This data was collected from our Comal springs study site.
There’s still lots more to be learned about this Texas endemic. Hopefully, 2019 will continue to grace us with more knowledge on this species.
I was lucky to visit Fort Worth Nature Center & Refuge on the last day of the year. The weather was wonderful and the refuge is like home. We go back a long time, at least fifty-three years.
I started off by climbing up part of the Canyon Ridge Trail, up to the top of the ridge. The last 20 feet or so are a climb on stone steps, and suddenly the trail opens up in an area of live oak and yucca. And right there, to your left, is the Lone Point Shelter, a Civilian Conservation Corps structure built in the 1930s. The roof is gone, but there is a nice rock bench on each side to sit and look out over the lake. I took some notes and set my thermometer out – it registered 61 degrees F.
Walking down the trail from there, I could have imagined being transported to somewhere on the Edwards Plateau; at least the live oak, juniper and yucca in a grassy savannah reminded me of central Texas. As I returned on this trail, I took a photo of another CCC structure. It’s really just a fancy stone outhouse, but it’s interesting and historical nonetheless.
At the base of one of the oak trees I found a big patch of moss, vibrant green from the rain last night. Spending a few moments, very close, losing oneself in the tiny forest of moss leaves, will wipe away some of your troubles – try it!
I followed the trail back down the ridge, noting that my sense of balance on narrow trails with steep drop-offs is not what it once was. However, I distracted myself by noticing some little sprigs of oak leaves that still have their fall color. They are tattered but still pretty.
My next stop was Greer Island. It was the first piece of land designated as a nature center, the little seed from which all 3500+ acres sprang. I walked the causeway to the island, remembering that when I was a kid, people drove down that causeway and parked on the island. I guess we’ve grown a little in our willingness to walk, thank goodness!
A number of trails crisscross the island, and I walked the Audubon Trail around part of it. Sitting on a bench beside the water, the temperature on my thermometer was 63 degrees F. I had spooked some mallards, and near the bench were more ducks or perhaps coots making their throaty whistles and muttering. They were completely hidden by a wall of reeds. A little later, I cut back across a little pocket prairie (so small that it might be called a “thimble” prairie!) and through the woods back to the causeway.
I’m grateful that this place is still there, still taken care of by Nature Center staff like the treasure that it is. It was a great way to spend part of the last day of 2018.
As 2018 comes to a close I have spent a lot of time looking back on this previous year of herping and what my friends and I have begun to refer to as “turtling.”
My lifelong fascination, passion, obsession with reptiles and amphibians and more specifically chelonians has driven me to see some incredible things in some pretty neat places. I have an even more ambitious list for 2019.
My highlights of 2018
These consisted of kicking off a spring break turtle survey with an amazing group of kiddos called the “Spring Lake Adventure Club” or SLAC / SLAC-ers. They got to learn the ins and outs of “turtle surveying 101.” They even have their own blog! I’ll talk more about them in future blog posts. https://chroniclesofslackers.wordpress.com/
This year also marked the first full year of the Trinity River Turtle Survey led by our pal Andrew Brinker. The Trinity River Turtle Survey (TRTS) is a mark and recapture long term population monitoring study. https://www.facebook.com/trinityturtlesurvey/
Also, we continued into the second year of a study on alligator snapping turtles in Harris County.
In April I traveled to Pennsylvania to take part in a wood turtle study/survey led by some of my fellow turtle nerds or as I like to refer to them, my Turtle Family. Pennsylvania was not only a stop to check out wood turtles but a chance to get in some herping of some other amazing species. My buddy Andy Weber not only blew the trip out of the water by catching spotted turtles and painted turtles, but the cherry on top was when he was able to find me a hellbender salamander! This large and elusive salamander is also known as the “snot otter” or “old lasagna sides.” It lives up to its nickname of “snot otter” thanks to the amount of slime it produces when being handled or grabbed. The term lasagna sides refers to the wrinkly folds of skin that run down the side of its body. This helps the hellbender capture oxygen in the quick moving water in which it lives. The hellbender is on the top of many herp nerds’ list of “herps to see in the wild.” It is also a species facing environmental threats and is being studied by herpetologists. Talk about an incredible moment!
In May I spent five days with my turtle family turtling and herping across parts of central Texas. We found everything from narrow-mouthed toads, cliff chirping frogs, broad-banded water snakes to Cagle’s map turtles.
During the start of the hot summer, I traveled to east Texas with buddy Brett Bartek and found southern painted and Sabine map turtles that are only found on that side of the state.
After all that, perhaps the biggest find of the year was discovering juvenile and very old alligator snapping turtles in Tarrant County with Carl Franklin and Andrew Brinker (more on this later also!).
The Turtle Survival Alliance (TSA) Conference took place in August in Fort Worth. TSA is a nonprofit organization that is, as its website states, “dedicated to zero turtle extinctions” across the globe. This conference is likely the largest assembly of the world’s biggest turtle nerds. I not only presented at the conference but once the conference concluded I took my friend Dr. Shailendra Singh, who is the Director of TSA-India, across as much of Texas as possible. In two days I helped him find 12 species of Texas turtles including all of the Texas endemics and traveled about 710 miles.
Together with Carl Franklin, I presented about Texas turtles for the Cross Timbers Master Naturalists. After that Carl, Andrew Brinker and I traveled to Austin to speak to the Texas Parks and Wildlife Commission. We were there with others to advocate ending the commercial collection of Texas turtles. To our delight, it passed unanimously!
The fall months continued with more herping and turtling. It was a very rainy year so our trapping had to slow down at times due to such high water levels.
Now with these winter days shorter and colder, I spend this time not only reflecting but thinking about many other things relating to ecology and natural history of Texas turtles and herps in general.
“So WHY turtles?”
One question that many of us get asked is, “So WHY turtles?” and “What is your favorite turtle?”
My favorite turtle is any turtle! However, there are a few species that have a special place in my heart. They are not the most flashy, extravagant, or even elusive. One of them is probably the most “common” of our turtles. That common (and neat, to me) turtle is the melanistic male red-eared slider. These melanistic males are so handsome, from the shape of their shell, the color change that happens to the shell, to the darkening and even blackening of their face. I have seen them from chocolate brown, olive green, grayish to completely black. Perhaps my fondness is because this was one of the first turtles I found as a kid. Perhaps I am just curious about when the dark pigments begin to take over and the whole package that comes with them being melanistic. What is the overall function or advantage in them being melanistic? We still have so much more to learn! We see them so frequently it is easy to write them off, saying “Eh more sliders” as we scan the water looking for whichever may be the target species for that day. They are certainly the most requested ID on Texas Turtles Facebook page that is run by Carl Franklin and me. The Facebook page is associated with the Texas Turtles website, a source for lots of information about our native chelonians.
After a day of turtling when I am processing and looking through the turtle pictures from that day, I stop on the images of these “old man” sliders which are fascinating to me. I have made a few observations with these guys here at the end of this year, perhaps I will be able to document and look into them in 2019…..
You remember last month, I posted an account of a trip taken by Viviana Ricardez and me to Gus Engeling Wildlife Management Area (“Old Man Turtle of Catfish Creek”). I’m happy to say that Viviana will join us as a contributor, and she will have lots to contribute! She speaks for turtles, sort of like the Lorax speaks for trees (for those of you who have read The Lorax – and if you haven’t, why not?).
Viviana speaks for turtles, and more than that. She is a dedicated supporter of the wonderful group of kids in the Spring Lake Adventure Club – which she’ll tell you about – and of other herp nerds and turtle folk who belong to that branch of the naturalist clan. Stay tuned!