At the LBJ National Grasslands for a Hot Day and Magical Evening

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LBJ National Grasslands, near Alvord, TX

A group of us got on the bus at the Fort Worth Nature Center & Refuge on May 26th, and I was glad to see that Michael Perez, Natural Scientist Supervisor at the Center, was packing lots of water. We were headed for the LBJ National Grasslands north of Decatur, over 20,000 acres of Western Cross Timbers habitat scattered in a patchwork across the center of Wise County. This was on a day when the temperatures were in the mid-90s around Decatur, and it felt even hotter. The plan was for Clint and me to lead this intrepid group of nature center supporters on a herping trip. The Grasslands was a great choice for such a trip; under the right circumstances we might see any of six or seven frog and toad species, an equal number of lizards, three or four varieties of turtles, and an even greater variety of snakes. Not only that, but Michael is a great birder, and Ann Mayo was with us, bringing her expertise regarding ants and other invertebrates.

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Prairie gentian, among other flowers, grasses, and forbs

We also stopped to investigate oaks, junipers, mesquite, and mid-story shrubs, looking for the Texas spiny lizards and rough greensnakes that we know are fairly common. I also talked about how coachwhip snakes will sometimes slip out of the sunshine and up into the branches of oaks and junipers to cool themselves and rest. Several members of the group looked longingly into those branches, wondering if they might be able to fit in there and cool down, too.

I lapsed into talking about what herps we probably would be seeing, if we had been seeing any, the last refuge for someone trying to make a herp-less herping trip seem like a real one. I talked about coachwhips we have seen gliding like quick shadows through bluestem and sumac, and spotted whiptail lizards that chase down insects on patches of bare, sandy ground, and skitter off with impossible speed. When we found a harvester ant colony (Pogonomyrmex barbatus, the red harvester ant – thanks, Ann!) I talked about reasons for the disappearance of the Texas horned lizard around here. It was a hot walk through beautiful habitat, discussing the ghosts of herp trips past.

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Flower longhorn beetle

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Green lynx spider

The real gems of that walk were invertebrates, such as the green lynx spiders we saw, the harvester ants, the flower longhorn beetle and Brunner’s mantis that Clint caught and showed us. Among the ways that Brunner’s mantis is unusual is that the adults are all females and reproduce by parthenogenesis (asexually). Bright, sunny days can be wonderful times to see insects who manage to go about their business despite the heat.

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A small Brunner’s mantis

We returned to the pine grove where the bus was, and more importantly where the water was waiting for us. After a snack and a rest, we headed down the road to another location. At this point the sun was getting low and the temperatures were more moderate – and strolling across the pavement was the first of several finds that would turn this into a real herping trip. At 7:30pm we found the first ornate box turtle I have seen at the Grasslands in a number of years. It was an adult female, and we all admired her shell with its streaks of yellow on a nearly black background and her ability to pull into her shell and close the two lobes of the plastron (the lower shell) for protection. Box turtle populations depend on the survival of adults over many years, because they reproduce slowly, and they are declining in many places and already gone from others. Seeing this one was the highlight of the trip for me.

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Ornate box turtle

At another location we found a juvenile western ribbonsnake that had recently been run over. I brought this specimen onto the bus, announcing that I was not too proud to pick up roadkill, and talked a little about the natural history of ribbonsnakes. We placed its body into a bag, to donate later to the scientific collection at UTA.

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Western ribbonsnake (juvenile)

The best was saved for last. As darkness fell, we walked a short distance down a trail to find a couple of little ponds. The first was really just an ephemeral pool, a shallow basin of water about ten feet across. Right away, Clint found a little ribbonsnake for us to admire (they are so much prettier and more graceful when alive!). Shortly afterward, somebody said, “Hey, a little cottonmouth!” Sure enough, there was a little brightly banded cottonmouth, barely a foot long and probably born last fall. The little snake initially would not sit still for a photo and took off swimming across the pool. I simply walked over to the other side and tried again, whereupon it turned and swam back.

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Northern cottonmouth (juvenile)

We had talked about the venomous snakes we could see at the Grasslands, and I described them as nonaggressive and posing no threat as long as you do not step on them, pick them up, or startle them at close range. While some participants might have been skeptical at first, this little cottonmouth was a living demonstration that they do not chase people or want any kind of confrontation. I could not get the snake to do the open-mouthed gaping display that cottonmouths are known for; he just wanted to be left alone.

Meanwhile we spotted at least one other little ribbonsnake at the pool, and a juvenile plain-bellied watersnake who swam out into the water and then periscoped up for a breath of air. The reason that this pool was such a hub of snake activity was the numerous frogs there, including some small leopard frogs. We walked to a nearby pond and saw a couple of bullfrogs and heard the calls of gray treefrogs that we were unfortunately not able to find.

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Leopard frog – a recent metamorph (the transition from tadpole stage)

There was one last delightful encounter for us, down the road. At 9:25pm we passed a beautiful broad-banded copperhead. By the time we were off the bus, the snake was off the pavement, but I quickly located it and guided the snake back out where we could look at it. This one was like most copperheads we find, a little stressed and ready to quickly get away if possible, but completely uninterested in striking at us as long as I used the snake hook as gently as possible to manage where it went. After a few photos and some admiring looks at its contrasting reddish-brown bands and rusty-orange belly, I escorted the copperhead off the road and into the safety of nearby vegetation.

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Broad-banded copperhead (photo by Michael Perez)

What had started as a hot, herp-less hike through the woods ended up with our seeing (or hearing) four frog species, one box turtle, and four species of snakes. Despite our running a little late, we stopped at the last intersection where we could either turn and road-cruise some more or else head for home, and it took us several minutes to decide, reluctantly, to go.

Herping in the Rain

As we got nearer to Paducah, on the Rolling Plains of west Texas, what had been a smudge of blue-gray on the horizon became recognizable as a big storm cell. We had hoped that our destination, the Matador Wildlife Management Area (WMA), would be south of those storms. Instead, we were headed straight into the heart of that grayish-green wall of water. Somewhere between Crowell and Paducah, the rain began to spatter the window in big, percussive drops, and the wind picked up. Next, we plunged into a wall of rain so heavy that we slowed to a crawl and hoped that anyone coming toward us on this two-lane road had not been blown off course and into our lane. Next came hail, hitting the windshield with distinctive pops, but not with enough force to shatter it. We kept pushing forward and within minutes we were on the other side, the rain slacking to a mere shower and then trailing off. As we arrived at Paducah, a minor flash flood was rolling down the street and off into a ditch.

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Heading into the storm

A little north of there, we arrived at the headquarters of the Matador WMA and met Chip Ruthven, The Project Leader who is involved in the management of WMA’s in the Rolling Plains and up into the Panhandle. Ruthven and his colleagues and graduate students have been monitoring Texas horned lizards and ornate box turtles at Matador for years, and for some time I have wanted to meet him and talk about their work with these lizards and turtles.

After a brief look around part of the WMA, Clint and I checked in where we were staying in Childress and planned a night drive down U.S. Highway 83 all the way to Aspermont, and hopefully south of the storms where a barometric pressure drop, but not a big temperature drop, might be bringing out the snakes. As it turned out, a big line of storms was pushing eastward, and the radar showed large red storm cells sliding from southwest to northeast. It wasn’t at all clear that we could get to the south and ahead of all those storms, but we were going to try.

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Woodhouse’s toad

Darkness was coming early and the sky to either side of us was lit by nearly constant lightning, either distant flashes in the clouds or bolts straight from the hammer of Thor. At 9:00pm we saw our first herp, and we discovered it was the humble and familiar Woodhouse’s toad, common back home in parts of the Cross Timbers. Eight minutes later, Clint spotted what he thought might have been a little snake lying in an irregularity of the pavement. It turned out to be a baby western massasauga, born last year only to be run over in the spring storms while crossing the road. We took it for the collection of specimens maintained by UTA.

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Baby massasauga, found dead on the road (DOR). The snake was thoroughly limp, and so this positioning for a photograph was safe – had there been any remaining movement, it would not because a recently killed snake sometimes can still bite.

We did not get far into Stonewall County before finding a species I really love – a baby bullsnake was making its way across the wet pavement. West Texas bullsnakes get big, but this one was 18 or 20 inches long. It was also very even-tempered for a species that can put on quite a bluff routine, including some very loud hissing.

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Juvenile bullsnake

No more than five or six minutes later, at 9:57pm, Clint’s sharp eyes detected a very small snake moving across the road between the storms. It was another baby, and this one was a glossy snake. The species can be very common in west Texas, and they are handsomely blotched burrowers that eat lizards and mice.

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Juvenile glossy snake

Then we reached Aspermont, one of the stops along the Great Rattlesnake Highway (U.S. Highway 380, running from north of the Metroplex westward across Texas to New Mexico). It was the principal highway that figured in Clint’s tale of seven nights, the last few of which were gloriously productive, that constitutes one of the chapters of Herping Texas. We always have high expectations on the Great Rattlesnake Highway.

A few miles to the east we found a western massasauga, recently run over. A couple of minutes later we found a Texas toad who was out enjoying the rain and thunder, and possibly seeking a temporary pool to take advantage of this opportunity to breed, leaving eggs that hatch into tadpoles that develop into land-dwelling toadlets before the pool dries up.

Then, at 11:00pm, we pulled up on an adult western diamond-backed rattlesnake. While such snakes often sit still as you approach, this one nervously doubled back as we stopped the truck and disappeared into the grass at roadside. We quickly found this approximately four-foot long snake, which soon headed further away from the road in quick serpentine undulations. This snake was very active, and perhaps the surrounding storms and rain had it on edge. It was not particularly irritable. I followed it, making a video recording of it high-tailing toward the fenceline. I flanked the snake, and Clint was following on the other side, and sometimes the rattler would stop briefly but it did not rattle or assume the typical defensive posture. It merely took off again, always generally heading for the shelter beyond the fence while staying a little distance away from us. We let it glide away into the night, wishing it a peaceful evening.

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Western massasauga

About five minutes later there was a live massasauga on the road. We were grateful to see one that had not been hit, and after a quick photo we got the little snake into the relative safety of the roadside grass. At 11:52pm we found a bigger massasauga, also alive. This was such a strange evening, seeing snakes like this moving in the light rain between storm cells, with almost continuous lightning around us. Ordinarily, the best snake activity is near the storms, in an area of dropping barometric pressure but before rain arrives. We could hardly remember a time when we had seen so many snakes out either in light rain or in a lull in the rainfall.

We headed back up Highway 83 and pushed on through some very heavy rain with high winds. It felt a little like an airplane flight through bad weather, with Clint keeping the truck lined up correctly while I periodically checked the radar on the cell phone to see what we might expect next, watching a very big blob of red representing a big storm cell sliding up into our path. Clint talked about how his dad had taught him to cope with hydroplaning, steadying the steering wheel with the palms of his hands so that he would not too actively pull against the slipping wheels.

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Checkered gartersnake, photographed and then released back into the rain

After we got through the storm, more herps turned up in the light rain toward Paducah. At 12:43am we saw the first of several checkered gartersnakes that were probably searching for dinner, in the form of the various amphibians coming out after the storm. Those amphibians were definitely on the move, including a green toad seen just a little after 1:00am, and then a Plains spadefoot at 1:27am.

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Green toad

By the time we were between Paducah and Childress, the lateness of the hour and the cold air in the storms had brought the temperatures down quite a bit, so that it felt good to get out of the light rain and into the warmth of the truck. It was late, and we hoped to get out to the WMA in the morning, so we wrapped up this very strange, stormy, and delightful road cruise.

(The activities described above were carried out under a scientific collecting permit.)

Challenge Accepted

The SWNP City-wide Nature Challenge

The late afternoon sun shone down over a wildflower-rich grassy clearing at the Southwest Nature Preserve in Arlington, between the gnarled, lichen-covered branches of post oak and blackjack, their trunks flanked by saw greenbrier that sprouted amid a carpet of fresh shoots of poison ivy. I was here for the city wide nature challenge, a day-long event in which citizens attempt to record the most species.  It was a great opportunity to get out into the field, and to contribute some data as well. 


The rays cast metallic jade shards of light off of the elytra of beetles zipping and darting about in a delicate rosy-white bed of evening primrose. They caught my eye, and I veered from the trail and knelt among the flowers to observe them. At this closer level I could identify them as far as the tribe Agrilini. These beetles emerge from the bark of various trees in late spring after spending many months as larvae, where they feasted on the fibrous tissue beneath the bark. 

The buprestids weren’t the only invertebrates moving on this warm Saturday on the tail end of April. A rotund black and white scarab with dense golden setae was rolling around in the center of one of the primrose blossoms like a drunken bee. It was a Texas flower scarab (Trichiotinus texensis), a common species this time of year. It detected my presence and buzzed away on veined amber wings. The bright contrasting colors of black and yellow and white were suggestive of a bee or wasp, which the beetle mimics quite splendidly whether in flower or flight. 


Another nearby insect also watched it go, somehow wise to its true identity, for had it been an actual bee the creature would have followed. This was a bee assassin (Apiomerus spissipes).  In spite of its small size, it is a formidable predator, as its name suggests. Dressed in a mosaic pattern of maroon, yellow and dark brown that, when viewed from above, somewhat resembles a tribal face, it is well-concealed among the grasses and flowerheads. This is a member of the true bugs, and it is usually an ambush predator, perching in sunny patches in open areas, concealed amid the blooms of wildflowers as it waits for a visiting pollinator. The bug’s proboscis acts as a hypodermic needle, injecting a paralyzing venom that slows the victim’s movements before converting into a vacuum tube and sucking up its juices like a grim smoothie.


Eventually Michael and the group of contributors arrived, and we met with Nic Martinez at a pond near the front of the property. The goal was to drag a sein through the murky brown water in hopes of turning up some of its hidden aquatic denizens, but the mud was deep and thick, and it was instead decided that we dip from the shoreline with mesh nets intended for such purpose. In this manner we turned up robust, mud-mottled dragonfly and tuft-tailed damselfly naaids, as well as cricket frogs, tadpoles, and fairy shrimp. Behind us the newly emerged adult dragonflies tried out their new wings over the pond surface. One of them, a common whitetail, perched on a reed at water’s edge. 

A flash of Halloween black and orange caught my eye, and I watched as a Monarch butterfly winged its way across the clearing, soaring over the top of an ashe juniper. If it were a female it was likely in search of a milkweed, the species’ host plant, where it could deposit its eggs. In a few weeks the sausage-shaped, tiger-striped larvae would be munching on the toxic leaves, absorbing the cardenolides and rendering themselves poisonous as well. 

At the edge of the meadow I slipped into the realm of woodlands, where the sunlight fell in warm bright patches across my face. A Texas spiny lizard scurried around the trunk of an oak in their “barber pole fashion” up and around in a spiral, its hooked toe claws allowing it perfect vertical traction. In a moment it was out of sight. 

Among the dried leaves and deadfall at my feet grew sugar hackberry trees with rough, wrinkled bark, stout post oaks with trunks the diameter of barrels, and blackjacks with their deep green, point-tipped leaves. The chaotic branches of gum bumelia could be seen like crops of untamed hair. A thick tendril of Virginia creeper slithered its way across the soil beneath, the characteristic quintet of serrated leaves standing out among tones of gray and sepia. In one place possumhaw grew at the base of a blackjack, and a little red weevil with a black snout sat perched on one of its leaves.   This was Homeolabis analis, a beast who goes by the more colorful name of leaf-rolling weevil. They are small, generally around 6 mm in length, and are usually found in association with oaks, so the presence of this one beneath the blackjack was not surprising.  Like the buprestids, adults pupate over the winter and emerge the following spring. In a complex process that is remarkably technical for such a tiny creature, the weevil picks a choice, soft leaf and measures it precisely, then selects a spot along the midrib, severing it to dam off the water supply to the leaf’s lower part. It then moves to the other side, where it repeats the process. After the leaf begins to wilt and lose strength the beetle notches the leaf on the bottom of the midrib,preparing it for a smooth, easy roll. The extending veins are then cross-cut in a determined, painstaking process where every cut is precise. The leaf is folded in half and then rolled. The female weevil then lays an egg or two in the center with her ovipositor and tucks in the flaps like a tortilla, to prevent unrolling (UF/IFAS).  


Among the deadfall I found another nibbler of oaks, the ant-mimic longhorn beetle, Euderces pini.  These are mimics of carpenter ants, and are similarly colored in bands of maroon and black. This, coupled by their comparative size, renders them quite inconspicuous among their armed lookalikes. As I watched a pair of them raced up and down the tangled, leafless branches of a severed post oak limb. 


I had brought along a canvas beating sheet, sewn around a wire hoop in the form of a basket and suspended on a wooden pole to make a sort of “net.”  With my free hand I gently rapped one of the branches of the overhanging oak, holding the basket as a catch-all beneath. The goal is to dislodge resting insects, which fall into the basket and can be observed, or, in this case, recorded for Inaturalist. This method works surprisingly well, and seldom fails to turn up a wide variety of insects and arachnids. On this day it would produce a little green stick insect, Diaphemorera femorata. The kings of mimicry,walkingsticks virtually disappear among the foliage of their choice. 


When night fell the team of naturalists met up in the parking lot of the preserve and geared up for a night walk. We headed out across the edge of another large pond, where we saw fishing spiders performing little miracles on the surface of the water, their eight legs splayed out, sitting atop the thin membrane of molecules above the water. In the nearby reeds, long-jawed orbweavers climbed across the strands of their webs like acrobats. Our flashlight beams played across the water and mud, where Zev and I found a young plainbellied water snake that cut across the shallow edge like a black ribbon in the late twilight. 

We traversed a small rocky hill, and in the middle of the sandy trail the beam picked up a black bug scurrying among the low grasses. This was a black corsair (Melanolestes picipes) another true bug related to the bee assassin that patrols the ground for crickets and small spiders. A bite from an assassin bug is incredibly painful, as I learned the hard way as a teenager, and can even leave the skin around the site of the bite numb for several hours. 


Another member of the party discovered a striped bark scorpion (Centruroides vittatus), the only native scorpion species to occupy the western cross timbers. In spite of its inch-long size, it bared its pincers and arched its tail, the curved sting on the end of the telson at the ready. We admired its bravery and then saw it to the safety of the trail’s edge to resume its hunt for small arthropods. 


We made our way through the woods, engaged in enjoyable conversations, and the night came to life all around us, with screech owls and chuck-wills-widows piercing the darkness with their pleasing calls. The night would end, but not before it had been thoroughly explored. Overhead the pale light of a waxing gibbous moon smiled over the preserve, a final witness to a memorable day at the Southwest Nature Preserve. 
Sources:

http://www.entnemdept.ufl.edu

http://www.nwf.org

‘Beetles of Eastern North America’, Evans, Arthur V. Princeton Press, 2014

In the Best Places, With the Best People

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Fleabane

There is a wonderful community of naturalists in Fort Worth and surrounding areas, and some of us got together on April 28 to do two important things: add a little bit to our knowledge of natural history, and enjoy each other’s company. Nic Martinez, Clint King and I had offered to lead some activities at the Southwest Nature Preserve, a 58-acre patch of eastern Cross Timbers in Arlington. Nic knows a lot about the fish and other aquatic life of ponds, rivers, and other wetlands. He was there with several nets, ready to help participants take a look at what lives in the ponds at the preserve. Clint’s specialties are invertebrates and herps, and reptiles and amphibians are my first love. As so often happens in these events at Southwest Nature Preserve, other people who specialize in plants, birds, and other things were there as well. That’s the best thing about it. As we walk along, somebody mentions the odd presence of farkleberry, a shrub whose little flowers tend to hang downward, “like chandeliers,” someone says. The thing is that we are a little west of where farkleberry naturally occurs, supposedly, but here it is anyway. Then at the lovely whistling call of a bird, someone else says, “Listen – it’s a chuck-will’s-widow!” And later, as nightfall comes to the pond, I point out the calls of cricket frogs and bullfrogs. We all learn from each other.

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Farkleberry

This all happened on the weekend of the City Nature Challenge, a friendly competition held annually to see who can document the most wildlife and plants on citizen science platforms like iNaturalist. Among major U.S. cities, Dallas-Fort Worth turned in the most observations last year, and this year it is looking like we are among the top five in terms of the number of people involved, number of species seen, and the number of observations documented. People with tons of experience and people with little or no experience got out there, took photos of plants and animals, and posted them on iNaturalist, where the camera’s or phone’s metadata provided the location and time, and experts confirmed the identities of critters, flowers and trees. While technology took care of those details, we were free to re-connect with old friends and make new friends.

Nic started things off by gathering a few things that live in the ponds. Frogs have been calling and breeding, and he captured tadpoles that were probably going to be cricket frogs and leopard frogs (tadpole identification is not a simple thing, and can involve examining mouth parts and tail shapes, and so we could not confirm their identities). He also netted up the larvae of dragonflies and damselflies, tough predators with little of the grace and beauty of the adults – though I realize that “grace and beauty” are in the eye of the beholder. Later, at the pond with the boardwalk and fishing dock, he netted several sunfish. Don’t let the fact that they are common (“it’s just a sunfish”) distract you from the beauty of these fish with tall, disk-shaped bodies and spines in the dorsal and anal fins. Sunfish have scales that are green or bluish in places, yellow or orange toward the chin and breast, and all manner of blue or green squiggles or spots around the head and gill cover, that is, the operculum. The two I photographed were bluegill, one of our common sunfishes. Near the fishing dock, sunfish gathered in a large group of thirty or so, just below the water’s surface and probably hoping to steal a little bait off someone’s fishhook.

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Bluegill

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Blanchard’s cricket frog

Additional things seen around the ponds were Blanchard’s cricket frog – I netted a pretty one with patches of rust color on the snout and just behind the head – and a bee assassin, a type of assassin bug that may wait within a flower to ambush a bee, which it punctures with a straw-like mouthpart. I also took a photo of a pretty aquatic plant, some species of water primrose, that can form mats on the water with rounded, spoon-shaped leaves connected by red runners.

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Bee assassin

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Rough greensnake (photo – Clint King)

The group of us took a late afternoon walk, with several members of the Friends of Southwest Nature Preserve as well as urban biologist Rachel Richter. Clint and his family caught up with us at the top of the ridge, and they had found a rough greensnake, which Zev held as several of us took photos and admired its graceful, lime-green body. A pale orange tongue and golden eyes round out the beautiful colors of this inoffensive predator of spiders and caterpillars. The snake was then taken back and released on the same bush on which it was found. We made our way around a small trail at the top of the hill, photographing standing cypress, the farkleberry mentioned earlier, and, lo and behold, R2D2 hiding behind some of the woodland understory. We did not post the photo of the little robot to iNaturalist, but we did have fun imagining what he was up to, out there in the woods.

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“Help me Obi-Wan Kenobe, you’re my only hope”

The evening walk was a highlight, in part because of the mix of experts and nonexperts. One of the folks who joined us was a young lady who offered the opinion that she would just as soon not see spiders and snakes, thank you very much. Since these were two of the things we specifically planned to see on this walk, it promised to be an interesting time. I mentioned my own history of spider phobia that began with the time, as a child of about eight, when I gently maneuvered something soft out of a hole in the ground and it turned out to be a tarantula. I’m not sure the story helped a lot, but this brave person stayed with us for the walk. Right away, down by the biggest pond, Clint and Zev came up with a juvenile plain-bellied watersnake. As daylight faded, we examined this little snake by flashlight, and talked about the habits of this harmless species. This particular little snake took the handling and examination good-naturedly and was soon returned to its wetland. As it became really dark, we spotted a few spiders here and there, including a slender little one Clint identified as a long-jawed orb-weaver. We also saw a couple of six-spotted fishing spiders sitting on floating vegetation a foot or so from the pond’s edge. The larger females may reach nearly two-and-a-half inches in length, and they can rest on the water’s surface or even dive beneath to catch some unwary prey. A year or so ago, during a similar event at the preserve, Nic discovered a six-spotted fishing spider munching on a cricket frog, so these are pretty formidable spiders (though not dangerous to us). I suspected that a certain member of our party might be re-thinking her decision to come along on this night walk, but she hung in there like a champion.

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Juvenile plain-bellied watersnake (Photo – Clint King)

We climbed up from the pond and walked around to the yucca meadow, listening to that chuck-will’s-widow as well as a screech owl. And on the way back, I found a Texas threadsnake (until recently, a Texas blindsnake) crossing the trail. Nighttime is when they are apt to be seen moving around on the ground’s surface, and the last time I led a night walk at the preserve, Zachary found a small one beside the trail. During the day, these primitive little pinkish-silvery serpents are prowling through ant or termite colonies, helping themselves to the soft-bodied larvae. We showed this one to the participants, and Clint talked about the snake’s secretion that repels ants and incidentally gives it that silvery sheen. We talked about its vestigial eyes, looking like small vague dots beneath the protective scales of the head, so that it can sense light and dark but probably not much else. Who needs good vision when you spend your days in the darkness of insect colonies? Someone also talked about the habit some screech owls have of taking live threadsnakes to their nests, where the snakes presumably eat tiny invertebrates that would otherwise bother the owls.

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Texas thread snake – the head is in the lower part of the photo, with two vestigial eyes like small dots (Photo – Clint King)

Back at the parking lot, we all said goodbye. The woman who had said she didn’t want to see spiders and snakes thanked us, and I think she meant it. I hope she had fun, and that she was left with the perception that these are harmless and useful critters that can be admired from a few feet away without much worry. And all the other folks, the naturalists and nerds, we all went home with that satisfied feeling from being in the company of others who share an intense love of wild places, even on small preserves surrounded by urban development.fullsizeoutput_1581.jpeg