4/365 Newt Safari
In terms of both population and biomass, Plethodon cinereus is more abundant in the state of New Hampshire than any other vertebrate species.
Which is to say, finding them gets boring after the first 87 times.
For children growing up in the state of New Hampshire prior to the information age,
this was a known fact.
And warm, summer days that had never heard of internet were for re-reading favorite books and trying to watch snowy Japanese cartoons on the UHF stations, adding tinfoil flags to the rabbit ear antenna and adjusting it ever so slightly to get the audio to come back before G-force! came on, tweaking the tuning knob and the vertical hold to get the picture not to flip, until the inevitable orders barked forth from short-fused parents,
"Go outside... and play!"
The fun of playing outside on a single acre of land is generally exhausted after the first five consecutive hours.
For children growing up in the state of New Hampshire prior to the information age,
this was also a known fact.
And thus, out of the frustration that comes from finding the 88th Eastern Red-backed Salamander of the day beneath an overturned log in the forest,
the Newt Safari was born.
Armed with boards, shovels, buckets, and handled kitchen strainers that mom would never want back again, I would begin a herpetological expedition to find anything cold-blooded that was NOT an Eastern Red-backed salamander... frogs and toads, snakes and turtles, but most of all... red-spotted newts and... Ambystoma maculatum, the elusive spotted salamander!
Ever since Ross Funches found one on the playground at school, this had been my life's mission. I strained buckets of green water from the neighbor's frog pond lagoon,
I dug pit traps deep in the forest,
lining the bottoms with a mayonnaise tub half-of water
I covered the tops of the holes with large oak leaves,
and added the corner of a slice of American cheese to the top, for bait,
because every kid in New Hampshire knows that cheese makes the best bait.
I fully expected a 3-inch salamander to be lured in by my ruse,
step fearlessly onto the leaves in search of cheese,
plummet to the bottom of an uneven 5-inch hole,
and be completely unable to escape for days until I came back to check the traps.
When this method repeatedly did not succeed, I tried a new approach:
Muenster cheese.
Also, experimenting with box traps in which an upside-down box with a rock on it was propped up on one side by a stick.
When the salamander dared creep in to steal my muenster cheese, it would certainly be clumsy enough to knock the stick away, trapping itself under the box.
The traps became more sophisticated: Pulleys and springs, hair-triggers and trails of breadcrumbs...
And when this didn't work,
I realized my problem.
I wasn't dressed appropriately for newt safari.
Safety goggles, rubber gloves and boots, broad-rimmed hat and Dad's hunting vest
And wearing my headgear, because the orthodontist said I needed to have it on at least 12 hours a day.
Tromping through our neighbor's back yards and putting mayonnaise tubs in leaf-covered holes I'd dug in their vegetable gardens with mom's kitchen strainer tucked in a cardboard holster of my own design, strapped to my hip by bungee cord, handle-up for quick-draw action should my prey ever reveal himself.
Thinking when I caught that salamander, I would keep him forever as a pet.
Wouldn't my parents be proud of me then!
Though the safaris became less frequent, I still roam around wetlands and forests in a pair of rubber boots, on occasion. At the age of 37 I have yet to capture my own spotted salamander in the wild.
I recently met a park ranger whose job it was to survey the amphibian population in several New Hampshire state parks. I asked him what kinds of traps he used.
"Don't need no fancy traps" he told me, "It's easy."
"Just throw a piece of plywood flat on the forest floor overnight. They love that stuff. They'll crawl right under it."
Which is to say, finding them gets boring after the first 87 times.
For children growing up in the state of New Hampshire prior to the information age,
this was a known fact.
And warm, summer days that had never heard of internet were for re-reading favorite books and trying to watch snowy Japanese cartoons on the UHF stations, adding tinfoil flags to the rabbit ear antenna and adjusting it ever so slightly to get the audio to come back before G-force! came on, tweaking the tuning knob and the vertical hold to get the picture not to flip, until the inevitable orders barked forth from short-fused parents,
"Go outside... and play!"
The fun of playing outside on a single acre of land is generally exhausted after the first five consecutive hours.
For children growing up in the state of New Hampshire prior to the information age,
this was also a known fact.
And thus, out of the frustration that comes from finding the 88th Eastern Red-backed Salamander of the day beneath an overturned log in the forest,
the Newt Safari was born.
Armed with boards, shovels, buckets, and handled kitchen strainers that mom would never want back again, I would begin a herpetological expedition to find anything cold-blooded that was NOT an Eastern Red-backed salamander... frogs and toads, snakes and turtles, but most of all... red-spotted newts and... Ambystoma maculatum, the elusive spotted salamander!
Ever since Ross Funches found one on the playground at school, this had been my life's mission. I strained buckets of green water from the neighbor's frog pond lagoon,
I dug pit traps deep in the forest,
lining the bottoms with a mayonnaise tub half-of water
I covered the tops of the holes with large oak leaves,
and added the corner of a slice of American cheese to the top, for bait,
because every kid in New Hampshire knows that cheese makes the best bait.
I fully expected a 3-inch salamander to be lured in by my ruse,
step fearlessly onto the leaves in search of cheese,
plummet to the bottom of an uneven 5-inch hole,
and be completely unable to escape for days until I came back to check the traps.
When this method repeatedly did not succeed, I tried a new approach:
Muenster cheese.
Also, experimenting with box traps in which an upside-down box with a rock on it was propped up on one side by a stick.
When the salamander dared creep in to steal my muenster cheese, it would certainly be clumsy enough to knock the stick away, trapping itself under the box.
The traps became more sophisticated: Pulleys and springs, hair-triggers and trails of breadcrumbs...
And when this didn't work,
I realized my problem.
I wasn't dressed appropriately for newt safari.
Safety goggles, rubber gloves and boots, broad-rimmed hat and Dad's hunting vest
And wearing my headgear, because the orthodontist said I needed to have it on at least 12 hours a day.
Tromping through our neighbor's back yards and putting mayonnaise tubs in leaf-covered holes I'd dug in their vegetable gardens with mom's kitchen strainer tucked in a cardboard holster of my own design, strapped to my hip by bungee cord, handle-up for quick-draw action should my prey ever reveal himself.
Thinking when I caught that salamander, I would keep him forever as a pet.
Wouldn't my parents be proud of me then!
Though the safaris became less frequent, I still roam around wetlands and forests in a pair of rubber boots, on occasion. At the age of 37 I have yet to capture my own spotted salamander in the wild.
I recently met a park ranger whose job it was to survey the amphibian population in several New Hampshire state parks. I asked him what kinds of traps he used.
"Don't need no fancy traps" he told me, "It's easy."
"Just throw a piece of plywood flat on the forest floor overnight. They love that stuff. They'll crawl right under it."
posted by Christopher at 5:41 PM
The number of unmatched socks in this sock drawer is: 0. Add your own sock.
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