March was still a few days distant, but there was already a sizable hole in the ice on the sunniest side of the pond.

This was unusual February weather for the Connecticut Valley. The late January thaw, complete with days of heavy rain, had done a pretty good job of reducing and weakening the ice cover. Following the thaw the weather had been milder than usual -- not warm, mind you, but sunny and mild enough to allow the sun to etch out a tiny hole that iced over every night and then got just a bit bigger every sunny day.

Although it would probably refreeze solidly before the actual spring meltoff, for the time being it had developed an opening 2 or 3 feet in diameter. The surrounding ice had a heavy scattering of last season’s oak and maple leaves. Dark in color, they helped accumulate the little heat given out by the February sun. I was not the only one who had noticed the breach.

One day, while birding, I happened to walk closer to the pond than normal and noticed a movement on the leaves near the opening. I stopped, stared, and was surprised to see an Eastern Painted Turtle, Chrysemys picta picta, just as it dropped through the hole into the icy water.



I wasn't too surprised that the turtle was awake and alert, for I had seen the species swimming beneath the ice on other frigid ponds. But this was the first (and only!) time I had seen one making an effort to bask on a February day.

More photos under the jump...

I re-learned today, after reading of the failure by several researchers to find white-lipped frogs, Leptodactylus fragilis, how lucky I had been to see the species in Texas.



I had actually heard the two-syllabled calls of this little anuran on a dozen occasions, but had seen it only two or three times.

White-lipped frogs spend much of their time in burrows from one to several inches deep, or in other places of seclusion that are usually close to shallow depressions that fill quickly during rains. They vocalize and breed while in these burrows. The eggs are kept moist by frothy glandular secretions produced by the breeding frogs and if climatic conditions cooperate, seasonal rains flood the low-lying depressions and then free the tadpoles.

More photos under the jump...

I was so intent on determining what was in the beak of the loggerhead shrike that just missed my windshield that I almost ran over the three-plus foot Western diamondback, Crotalus atrox.



I was rolling south out of Marfa, Tex., at a pretty good clip when the shrike decided to defy death and swooped through at hood ornament level.

As I braked, I noted the bird had a tiny snake, slender about 9 inches long, in its beak. I went down the road a bit, U-turned, returned, and U-turned again. The shrike had perched on a barbed wire fence and was still holding the limp snake. I slowed and still carrying the snake the shrike departed. So much for a possible identification.

After checking the mirrors (no cars in sight), I glanced into the "shrike field" again and started pulling out. Something on the ground just in front of the car moved, and I slammed on the brakes.

I got out to the agitated cadence from a telltale rattle. My front left tire was about a half an inch away from a stretched out 3-and-a-half foot Western diamondback. He had crawled out of the grasses while I was meditating unsuccessfully on the shrike-prey.

I watched for a moment and the snake started forward again. Since it seemed evident that it intended to cross the four-lane, sometimes busy, roadway I hooked the snake into a bucket, covered the bucket, carried the snake across the road, and turned it loose.

I wished it bon voyage and it wasted no time disappearing into the roadside vegetation.

More photos under the jump...

At the dead end of a dirt road, a road that can be little more than a trail in some spots, a road across which all manner of desert creatures from gilas to javelinas and cougars cross, there is a desert spring.

If you stand on the nearest shore (the south) of this wonderful landmark, Quitobaquito Spring by name, and toss a rock back over your shoulder, it will land in Mexico.

Around the shores of the spring are venerable desert willows and an assortment of rushes and other emergents that provide cover for one of the nation's most beautiful fishes, the tiny Quitobaquito pupfish.



You'll also see the ]very ordinary appearing, but subspecifically different, kinosternid turtle, Kinosternon sonoriensis longifemorale, the Sonoyta mud turtle.



Changing times, and for various reasons the road to Quitobaquito is now closed to casual vehicular traffic. It is my understanding that Organ Pipe now offers occasional guided tours to the spring. For details check with OP headquarters, and consider a tour along this roadway where you can still enjoy the incredible beauty of the Sonoran Desert.

Another photo under the jump...

Meet the little grass frog (aka the least treefrog, and actually a chorus frog), Pseudacris ocularis.

They are the tiniest of the tiny, are a slender half-inch long and egg-laden females a whopping five-eighths of an inch.



Somewhere in Florida the tinkling vocalizations of this Liliputian chorus frog may be heard during every month of the year. Further north (it ranges widely along the coastal plain to the vicinity of Virginia's Great Dismal Swamp) it is a bit more seasonal, seeking seclusion during the coldest weather or during periods of extended drouth.

Although variable, this frog is usually of some shade of tan, often lighter on the sides and darker on the back and between the eyes. The dorsal and lateral colors are usually separated by a very thin dark line. It has a dark mask and this may continue rearward as a partial or complete brown lateral line.

Look or listen for this frog along the grassy/weedy shallow edges of ponds, marshes or swamps as well as in seasonally flooded roadside ditches.

More photos under the jump...

It was a beautiful sunny day in northern California. Kenny and I turned eastward and headed for the locale of our target of the morning, Plethodon stormi, the Siskiyou Mountains Salamander.

Five minutes later we were beneath a cloud cover that became increasingly dense as we proceeded eastward. A few minutes later it had begun to rain and a few minutes after that the rain had become snow. Snow.



At the time, Kenny was living in Texas. He was used to snow. But I was then (as now) an old, fat, Floridian. I seldom acknowledge the existence of snow and am even more loathe to have it falling on me. But I had driven 2500 miles to see this salamander (among others) so I wasn't about to be deterred by the vagaries of Mother Nature without at least making an attempt to see our goal.

By the time we had gotten to our final turnoff the ground was very white and the conifers were postcard picturesque. The stream (which had nothing to do with the salamander except as a landmark) burbled, bubbled, and rushed between newly whitened banks.

A north wind whistled. The beautiful sunny day had been left far behind. But now at the salamander's habitat we began pawing through the snow to access the rocks, beneath which the caudatans dwelt. Man, those rocks were cold.

Within minutes both Kenny and I were complaining about numb fingers. But we persisted until we succeeded in finding a juvenile.



Photos were taken, the day was declared a success, the car's heater was turned on full blast, and we headed for lower -- and hopefully snowless -- altitudes.

Photo of adult salamader under the jump...

It was a dark and stormy night and...

Well, actually it was dark, especially on the trail that wound beneath the towering rainforest trees. And it had stormed (but earlier that day). The forest floor was still drenched and the trees continued to drip the earlier rainfall from the canopy leaves.



With just over a day left before we were to leave the rainforest. all participants were determined to make the most of the remaining time. It had been dark for hours, but many herpers were again out on the trails, some herping along the edges of the reservoir and a few (me included in these latter efforts) trying to catch up on picture taking.

Finally all had straggled in, wet, muddy, butwith a few more herp finds to their already impressive lists. But after a few minutes Matt Cage and Mike Pingleton, trip leaders both, decided to take "just one more" hike. Off they went, down the long trail towards the river. Forty five minutes later, Matt was coming back across the compound clearing hollering, "Bushmaster, big bushmaster. Mike's keeping it on the trail, but we need help."

Needless to say, they got the help they wanted, the 6+ foot long, three-quarters grown bushmaster was safely and gently bagged, and was brought back to camp for all to photograph.



Following the photo session during which everyone had to take "just one more picture" (about 20 times each), the beautiful snake, a heavy-bodied female, was returned to the exact spot where she had been found, and released.

Another photo under the jump...