When I threw on a headlamp and stepped into the rain around midnight, I was expecting to find a few salamanders. Conditions were just right for spring migration. But what I didn’t anticipate was finding more than 100 of them — all in one place.
My timing was just right to witness what I can only describe as a salamander pool party.
That would make me a party crasher, since I certainly wasn’t invited. But I didn’t need a “save the date” to know when the event might occur.
Each spring, after the ice melts and the ground thaws, Maine’s spotted salamanders emerge with a goal in mind: to reproduce. To do that successfully, they travel to woodland waters called vernal pools, which lack predatory fish because they dry up in late summer or fall. There they mingle and lay eggs, then depart, shuffling off through the leaf litter.
This migration, called Maine’s Big Night, is predictable. Salamanders need rain to stay hydrated, and they wait until the temperature is above 40 degrees or so. Usually, it occurs at the beginning of April, and it lasts for a few nights.
Wood frogs, blue-spotted salamanders, leopard frogs and other amphibians also move during this time. But the spotted salamander stands out because it’s particularly large (6-10 inches long) and covered with bright yellow spots.
Unfortunately, a lot of these amphibians get run over by vehicles as they cross roadways. After all, these small animals are moving at night in the rain. They’re hard to see, unless you’re looking for them.
In an effort to reduce the number of smooshed amphibians, and to collect data, people throughout Maine adopt sections of roadway that are known as hotspots for this migration. Wearing reflective vests and gloves, these citizen scientists ferry frogs and salamanders across roads, while also counting them for research.
Not far from my house is one such hotspot.
Each spring, I drive slowly to the area, careful not to crush any critters on the way. Once there, I walk back and forth for a while in the dark. Without fail, I find a handful of spotted salamanders creeping across the pavement, along with some hopping frogs. Content, I head back home. But not this year.
I decided to make one last pitstop, and boy was I glad that I did.
Not far from my house is a snowmobile trail where I walk my dog. Along that trail are a few woodland pools where in years past I’d found clusters of frog and salamander eggs. So, I parked my car at the start of the trail and trudged into the woods in the dark.
I hoped that maybe I’d see one or two salamanders swimming around, so imagine my surprise when my headlamp illuminated the first pool to find a swarm of more than a dozen salamanders. Swimming in a serpentine manner, they shied away from the light, snaking under leaf litter at the bottom of the shallow pool.
As far as partygoers go, I wasn’t very popular.
Careful not to step on any roaming salamanders, I moved to the next pool, and the next. An official count would have been a challenge, but there had to be more than 100 in that one small area of the forest. My cheeks hurt from grinning so much.
I stayed with them for about 15 minutes, observing. In the pitch black forest, it was tricky to photograph the salamanders as they writhed in the water, which was dappled with raindrops. But I did my best.
Each salamander has a unique spot pattern, so it’s fun photographing different individuals. They each have their own special look.
A week later, I visited the pools on another rainy night, and I saw nothing. No salamanders. The party was over.
Now, in early May, salamander egg masses dot the pools, clinging to submerged sticks. Transparent and jelly-like, they look a lot like frog eggs. But if you look closely, they have an extra layer of jelly around the outside.
Spotted salamanders take between 30 and 50 days to hatch. So, mid-May, I’ll start looking for the hatchlings. And next April, maybe I’ll watch one of them cross the road as it joins the big migration.
