Moments on the Fly: Iguanarama

 green iguanas first turned up in Florida in the 1960's, one of many invasive fauna that took to the warm and wet subtropical  climate. You may know of Florida's iguanas from famously falling out of trees during cold weather. Though they can tolerate the state's climate and indeed do well in it, they're limited in northern expansion even within the state. Like the many cichlid species present in the canals and ditches, northern extent is dictated by the animals intolerance of the cold. So there weren't many, or really any, in the first parts of Florida Noah and I saw while making our way south. But by the time we got to Boca Raton they were ubiquitous, scattered throughout the landscape right within the city. These big lizards had an almost stray dog like character. They were timid, not especially inclined to come near us if they had any choice, but carried a visible indignance if we had the audacity to interrupt their sun bathing. They were grungy and a little dopey but acted as though they were trying to carry themselves with some standard of dignity. 

I of course really wanted to catch one. The little kid in me that had pocketed June beetles and lady bugs and caught every frog he could get near would not let these lizards rest. So I crept up on them, trying to get as close as I could before attempting to pounce on them. This had largely unsuccessful results but was a needed distraction from staring into the clear blue water trying to pick out rarer fish species among the swarms of sergeant majors, spottail pinfish, and tomtates. Though I never managed to catch one there my actions did result in a memory that will stick with me forever. One particular dull looking iguana was sunning on a rock right along the inlet. When I inevitably startled it in my attempt to get my hands on it, the animal saw its best escape into the water. There are semi aquatic iguanas throughout the world, notably in the Gallapagos, but green iguanas seem extremely inept at water-based activities. After plunging into the rushing inlet water. this ine thrashed and spun violently, seemingly completely unable to right itself at all. It was a blur for legs, belly and tail for a few moments until it found purchase and made its way out onto another rock. There, it exhaled seawater out of its nose and blinked, looking almost embarrassed. Perhaps my fondness of reptiles as well as my confidence in their understanding of the world around them is causing me to anthropomorphize, but I swear that iguana looked right at me. The look it gave me was one of clear irritation. 

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Franky, Geof, Luke, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, Jake, Chris, Oliver, oddity on Display, and Sammy for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version.

The Herpetofaunal Awakening

 I can fish pretty much all winter. I don't always, because sometimes it legitimately hurts to be outside. When merely exposing your skin to air results in significant pain that's probably a bad sign. But generally, I like winter fishing. Aside from the popular holdover striper places, popular ice fishing spots, and the Farmington River I generally find myself along out there on the water in the winter, and I like that a lot. Am I patiently waiting for spring to bring much more aggressive fish and more variety? Absolutely. But my love of spring has to do with so much more than just fish. The return of the migrating birds and others passing through on their way north, the budding then blooming of native plants, the insects... I love it all. But the thing I really wait all winter for with baited breath, watching forecasts intently for any sign of hope, is the re-awakening of herpetofauna: reptiles and amphibians.

 It happens before the first day of spring on the calendar most years, at least recently. In fact, 2022 is the first year I've seen a frog in CT on the very first day of the year. But February has been a regular amphibian month for me, and March brings the first snakes. I made a quick stop while bouncing between brown trout streams a few weeks ago on a sunny 60 degree February day and saw the first Eastern ribbon snake of the year, though it slipped into its hole before I could get a photo off. A few rainy nights produced some beautiful wood frogs and the odd spring peeper as February transitioned into March. Visits to some den sites produced signs that some snakes had been out, but no sightings of the animals themselves. Then, on March 7th, I payed a visit to a black racer den. The den is in a steep road grad, composed of a mix of soil rock fill, most of which came from blasted out roadcuts not far away. The slope gets good exposure and has some nice emergent vegetation. Though racers are the predominant species, I've also found Eastern rat snakes and garters as well. 

I worked my way down the slope slowly, carefully examining the leaf litter for patterns I've trained my brain to recognize. Snakes aren't always out in the open and easily spotted. They frequently coil under puffed up fallen leaves or grass, letting the sun warm parts of their body while much remaining very cryptic. Even an adult black racer can be very hard to spot at times, and it's imperative that I spot the snake before I'm right next to it if I want to get the best possible photos. This time though it wasn't like that. The one snake that had emerged, a thick adult racer, was right out in the open adjacent to the area they emerge from. It was an impressive animal in perhaps it's least impressive state. His movements were slow and labored, as his body temperature was very likely still extremely cold. He was also completely covered in dust, a common trait of freshly emerged snakes. 

It was easy enough for me to see through the dust and grime to the spectacular animal underneath. I've got an affinity for racers. Perhaps it's the difficulty of photographing a big, pristine adult in it's best shape... they don't let you, most of the time. Racers are intense. They look at you, calculating, thinking, trying to judge your next move, and if they don't like it they can place an exceptionally accurate strike. They most painful snakebites I've ever taken have been from racers, and if you don't yield they'll bite over and over. Getting really close to a snake like that, ideally without handling it, is very challenging. It takes time, patience, and a keen awareness of the animal and it's body language. If I can photograph racers without getting tagged, I'm all the more prepared for the interactions with copperheads and timber rattlesnakes that I love so much. A racer beats the paints off either of CT's pit vipers when it comes to speed, erratic behavior, and cunning. They'll f*** you up, if you let um.

With the first photographed snake of 2022 under my belt, I was beginning to feel a lot better about life. I'm not sure anything makes me feel like seeing a good reptile or amphibian does. It's pure joy, a different joy than I get from catching a great fish. Similar, but just not quite the same. I've long felt that the good feeling I get from catching a fish is derived from the biological necessity to obtain nutrients. Though I deprive myself of the actual caloric intake by releasing so many of the fish I catch, I'm still taking advantage of the positive signals catching prey results in. It's not like that with finding a snake, it's something else. Something new, I think. See, every species gets positive reinforcement from obtaining food, but in most cases animals get negative reinforcement from encountering snakes. There was a time when getting bit by a venomous pretty much meant death for us. So we jump, we startle, and some of us remain perpetually terrified- but not everyone. Some people are just innately captivated by these weird creatures. I am certainly one of those folks, forever chasing the joy I get from seeing that patch of scales in the leaf litter.

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, C, Franky, Geof, Luke, Streamer Swinger, Noah, Justin, Sean, and Mark for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version.

March of the Toads

 We've had extraordinary amounts of rain in Connecticut this year. Perhaps too much rain, in many ways. Trout anglers who have long complained about diminished flows and low reservoir levels on the Farmington River got to see what the exact opposite does, as runoff flooded into the Colebrook and West Branch reservoirs and caused them to de-stratify; meaning there was no longer cold water at the bottom of those lakes and therefore no cold water to draw into the tailwater. The river ran warm for a very long time, and all the way from the dam in contrast to the typically frigid water that leaves the Hogback Dam most summers. 

Some species benefited substantially from the rainfall and associated weather conditions. One of those species is possibly the most charismatic, strange, and magical frog in New England: the Eastern spadefoot toad. These animals spend the bulk of their lives in dark subterranean burrows of their own creation that range from a few inches to, in extreme cases, a good many feet below the surface. They remain dormant for months at a time but are summoned to the surface by heavy rainfalls associated with a significant barometric pressure drop. They then breed in massive numbers, using temporary pools to deposit their eggs. These eggs develop in as little as a day, and the tadpoles that emerge will metamorph into tiny bug-eyed frogs in just two weeks time. 

Because Eastern spadefoots require specific sandy and loose soils for burrowing, breeding pools that may only exist for a few months throughout the whole year, and are very rarely on the surface to be seen, they have unfortunately been extirpated from many areas. In Connecticut they are now endangered. Gravel extraction, development, and road crossing mortality are the biggest factors in their demise. If it weren't for a handful of dedicated conservationists the number of spadefoot toads would likely be even smaller. When yet another big rain happened in the first days of September, I joined one of those people- herpetologist Dennis Quinn -on a mission to observe spadefoot toads and survey a property that could be holding them. 

The night prior I'd payed a visit to a different area under Dennis' direction to try to see my first ever spadefoot. It was indeed the right conditions. The pressure had plummeted and it was pouring, like really pouring. The same storm system had produced a violent long-tracked tornado in New Jersey and though it was now messy and disorganized, there was a minor probability of a weak and isolated tornado in Connecticut. The rain was really coming down, harder than I'd ever driven in before. Lightning and strong wind added to the ambiance. I made my way to my destination very hopeful that I was about to finally see an animal I'd wanted to ever since I was a very young child. I got to the road Dennis told me to cruise, and sure enough 20 minutes in I saw the shape of a spadefoot in my headlights. In a mad rush I jumped out of the car and ran to the animal, and there in my flashlight beam was the coolest, strangest frog I'd ever seen. 

I was floored, and that was far from the last spadefoot I'd see that night. 

Having observed both adults and juveniles and gotten absolutely drenched, I headed home late that night to get some sleep. The next day I'd head out around sunset to meet Dennis in the same part of the state: this was the epicenter of Connecticut spadefoot activity. We drove around an area where he suspected some breeding pools might exist with the windows down, listening. 

Now, I'd never heard a spadefoot call in person before. It was quite a familiar sound though. When I was little my parents gave me an audio device into which I could insert different cards, upon which were the calls of a variety of wildlife. Some of the cards were birds of prey, some were warblers, some were woodpeckers. One of the cards was all frogs, and one of those frogs was the Eastern spadefoot. I'd listened to every call on that thing hundreds of times, and most intriguing to me of all was the spadefoot's. Perhaps that was just because it was so strange and funny.

A spadefoot's breeding call is a very loud groan, a sound that is hard to describe yet familiar to many herp enthusiasts. It is so loud, actually, that rumor has it one population in Southern Connecticut was eradicated simply because the residents were annoyed by the frogs' incredibly loud calling. Whether that is true or not I can't confirm, but I can say that they are loud. When Dennis and I did finally approach a known breeding pool the trill was audible from quite a distance. We checked for calling activity at three pools, and upon confirming that all three were active we set out to survey a new property. The easement onto it turned out to be a little hard to locate. It was the edge of someone's lawn, and they'd put garbage bins and a brush pile right on the easement. We made it in without some angry homeowner shouting at us, then started surveying the property. Some common species were present, including grey tree frogs and a wood frog, but no spadefoots. 

We did start to hear some calling which we though might be coming from the property. Dennis and I scoured the place only to determine that the callers- just a few males -were coming from somewhere off-property. Having done the job, we briefly tried to find the calling males as they were certainly not in a known pool. Frustratingly they went quiet so we ended up on the most well known pool in the area to document whatever activity was still occurring before the temperature drop shut things down. The pool was literally a flooded backyard, we walked right under that owner's living room window to access it. Dennis told me the story of the discovery of the breeding pool. Upon hearing the frogs calling in the backyard pool, the herpetologists walked to the house and could see a man seemingly sitting down and watching television. They knocked on the door and got no response, that is until the man's wife awoke and answered the door. It turns out both of them had been asleep. Surprisingly they were more than happy to let a bunch of headlamp-clad herpetologists look at their toads. They've allowed the biologists access ever since, and I was grateful for being able to accompany Dennis on the property. A few dozen males called from the pool and the grass bottom was covered in egg masses. Dennis also found some tiny metamorphs from the previous breeding event. 

Throughout the night Dennis was on the phone with other herpetologists who were also out in the field observing spadefoots in various parts of the state. It seems that any time there's more than two inches of rain and a significant pressure drop, more than just the spadefoots burst into a flurry of activity. This was he third breeding event the herpetologists had observed in 2021. Three breeding events in a single season is almost unheard of.

 In years to come I'm going to continue to be a part of this. Like so many species before, spadefoots have completely captivated me, and I feel compelled to help preserve and protect them and their habitat.

Until next time, 

Fish for the love of fish.

Fish for the love of places fish live.

Fish for you.

And stay safe and healthy.

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, C, Franky, Geof, Luke, Streamer Swinger, and Noah for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version.

Spring Reptiles

 I've delved deeper and deeper into my oldest obsession over the last few years. I was interested in reptiles well before fish, and spending time observing timber rattlesnakes really opened it back up for me. I've become completely engrossed in the pursuit of snakes. I want to see as many as I can and I want to capture the best images I possibly can of each species I find. 

Black racers are one of the first species I see most years and also one of the most charismatic. They're underrated because of their abundance, but to me they'll always be a favorite. I love alert, intelligent reptiles, and black racers are definitely both. They also routinely shock me with unusual behavior. Last year, I spooked a racer out of a pile of leaves and it promptly shot down slope and launched itself off the cliff face. The drop was easily 40 feet and I have to imagine the snake had some sort of game plan and had done this exact thing before. This spring I got to do some very close-up photography of emerging black racers. I also got to photograph a mating pair. Mating snakes often seem to throw caution to the wind. These two came tumbling down the hill right to me. 

Of course, I've been spending plenty of time with timber rattlesnakes. In fact, I really can't seem to shake them. I feel at times that I want to take a break but they just pull me back. Since they're endangered and I am completely enamored with them, I also have to deal with near constant strife. I worry constantly about poachers, development, trail building, and information leaks that threaten the sensitive populations. I'm currently deeply engrossed in a battle against mountain bikers at a den that very much seems to be slipping away. I've seen no more that two adults in one day on this particular mountain, and it was a very strong population just 10 years ago. Moves in the right direction are being made, and I'm glad I've been around to sound alarms, but I still fear for the future.

CT's other venomous snake, the copperhead, has also sucked up a lot of my time this spring. Unlike last year, it has been very fruitful. I've gotten to photograph dozens of beautiful copperheads this year already.

Perhaps most excitingly, just the other day I completed a long standing goal. I photographed the last CT snake species I'd yet to capture. The smooth green snake is one of New England's most striking wild animals. Bright green and sometimes even blue, smooth green snakes stand out from every other snake species in the area. They are also seriously imperiled and difficult to find. I finally hit it right last week and my friend Bruce and I got to enjoy not one but two of these amazing animals. 

I've very much enjoyed where searching for reptiles has taken me in recent years. Its very similar to fishing, actually. Snakes like certain weather, different places are more productive at different times of day, and I get a very similar rush from accomplishing my goals. It's certainly not going to pull me away from fishing, but it is a nice break from it sometimes.

Until next time, 

Fish for the love of fish.

Fish for the love of places fish live.

Fish for you.

And stay safe and healthy.

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, C, Franky, Geof, Luke, and Noah for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version. 

Closing November With a Salamander, Opening December With a Walleye

 November 2020 was the warmest November in my memory. I saw the last timber rattlesnake of the year on the 5th and the last black racer of the year much later than that. Stripers remained surface active well into December. So when the final day of November came with a good heavy rain and more unusual warmth, I went out to see if I might find one last spotted salamander crossing the road this year. This past year gave me the most remarkable spring amphibian migration day I've experienced yet, and it seemed likely it would show off a few more herps very late into the fall. With close to ideal conditions, I set out driving an area I'd had exceptional luck with during the spring. After an hour of driving very slowly down windy back roads through wooded Eastern CT hills, I was about to give in and accept defeat. I'd seen a single green frog and a couple wood frogs that cleared the road before I got to them. That wasn't much. Then, while another car passed me, I saw the tell-tale shape of a large mole salamander on the center line. I flipped the car around as soon as I could and hoped it would still be there when I got back. Sure enough, there it was. It hadn't moved at all. I put my hazards on, donned my safety vest, and went out to photograph the last salamander I'd see in 2020. 

See Spot run.

I was pleased enough with that to head straight home. But the next night was pretty warm as well, and I knew the influx of rain would get some other animals to move, too. Some would remain moving a couple days after the rain would end. What I was most interested in the night of December first though was Sander vitreus.

Walleye.

Though the spring rains are undoubtedly my favorite time to fish for these white eyed nocturnal predators, fall and early winter provide another great opportunity. I made tracks to my favorite creek mouth with my five weight and a box of woolly buggers- all that is needed to catch big walleye in these conditions. Heavy rains draw big walleye to creek mouths almost year round, and they are available within fly casting range in shallow water for a short period during and after the deluge. This night was ideal, and I wasn't at all surprised when the third cast resulted in a doubled over rod. This was clearly a gigantic walleye. I've had a few fish between 27 and 29 inches in my short time frequently seeking trophy 'eyes, but this was clearly in a league of it's own. The head shakes were huge. My heart sank when my line went slack. That was probably a 30 inch class walleye. It was still early though, and I kept plumbing the depths. Eventually I was in again. It was no 30 incher but it was still a great fish, more than enough for a brief celebration. 

It's tail was huge and it had great colors. That fish ended up being the last walleye of both that night and the year- not a bad way to end it. I look forward to spring; I'll still be after that 30 incher. I won't be satisfied until I've broken the walleye fly rod world record. Until next time.

Fish for the love of fish.

Fish for the love of places fish live.

Fish for you.

And stay safe and healthy.

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, C, Franky, and Geof for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version. 

Edited by Cheyenne Terrien 

Redhorse, Shiners, and Crayfish Eating Snakes (Western PA Pt. 6)

 As dawn broke on our second morning in Pennsylvania, it became abundantly clear to Jake, Noah and I that we needed to make a pretty drastic change. We'd struggled the whole day prior and well into the night to find larger fish that were willing to eat, and we just weren't successful. And now it was the coldest morning any of us had felt in months. Temperatures had dropped below 50 overnight. We hit the same creek where Noah and I had found wild trout the first day, and Jake quickly got his lifer, but we then dropped south. Even though we were inland and not even travelling an hour, we were going into slightly warmer weather. We were headed to another area I'd spent a lot of time around as a kid, but still hadn't fished much. 

We dropped further down the Allegheny watershed, towards a town called Vandergrift and the surrounding area. Vandergrift is where my mother grew up and where my grandparents still live, northeast of Pittsburgh. We'd spend the second half of our trip fishing this area, which is just as species rich though much more impacted industrial activity. It would be interesting to see how the native species were faring in these waters. 

The first spot we decided to check out was a spillway my grandfather has been telling me about for years. It was a spot he'd caught a number of muskellunge at over the years. That was certainly a big draw, but it was a spillway... from shiners to redhorse to huge catfish, spillways draw fish. They're both a barrier to upstream travel, a food delivery funnel, and a provider of deep holding water. We knew the likelihood of encountering things like drum, sauger, redhorse, and buffalo would be pretty high at such a place. And he first few minutes were not disappointing, as we saw multiple sized and species of redhorse. Some were just flashing, but others were actually tailing like carp. Or, frankly, like bonefish. Because if I were going to consider any North American freshwater fish a bonefish, it would be redhorse. They're sleeker than carp and I'm convinced they fight harder, pound for pound. 

As it turned out though they aren't as easy to catch. I was getting snubbed constantly no matter what I presented these fish. This surprised me a bit, I'd expected these fish to be about as difficult as carp and a little easier than white suckers, but at least in the conditions we'd been presented so far they were about as tricky as white suckers if not more. Even with bait they were far from pushovers. 

Incidentally, the first notable catch, by Jake, wasn't a fish, but a reptile. He'd actually caught one the night before as well, albeit a juvenile, and that one had been my lifer. It was a queen snake, an unassuming but beautiful semi-aquatic natricine that feeds primarily on crayfish. They're cool snakes but that's all I really knew about them, I hadn't even realized they lived in the area. 

These were very cool snakes, I saw them exhibit behavior more aquatic in nature than any snake species I'e observed besides actual water snakes (Nerodia). They'd poke out of crevices with everything but their heads under the surface, and spent extended periods of time completely submerged. They seemed especially abundant too, we saw lots of them. 

Eventually I finally caught something noteworthy while indicator nymphing, something very noteworthy. My indicator gave a little shudder, very bluegill like, but I set into something much larger than I'd hooked all day and when it started thrashing at the surface I could see that it was a redhorse, so no matter what it would be a new species. It turned out to be a smallmouth redhorse, endemic to the Ohio drainage and an especially good looking redhorse speceis. It had nibbled a beadhead Hare's Ear soft hackle. 

Lifelist fish #174, smallmouth redhorse, Moxostoma breviceps. Rank:species.

That was a gorgeous fish, a native species that is largely overlooked and an exceptional challenge to catch. I promptly fell in love and had a big goofy smile plastered on my face as I let the fish slip from my hands and back into the muddy river. 

I kept indicator nymphing for a while hoping that might be the effective method, and I did get a few more fish, but not anything exciting. 

By the time I gave up on that, Jake and Noah were hammering down on micros, including streamline chubs which I thought I needed (I'd not yet ID'd mine from the day before). Jake was also catching the odd logperch. So I rigged a tanago and got to it. Of course I could only seem to catch species I already had, but luckily I take photos of fish that may not be new but have some relatives that are similar enough... what I thought was a spottail shiner I'm now as sure as I an be is a rosyface shiner.

Lifelist Fish #175, rosyface shiner, Notropis rubellus. Rank: species.

With two new species on the fly under my belt, I ended the day's outing photographing another queen snake.

From the river we headed to my grandparents' house, where we'd get to say in relative luxury for two nights in their camper. It was great to see them, though strange due to the necessity of social distancing due to coronavirus. Living a few states away from my family leaves long gaps between visits, so though I'd been there and seen them all much more recently than I'd seen Franklin, a lot had changed. It held more of a familiarity though, it felt much less strange. Perhaps the presence of people I know and love is all there is to that.

Until next time,

Fish for the love of fish.
Fish for the love of places fish live.
Fish for you.
And stay safe and healthy.

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, and Franky for supporting this blog on Patreon.

The World's 4th Largest Salamander (Western Pennsylvania Pt. 4)

My love for reptiles and amphibians runs deep. I can't remember a time when I wasn't captivated by frogs, snakes, salamanders, crocodilians, you name it. It certainly runs deeper than my fascination for fish. Herpetology was my first love, Ichthyology not even my second or third, so there are amphibians that I've wanted to see as long as I can remembered, but not fish. One of those amphibians is the largest Salamander in North America, the hellbender. 

The largest salamander in the world might be the South China giant salamander, Andrias sligoi, with one specimen collected in the Guizhou Province measuring a stunning 5.9ft in length. Because biology is a sloppy science, the South China giant salamander was lumped in as non-distinct and then forgotten. It was then revived as a distinct species when genetic research in 2018 proved that the Chinese giant salamander was not a distinct species, but a collection of clades divided among different river drainages, some of which were distinct enough to get species designation. Because the largest specimen of Chinese giant salamander could be A sligoi, but genetic material is not fresh enough to test, it remains a mystery which species the record breaking specimen is. A. sligoi and A. davidianus are critically endangered and it isn't even known if A. sligoi exists in its native range anymore. The Chinese affinity for using basically any animal for medicine or for food has driven these incredible and important animals to the brink, and continues to threaten their viability to this day. 

In Japan, the native Adrias japonicus , the third largest salamander in the world, has enjoyed better protections in recent history but is still listed as near threatened. The largest wild specimen was 58lbs and 4.5ft long. Thankfully Japan has recognized the biological an cultural significance of their giant salamanders and are better equipped to protect them than China is with their own. It seems likely that the Japanese giant salamander will be around for years to come. 

A fourth species of the giant salamander family (Cryptobranchidae) lives in the eastern United States. The hellbender, Cryptobranchus alleganiensis, is the largest amphibian in North America and possibly the fourth largest salamander in the world maxing out at well over two feet. It, like it's Japanese relative, is listed as near threatened, and Pennsylvania is one of the last best places to see the species and the only state where it doesn't have special protections (and that's very stupid, it should, but PA is slow about this stuff... they still allow timber rattlesnake hunting, after all). Though I'd lived right smack dab in the middle of hellbender country for years and spent countless hours exploring streams where they live, I'd never seen one. So when we all woke up on the first morning of our trip and groggily got ready for a long day on the water, it didn't cross my mind that I'd have a good chance at seeing one that day. 

We headed straight to the river I'd seen the muskies and Moxostoma in the evening before, each of us prepared to target both, as well as micros. As we walked down some railroad tracks to the spot, we saw the first herp of the day, a DeKay's brown snake making a morning move. 

I had my 8wt rigged to indicator nymph and 10wt rigged to throw big streamers when I hit the water. I bumped spot to spot with one rod tucked under my arm, casting with the other, alternating methods. I then settled in a good looking run for a little while and nymphed it hard, hoping to dredge up something interesting. The first fish was a little smallmouth and so was the second, but the third was a silver shiner than somehow managed to drop my indicator with quite a bit of force. 

It became clear very quickly that the redhorse I'd seen all over this creek the day before were being far more shy this morning. I was seeing a few flash, but I sure wasn't getting eats and I wasn't even getting much in the way of takes from other fish. Jake got a log perch and his lifer river chub, Noah was getting the odd bass and chub, but the muskies and redhorse were being cold and distant. With the muskies that wasn't at all surprising, but I didn't know to expect it from the Moxostoma.  

River chub

We wandered upstream a ways, then started back down after deciding we weren't especially likely to find anything different above us. In the spot I'd seen the muskies, we found a small pike. I got it to exhibit interest in a big black muskie fly but couldn't get it to eat. There were schools of minnows and shiners holding along the same weed edge though, and we started fishing to those. That's how I got my first lifer of the day and my second Luxilus species, and my favorite species of the genus, the striped shiner. Colored up male striped shiners are one of the most beautiful freshwater fish in the world. I have a watercolor taxonomic painting of one hanging on my bedroom wall. This one was a dull female outside of spawning season, but still a gorgeous little fish.

Lifelist fish #171, striped shiner, Luxilus chrysocephalus. Rank: species.

Jake and I were catching a bunch of river chubs out of this spot, and eventually I hooked a pretty good one. 

We headed back downriver to the same run I'd really pounded on my way upstream. We all went over to the opposite side, Jake and I stayed in the run, Noah headed downriver. I parked myself on a big slab of sandstone with a deep pocket in front of me and nymphed it hard, pulling one smallmouth out. Then Jake hollered that he had some unusual amphibian eggs in front of him. I waded over and it was true, these were some large and odd shaped eggs I'd never seen before. They did have some hallmarks of salamander eggs, but huge ones, and all we could think was that they were a hellbender's They looked in awful conditions though, certainly not alive, but there were a few good rock slabs around and I decided to gently lift one. As I did so, a huge cloud of mud erupted from it and a long brown animal roiled out and vanished. Jake felt it bump his legs but it was completely lost in its own smoke screen of disturbed mud and detritus. We began searching around for what we were now sure must be a hellbender. I saw something roll on the surface in some shallow weedy water a few feet away from me and headed to it, feeling around with my hands. Suddenly there was a commotion behind me and Jake yelled "I got him, HELLBENDER!". I whipped around to see Jake with the largest amphibian I'd ever seen writhing in his hands.  We shouted down to Noah and quickly moved the animal into shallow water where we could control it more safely. Noah rushed up. All three of us have interest in amphibians and reptiles. Noah and I have done night drives on rainy spring nights looking for migrating amphibians and looked for snakes in the Everglades. Jake is a herper and has been for a long time. We all understood how special the animal we were looking at was. 

The small wound on this individual's head was unfortunate for photography, but amphibians have the most remarkable ability to heal, and undoubtedly this wound is but a small scar now as I write this. I was in love with everything about this bizarre creature. It's tiny eyes, it's folded, smooth skin, it's remarkably large hands... this was nothing like any animal I'e ever seen, let alone held. Some might find it ugly, some might even be scared of it, but anyone that find themselves drawn to amphibians dreams of seeing any of the giant aquatic salamanders. These animals can live as much as thirty years, and they are just so big... there's really nothing like that experience. To me it was akin to seeing my first timber rattlesnake, another species that draws a very real, very visceral response from everyone that gets to see one in the wild. There's a number of animals that stick with me in the same way this hellbender did, animals that I can honestly say changed my life. It takes something special, and it's personal too. Black bears and moose didn't do it for me, though I'm sure they have for many others. It may seem crazy that this salamander shook me up that much, but you know what? If you don't get that, either you haven't seen one and you will get it if you do, or you're not the sort of person I could get along with, simple as that. Noah and Jake though got it, the understand. There's no two people I would rather have been with at that moment in time. We were all just in awe of this animal. 

As we watched it swim/walk/crawl back into it's stony lair, we knew this day had peaked... it couldn't get any better. We fished a bit longer there but then started to make our way back to the car. On the way, I flipped a piece of shale along the railroad track and there was an odd looking garter snake under it. Research seems to indicate that this was a shorthead gartersnake. Jake found a few eastern garters the same size under another rock and the differences were striking. The shorthead had a stouter head (of course) and no checkering pattern at all. I may have seen one of these when I was young but I wouldn't have known it, so for all intents and purposes this was my first. 

Thamnophis brachystoma

Jake then flipped another rock with four snakes under it, and two were stunning adult Northern redbelly snakes, a species I'd been trying and failing to get good photos of in CT all season. I'd seen two and photographed one small, in shed juvenile, but these two were the sort of individuals I really wanted to photograph and they could not have been more different looking. It's amazing that these two individuals of the same species were found under the same rock. 

So it had been a slow morning of fishing but an incredible one for herping... we could only guess how the rest of the day might go. It seemed that just about anything could be possible on this trip. 

*If the conservation and protection of hellbenders and other species that use the same habitats is of interest to you, take initiative in keeping streams natural. Rock stacking, small dam building and other such seemingly low impact activities have huge consequences on such species. Actively dismantle such structures when possible and discourage people from altering stream structure in such ways. in addition, please vote for leaders that support strong clean water, clean air, and environmental protection policies in local and national elections. 

Until next time,

Fish for the love of fish.
Fish for the love of places fish live.
Fish for you.
And stay safe and healthy.

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, and Franky for supporting this blog on Patreon.

Goodbye, Florida

As the sun set on our last evening in Florida and the mosquitoes chased us away from the still rolling tarpon, we prepared for yet another night of driving slowly down dirt roads for hours looking for snakes.

I had a sense of urgency to see something fantastic before we had to leave. So far we'd seen very common species. The first snake we saw wasn't uncommon, it was another moccasin, but a huge one. It was stalk still when the van came to a halt but not when we approached it on foot. The snake was already on the edge of the road so it didn't have far to go to get away. I quickly made a desperate bid to keep it from getting away, grabbing the fat, powerful pit viper by the tail, letting go when it turned, then grabbing again when it continued its getaway. By then it was deep in the tangle of vines and grass and there was no way I was pulling it out without getting bit so I dropped it again. That was a minor disappointment; though being the same species I'd already photographed a bunch of times in the prior two nights, it was the most impressive and intimidating one we'd seen and I adore big intimidating snakes as much as I adore little, colorful, completely charming ones.

That is what the next snake I saw in the road was... so small it was barely noticeable. It's lack of size had me excited as I also knew right away it wasn't a corn snake, so it must be something we'd not yet seen. I could hardly contain my excitement when I saw that it was a scarlet snake, a species I'd wanted to see for years. Then I could hardly contain my horror when I saw that it was dying, presumably from a run in with a previous car. Still alive but just barely, my first ever scarlet snake was just a reminder of the damage humans have done to this place. Such a perfect beautiful living thing, destroyed by humans simply having been present.

I decided we should carry it with us to see if its condition would improve at all. I hoped it would but doubted it.

Down the road, we saw an SUV pulled over and two girls our age shining a flashlight into one of the many pools of deeper water along the road. We stopped and I asked what they were were looking for. "Oh we're just checking shit out." one of the two replied. I laughed and replied "That's basically what we're doing too but mostly looking for snakes". They then asked if we knew how to find Burmese pythons, and said no... I gave my best answer which boiled down basically to no, not really, I wish we did.... I told them about the snakes we'd been finding and about the scarlet snake, and they wanted to see it. I went and grabbed it. Unfortunately it was in far worse condition so after showing them and explaining the difference between it and a scarlet kingsnake I gently placed it under a bush. I told the girls if they cruised slowly and stayed on the lookout they'd likely at least get to see a moccasin or two. We left them and could still see their headlights behind us when we found our next moc. We heard tight and made sure the snake didn't go anywhere while we waited for them to get to us. The snake was a good boy and didn't bite me while we waited for them to reach us. They were very excited to see it, and I was more than happy to share the experience with people who enjoyed it as much as I did.

That was our last everglades snake. It was a fitting end, and the reminder I needed after finding that dying scarlet snake that not all people are destructive and careless. Dinner was... well... I guess the next photo is at least somewhat self explanatory, maybe not the bolt cutters. But you get the idea.
Any food is good food on the side of a dirt road in the woods.

The next morning we rose before the sun to try and catch one last tarpon. The sun rose over Florida behind me as a 20 pound tarpon erupted on my gurgler, did a cartwheel, then tail walked 15 feet. I don't even know if I bowed, I was too busy watching the chaos unfolding in front of me, completely awe struck. The fish broke off. I wasn't even mad. 

An hour later, we turned the van off the Tamiami and pointed north. This time we wouldn't be turning around. We crossed my favorite river in Florida on a long bridge and I eyed the mangrove islands below. We crossed the sweltering spine of the peninsula and got on I-95. Then we drove to South Carolina. We'd said goodbye to Florida but the adventure was not yet over.
Until next time,

Fish for the love of fish.

Fish for the love of places fish live.

Fish for you.

And stay safe and healthy.

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, and Franky for supporting this blog on Patreon.