TRIUMPH OF SPIRIT IN LOVE, NATURE & ART

Posts tagged “Salamanders

Spring Seraphic Singing

It is late afternoon and spring by the calendar, although still quite cool.  I have just spent some time at our neighbor’s pond, listening to a form of music that some have likened to the sound to bells.  Others liken it to bird song. And still others with unimaginable disdain, to “some kind of nature noise.”  For me it is one of the happiest of sounds– the act of creation transformed into sound decibels for all to hear.  A sound that comes from the earth and resounds to the heavens, unwittingly praising the Almighty.   It is a form of ecstasy when the sound surrounds me totally, filling my ears every evening with perhaps the single-most highlight of spring for me– the siren song of the Spring Peepers counterbalanced by the deeper sound of wood frogs.

How have they cast their spell over so many?   I cannot say except that their song is uplifting and filled with hope despite the natural perils they face daily.  For, as true of all of us, they may die at any moment– say as a meal for a nearby perching crow or underneath murky waters eaten by a snapping turtle.  They call for a mate without ceasing, without fear, single-mindedly, without a thought for their own safety.  This is nature at her most elemental, in her most singular scope.  The peepers all sing out vying to be heard– an a cappella choir of voices.  In some spots, I am told, their song is deafening.  How nice to be there; I cannot get enough of their sweet music.  It moves me to tears– these tiny creatures singing out their heart’s desire.

As I return home to family “situations” and domestic duties, I yearn for the simplicity and total fervor of their song.  For if they sing then all is “right” in at least that small part of the world.  Progress has not paved over their pond.  Disdainful humans have not drained a “vernal pool.”  David M. Carroll writes about vernal pools in his books on turtles called The Swampwalker’s Journal.  As the title suggests, Carroll walks such places in search of turtles and other amphibians.  He defines a vernal pool as a pool of water that fills up in Fall and Winter, swells in the Spring and often dries up by end of Summer.  But a vernal pool is utmost a place of magic, not only where turtles lurk, but where mating frogs deposit gelatinous eggs which turn into tadpoles first, and there, later become frogs.  And after a requisite series of warm days, followed by spring rains, on the first dark night, vernal pools become the site of the “salamander night.”  Salamanders leave their hibernacula to go for a night of endless mating and then return to leaf litter in the woods to disappear for the rest of the year.  Some people who know nothing of vernal pools and their function deem them a nuisance, a big puddle to be filled in or drained.  Some people know little of spring peepers and wood frogs except that they are “noisy,” “like some sort of insect.”  Poor insects are made out to be the pesky lowest of the low. The natural symphony of hormonal, harmonic sounds sometimes falls on deaf ears.

After finishing my evening chores, I try reading, but find the haunting sound of the spring peepers and wood frogs digging deep within my psyche, making me restless, wishing to be part of that pond, surrounded on all sides by the sex song, inebriated with the unbridled joy in the air, submerged in the utter power of nature manifesting in one of her gentler forms.  For the song of the Spring Peepers nature celebrates life-to-be rather than the taking-away of life.  Most of all, the song of the Spring Peepers is a song of tremendous faith, faith in love, faith that love will propagate, and faith that new life will emerge.

Spring Trees at Sunset  (digital photo)


Denizens of the Deep

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The marsh is melting

and

all the turtles in their hibernacula

deep down under the melting ice

will soon emerge

and the marsh will sing

the chorus of the Spring Peeper

and the salamanders will emerge

with the urge to murge

and joy and the life force

will fill the air

and lift the fog

enveloping my soul.

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“Landscape of Loss”

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Sap is flowing through ice and snow

When nature awakens in late March or early April, sap starts flowing in the trees and ice changes to water marking the end of hibernation.  This is the grand opening of the wetlands and the pilgrimage to the vernal pools as David M. Carroll writes in his “Swampwalker’s Journal: a Wetlands Year.”  A vernal pool is a body of water which fills up in autumn and winter and is swollen in the spring but often dries up completely by the end of the summer.  Carroll describes vernal pools so beautifully: “It is at snowmelt and ice-out, the last sleets, first rains, and the earliest warming breaths of spring that they beckon wood frogs, salamanders, and spring peepers from surrounding upland woods, where they have passed the winter in rotted-out trees roots [a reason not to ‘clean up’ the woods], under layers of bark and litter, in small mammal tunnels and other hibernacula in the earth.”  The melting snow heralds the march of the amphibians.  “Vernal pool habitats hold a galaxy of small things that come to life the instant ice and snow turn back into water.”

Carroll walks the swamps, as the title of his book suggests, in search of mating salamanders and spotted turtles, bogs, fens and all wetland flora and fauna.   He tells us that there must be a certain collusion of events– several warm days in a row followed by a darkest of nights with temperatures ideally in the mid-50s with rain preferably two nights in a row.  And then the magical migration begins.  The salamanders begin their “annual pilgrimage” to the vernal pond to mate.

My husband and I are lucky enough to have a vernal pond on the property next door to us and when Spring comes the sound at night from that pond makes us feel as if we are camping out next to a vast wetland.  The music of the spring peepers plays through the night throughout the house, often starting overeagerly in the late afternoon.  This manic symphony thrills us every year.  It is the first sign of Spring for us.  The quality of joyousness and the affirmation of life gladdens our souls.  Going to sleep with that sound makes us remember what we so often forget, to give thanks to our Creator for His magnificent creatures.

Inspired by Carroll, one year we awaited the first dark, rainy warm night after a succession of warm days.  In our rain gear, armed with flashlights we set out around 11PM to look for the march of the salamanders.  We walked to the nearby pond.  Nothing.  We walked quite aways down a nearby dirt road that has run off but is not quite a vernal pond.  We shone the flashlight this way and that.  Nothing.  We finally headed home disappointed and dejected and my husband started towards the front door when I let out a yelp.  There in the doorway was a 6 inch spotted salamander in all its glory!  We never found the march of the salamanders but we were greeted by one of these fantastic amphibians right at our front door!

This story, however, does not have a happy ending.  In his epilogue to the “Swampwalker’s Journal,” David Carroll explains why it took him more than 7 years to complete this book.  He writes that he became involved in saving some of the wetlands in his book and says sadly nearly all of his interventions have or will become “losing battles.”  He describes the plight of the wetlands, bogs and fens as a “landscape of loss.”   And he scorns our human selfishness as he writes how it “reveals explicitly the extent to which we think of ourselves as owning all living things, along with the very earth, air, and water in which they live, as if we possessed some divinely mandated dominion over all creation.”  He warns: “As we will learn in time none of this belongs to us.”  I read these words, knowing them to be true and I think of the soon-to-be-extinct bog turtle and other creatures with the same possible fate.  I think of the spotted salamander who came to our door, as did Shelley, the snapping turtle who used to return to our drive way every year to lay her eggs.  I think of the spring peepers whose joyous song heralds spring next door every year, and I fear for the future of them all.