Stormy nights romantic for toads looking for mates
In 1830, writer Edward Bulwer-Lytton released his novel, “Paul Clifford.” It opened with the now immortal and oft-mocked line, “It was a dark and stormy night.”
The evening of March 31 was such a night in Athens County. I met up with biologist Laura Hughes to seek one of Ohio’s most enigmatic amphibians, a wee beast that is best seen on dark and stormy nights.
Several inches of rain had fallen on the area in the preceding 24 hours, and it was still precipitating when Laura and I arrived at a flooded field not far from the Hocking River.
March is a volatile month weather-wise, and we were concerned that temperatures would plummet to levels unsuitable for amphibians. Luck was with us, though, and the mercury still registered 50 degrees when we arrived about 9 p.m.
Upon exiting the vehicle, we were greeted by a cacophony of amphibian songs. Tiny spring peepers blasted their shrill birdlike notes. Sonorous semi-musical trills of American toads added to the ambiance, which was punctuated by the nasal twangs of green frogs.
These were not the sounds we sought. Finally, around 10 p.m., there it was! The loud bleating of a male eastern spadefoot, Scaphiopus holbrookii, a strange and poorly known little toad.
Before long, many other spadefoots had joined the symphony and we started to see the little beasts.
A spadefoot is oddlooking indeed. Taping out at about 2.5 inches, they are smooth and more froglike than the familiar, warty American toad. Massive bug eyes protrude conspicuously and powerful forelimbs prop the animal up.
The toads’ curious name stems from a dark, elongate ridge of hardened tissue on the hind feet. The animal uses these appendages to dig through the soil.
And therein lies the rub, insofar as spadefoot-toad quests go. The amphibian spends nearly its entire life underground.
Toad-seekers must be prepared to venture out on short notice, following downpours. Then, if lucky, they may be treated to an explosive mating frenzy that might last but one night. The males float in shallow water, issuing a love song that sounds like a sick sheep — This discordant braying carries some distance, tipping one to their presence.
After mating, the female spadefoot releases long chains of dark eggs into the water. As the wetlands they utilize often dry up quickly, the eggs can hatch within a day or so. The tadpoles grow rapidly and metamorphosis — transformation to an adult — can occur within a few weeks.
Then, the fledgling toads become inhabitants of the subterranean — out of sight and out of mind. Burrowing through soft soils, they feed on insects and other invertebrate fare. The animals emerge periodically to forage on the surface, but usually under cover of darkness and seldom detected.
The eastern spadefoot is listed as endangered in Ohio. Only a smattering of populations are known in perhaps nine southeastern counties. This species is near the northern limits of its range in Ohio; it becomes more common southward.
Venturing afield on dark and stormy nights sometimes pays off in spades.