My love for frogs and salamanders is getting out of hand. I realized this when I set my alarm for 3 a.m. so I could wake up to find them in the rain and pitch dark.
I like to sleep. Ask anyone who knows me. Every night, I get between 8 and 10 hours of uninterrupted slumber, ignoring sounds and rarely shifting position. My mother, while sharing a tent with me, once placed her hand on my back as I slept to make sure I was still breathing. That’s how deeply I dream. I’m practically in a state of torpor.
Yet I’ll wake up at an ungodly hour to see amphibians. That’s saying a lot.
Each April, Maine’s amphibians migrate across the landscape, crawling and hopping as they move from their wintering grounds to wetlands where they breed. This phenomenon is called Maine’s Big Night. I’ve written about it before, but I just can’t get enough. My enthusiasm grows each year.
I eagerly await the right conditions: a rainy night with temperatures around 40 degrees or higher. That’s when amphibians stir, following invisible pathways of chemicals and scents, memory and sounds. Driven by instinct, they make their way to vernal pools and marshes, beaver bogs and ponds.
Along the way, these small creatures sometimes cross roadways, where many of them are squished under the tires of two-ton vehicles. What do you think inspired the iconic 1981 video game Frogger? It’s actually pretty depressing.
In an effort to raise awareness about this phenomenon and save some salamanders and frogs from being crushed by vehicles, biologist and amphibian enthusiast Greg LeClair started a nonprofit community science project called Maine Big Night in 2018. It has grown steadily over the years. To date, more than a thousand volunteers throughout the state visit amphibian hotspots in the springtime to count and save amphibians as they cross the road.
In addition, there are plenty of nature enthusiasts like me who venture outdoors to witness the phenomenon but aren’t officially a part of the Maine Big Night project. That doesn’t mean that the data I collect goes to waste.
I submit my Big Night sightings online to the Maine Amphibian and Reptile Atlas Project, which began in 1984, making it one of the longest-running citizen science projects in New England. The records collected serve as a foundation for “Amphibians and Reptiles of Maine.” The third edition of that book sits on a shelf beside me right now. It’s fantastic.
Maine’s Big Night is actually a number of nights throughout early and mid-April, so if you miss one, you may be able to witness another. This year, it was a bit tricky. I waited and waited, but the weather conditions weren’t lining up. Finally, the forecast called for rain, but not until 2 a.m. I set my alarm for 3, thinking I’d give salamanders and frogs time to wake up and start moving.
My efforts paid off. On the road near my home in Dedham, I found 15 spotted salamanders strutting their stuff. (They really do seem to strut.) I also counted about twice as many spring peepers, Maine’s smallest species of frog. Plus I saw a pickerel frog, which had dark, square-ish blotches on its body and stripes on its legs.
I walked along the road for about an hour, through drizzle and fog, swiveling my head back and forth to scan the wet pavement with the beam of my headlamp. Though I doubted anyone would be driving the road at that hour of the morning, I still picked up salamanders and frogs and ferried them to the side of the road where they were heading — just in case.
I was glad of this decision when a dump truck barreled down the road around 3:30 a.m. Even with my reflective vest and light, I don’t think the driver saw me. They didn’t slow down.
After that, I counted 10 dead spring peepers, flattened on the road, plus two destroyed salamanders. It was sad to see, but I’m sure the truck driver was clueless about the carnage. Even if they did know about Maine’s Big Night, maybe they were required to get to work at a certain time. It’s not as if they could swerve around every tiny peeper. These logical thoughts warred with my emotions as the fishy scent of smooshed amphibians permeated the air.
Maine Big Night volunteers aren’t allowed to stop traffic. It’s just too dangerous. However, they do stake out signs asking vehicles to slow down. I’ve considered asking my neighbors if I could do that on our road.
A few nights later, it rained again, and at a more reasonable hour. I walked the same stretch of road from 9 to 10:30 p.m. and found fewer spotted salamanders than before (just three) but a greater variety of frogs. Maine is home to nine species of frogs and toads, and during that short nighttime stroll, I found five of those species crossing the road: green frog, spring peeper, wood frog, pickerel frog and American toad.
From left: A spring peeper freezes while hopping across a road around 9:30 p.m. on April 14 in Dedham. The author uses an ID sheet to display an exceptionally small spring peeper, Maine’s smallest species of frog, while observing amphibian migration on the night of April 14 in Dedham. Credit: Courtesy of Aislinn Sarnacki
Every year, I learn something new by getting outside and witnessing this phenomenon. This year, I noticed that the spotted salamanders in my neighborhood migrated just ahead of many of the frog species. Perhaps they’re somehow better equipped to move in colder temperatures? Or is it simply instinct, tied to a biological clock?
I also discovered that many wolf spiders populate the road during rainy nights. Their eyes sparkled in the beam of my headlamp — and at quite a distance. Several online articles suggest they’re seeking high ground as they escape flooded burrows, which made their glittering eyes a lot less spooky to me.
Who knows what I’ll learn from next year’s Big Night? Nature has a way of revealing itself bit by bit. You just have to pay attention — and sometimes set your alarm clock.