Nicci and I set out toward Station Branch, dip nets, muck boots, and packs in tow. We carefully wade out into the water, crouch down low, and begin overturning rocks and pushing around leaf litter. Although chatter continues between us for a few minutes, we soon fall into a comfortable silence, only broken by the soft splashes of our waterproof boots and the flowing stream.
We’re hunting for the Blue Ridge Two-Lined Salamander (Eurycea cf. wilderae), the subject of our independent research project at the Highlands Biological Station. This salamander, common in the Southern Appalachian Mountains, is identified by the two black lines running down its body, black spots dotting its head and back, and striking orange color. Eurycea cf. wilderae is a member of the Plethodontidae, or lungless, family of salamanders. As their name suggests, these salamanders—you guessed it—lack lungs, instead breathing through their skin and the tissues lining their mouths. Our work surrounds the unique, alternative reproductive tactics of E. cf. wilderae. Male E. cf. wilderae can be one of two distinct morphs, or forms, each with dramatically different morphology and occupying distinct reproductive niches. The “searching” morph has mustache-like appendages known as cirri, is a vivid orange color, and courts females on land. In contrast, “guarding” males lack cirri, are generally more muted in color, and have enlarged jaw muscles to defend aquatic nesting sites from other males. These alternative reproductive tactics are genetically-based, making them the first of their kind discovered in amphibians.
Pictured left to right: a guarding male, a searching male, and a female.
Situated in the stunningly biodiverse Southern Appalachians and being the site of a number of classic salamander studies, Highlands Biological Station is the salamander mecca. The region’s cool, wet climate, glacial history, and topographic diversity, resulted in both species mixing and divergence—a recipe for biodiversity. Smoky Mountains National Park alone is host to 30 salamander species, the highest concentration anywhere in North America. During our surveys, Nicci and I, along with all of the friends who’ve joined us throughout the semester, have witnessed this stunning biodiversity firsthand. Although E. cf. wilderae may be our target species, we never miss an opportunity to admire their Plethodontid relatives. On a rainy night, a Northern Slimy Salamander (Plethodon glutinosus), the Red-Backed Salamander (Plethodon cinereus) and the prevalent Grey-Cheeked Salamander (Plethodon montanus) may all be found sharing the same patch of Galax (Galax urceolata). Stream surveys are trickier—if you carefully overturn a rock, wait for the sediment to settle and peer closely into the murky water, you may spot the enormous Blackbelly (Desmognathus quadramaculatus) or perhaps the smaller, geometrically-patterned Chatooga Dusky (Desmognatus perlapsus).
Sometimes frustrating and other times gratifying, this work requires close attention and acute observation. When you begin overturning logs and flipping rocks (along with returning them to where they belong of course), a passive experience of the forest becomes impossible. As I’ve grown into a more careful observer, so has my awe toward the details. The beauty of a place is owed to much more than stunning mountain vistas, cascading waterfalls, and vibrant fall foliage. A cluster of lichen species growing on an old oak; the scarlet tinge of the Cucumber-root (Medeola virginiana); a Three-Lined Salamander (Eurycea guttolineata) sauntering across a rhododendron leaf—each organism has a part to play in this vastly complex and intertwined mountain ecosystem I’ve had the privilege to call home. To most effectively conserve the region we love, we must pay attention to the miniscule.
‘Mander hunting not only deepened my ecological connection with the mountains, but brought our cohort together. After a hectic evening of cooking in our shared kitchen and a game or two of cards, we’d set out with zeal into the night, armed with nothing but flashlights and curiosity. Those late August nights were my favorite—the soft crunch of our feet on the gravel, swirling lights of our headlamps, and discovering that there’s so much awe to be experienced, especially if you look just a little closer.
There’s so much to be said about what this experience has meant to me. I could ramble on about my ignited passion for research, my clearer vision for what I hope the next years will hold, and my deepened love for the Appalachian Mountains, but instead, I’ll end with this:
I will never again walk through the woods on a fall day without stopping at a stream crossing, taking a moment to absorb the dappled sunlight through rustling leaves, and leaning down to peek under a rock or two.
- Adriana Kirk
