I derive great pleasure from feeding wild birds. The squirrel-proof hanging feeder has been in the same place in a tall crepe myrtle shrub outside my office window for years, and many common and a few uncommon birds visit it daily or occasionally.

One day, a couple of years ago, I swiveled my chair to watch the feeder, wondered why there was no bird activity, and saw that the feeder had a second watcher. Coiled in a tree crotch within easy striking distance of the feeder was a 30 inch long yellow rat snake, Pantherophis obsoletus quadrivittatus. I guess he was hoping for a bird dinner but the sharp-eyed avians had spotted the snake and temporarily boycotted the feeder.



Well, my freezer is never without a couple hundred mice, so I chose and thawed one of appropriate size, grabbed some forceps and mouse and visited the snake-shrub. Although I moved slowly, as I neared the shrub the snake began flickering its tongue and drew its head back into its coils.

With each passing year, as the various exporting countries close or open their seasons and/or shipping quotas the herps we see in the pet trade change. Availability of some changes from abundance to rarity, of others from rarity to abundance.

Two examples are the Colombian horned frog, Ceratophrys calcarata, and wild caught examples of the coveted red-tailed boa, Boa constrictor constrictor.



The former, once available in the thousands each breeding season, have not been available for decades and likewise for the boa, although far fewer numbers were involved.



Those among us who are keepers (yes, I am one) owe each and every animal, be their cost mere pennies or thousands of dollars, the best of conditions and care. Research each species before acquisition, and then acquire only those that you can care for adequately and with relative ease.

The late spring sun shown brightly and the woodlands were verdant with newly greened leaves. Crows cawed over head and a broad-winged hawk circled lazily. I was clambering over some sizable tumbled boulders. To my left was a roller coaster that, come sundown, would be zipping boisterous, screaming, throngs up and down inclines that I didn’t even want to imagine and around hairpin curves that I wanted to think about even less.

To my right the boulder field eased and the greenery encroached tightly. I had been told that here, amidst the very rocks I was now traversing, northern copperheads, Agkistrodon contortrix mokasen, denned, foraged, bred, and underwent their quiet lives unseen and unsuspected by the amusement park employees and attendees.



I wasn’t sure that I believed this, for although I knew the rocks to be home to garter snakes and black racers, I was one of the many who never had suspected the presence of a pit viper of any kind. And so far on this glorious spring day my total for snakes seen was zero.

I had made my way, slowly and searchingly, across the expanse of boulders and was about to carefully make the return. In preparation I stepped out into the woodland, and stood for a moment listening to the sounds of the wild. Birds on their spring migration were cheeping, chirping, and lisping overhead. I listened for a few minutes, then turned to begin my return.

Ahead of me, among hundreds of others, was a flat, foliage surrounded, sun-drenched, rock. And what was that spot of orange on it? I looked more closely. Neonate copperhead.



The tales were true, and this day would live forever in memory.

For a little over two years in the 1970s, Patti and I left Florida and spent three years in Massachusetts. During that time the venerable Massachusetts Herpetological Society was active and well, and the monthly meetings were a joy to attend.

At the society meetings I met Tom Tyning, a herpetologist who is now a professor at Berkshire Community College but was at that time a stalwart employee of Massachusetts Audubon. Tom had a wonderful sense of humor, so I thought he was kidding me when he said his herpetological nemesis in MA was the eastern worm snake, Carphophis amoenus amoenus. What I found strange about that statement was that Tom lived at the edge of a sandy, rolling, expanse of land that contained a thriving worm snake population. When I told him this, Tom’s response was something to the effect of a skeptical, “Oh, yeah, sure!”

So, a few days later, on a typically toasty summer afternoon, Tom and I met a couple of hundred feet from his back door, and began our search for fallen tree trunks, discarded newspapers and cardboard, all worm snake cover. Finding such cover was the work of only a minute.

Finding the first few worm snakes took only a few moments longer. Remembering the look of incredulity on Tom’s face has lasted a lifetime.

More photos under the jump.

Using the harsh cries of red-shouldered hawks, the excited cawing of crows, and the strident vocalizations of bluejays as an excuse to take a break from yard work, Patti and I walked across the street to see what was causing the avian uproar.

The birds were all gathered on the uppermost limbs of a big live oak. Responding to their distress calls, more birds were winging our way. The tree was tall and fully leafed. Although the birds, hopping and flying from limb to treetop limb, might have had a great view, we needed binoculars.

Binocs were found and Patti was the first to make out a sinuous shape -- a snake shape -- amidst the leaves of a slender outermost branch.

It was a yellow rat snake, Pantherophis obsoletus quadrivittatus, a big one, and the fact that it was being dive-bombed by a host of varied bird species seemed to bother it not at all. Eventually I snagged the binoculars and found the snake in the branches.



Birds screamed, dive-bombed, hopped about, retreated, and then began the ritual all over. The snake had coiled within a network of small diameter branches that the birds could neither land on nor penetrate while awing. After a half hour or so, as evening drew nigh, the avian horde decided they had better make nighttime preparations and all left.

Ten minutes after the hub-bub died down the snake began its descent. With the show now over and necks aching from craning upwards, we also returned to our temporarily forgotten yard work.

Yellow rat snakes are no stranger to our neighborhood. We usually see several a year and are led to many by the excited calls of birds. The snakes depicted here are of typical color and are from our backyard. The larger one could actually be the protagonist in this tale.

More photos after the jump...

“Toonk, toonk, toonk, toonk.”

During a warm downpour I stood on the back porch for a few minutes listening and reveling at the sound.

The hollow “toonks” of H. gratiosa, the barking treefrog, were unmistakable. It was the third year I had heard this small chorus of the southeast’s largest native treefrog while standing on my back porch. They called from a small retention pond in an apartment complex a bit under a half mile from us. Only two or three had been heard in the spring of 2011. The number had grown to six or seven last year. And this year it sounded as if it had doubled again.



In their color-changing abilities, by the way, barking treefrogs are hylid chameleons. The same frog may be any one of several shades of green at one moment and tan or brown a minute or two later. The spots may be lighter or darker than the body color and be entirely of one color or dark-edged ocelli. Barkers often voice occasional calls from the canopy, but when breeding often vocalize while floating amidst dense emergent vegetation.

We had experienced a warm winter and were having a cold spring in northcentral Florida. It was now the third week of April and the winter frogs, the various chorus frogs and peepers, not yet realizing that seasonal warming was finally upon us, were still calling from suitable habitats. The green treefrogs that usually call from the tiny rubber-bottomed pond in our yard had not yet announced their presence. Although the southern toads had been foraging in the yard for weeks they had gathered at the pond to call on only one very rainy night a week earlier.

Only a moment earlier I had been exchanging Facebook comments with more northerly friends who were experiencing another spring snowstorm. Now I stood listening to a hylid that, to me, truly signified the advent of spring’s warming. I decided to pull up a chair and enjoy sounds nature offered, the sighing breezes, the steadily falling rain, and the treefrog chorus, for a while longer.

More photos under the jump...

With Eugenio at the controls, the motor canoe “Mai Kai” nudged her way through emergent grasses in the shallow channel. If lucky, we’d be able to reach a few of the water lettuce beds that floated on the open waters of the interior coche (oxbow). We were already amidst some chorusing treefrogs, but it seemed probable that with the intermittent showers on this humid night, a cacophony of hylid voices would reverberate across the coche.



When we left camp, motor canoe full of chatting herpers, lightning was spearing a seemingly cloudless sky. But weather patterns in Amazonia are capricious, and distant cloud formations are often obscured by the riveredge trees. Storms can sneak up on you before you know there is actually one impending. And such it was on this night. The coche was only a few miles downriver, but in the 20 minutes it took us to reach it, the sparkling stars were obliterated by towering cumulus clouds and lightning activity had increased dramatically.

The nocturnal foray to Mayaruna Coche, often vegetation-clogged, sometimes impassable, is always a highlight. This night we were doubly lucky. Not only had the leading edge of the storm moved quickly eastward, taking with it the lightning but leaving us with a gentle rain, but secondly we were actually able to break through the vegetation and access the lettuce beds.

Within minutes we were nearly overwhelmed by the volume of treefrog voices. While most of the vocalizations were produced by tiny clown treefrog complex species and spotted treefrogs, as we nosed the canoe into the water lettuce the vocalizations of three species of hatchet-faced treefrogs could be heard. I had played up the beauty of the greater hatchet-faced treefrog, Sphaenorhynchos lacteus, so greatly that it would be nearly impossible to return to camp without seeing the species. And see it we did, by the dozens and dozens. It was another successful coche visit.

More photos under the jump...

I had never thought much about the color gray. I considered it a drab color, a color that I had come to associate with a few of the species that were not then very high on my herp “Iwannasee” list. But then I met a skink and I realized that beauty truly was in the eyes of the beholder, for not only was that skink gray, it was pretty. In fact, I thought it, with its orange highlights and smaller accents of fawn, to be one of the prettiest skinks I had until then encountered. And today, 50 years later, I still think this to be so.



Back in the 1960s when I first met this lizard, it was called the Algerian skink, Eumeces algeriensis. Today it is called the Berber skink (now the name “Algerian skink” is usually associated with the smaller Schneider’s skink, Novoeumeces schneideri) and like the Schneiders’ skink, the generic name is Novoeumeces. Small numbers of Berber skinks were imported between 1970 and 2000 but for the most part they have not been available and were but fond memories to those who had been lucky enough to actually see them in those earlier years.

I was lucky enough to have a few Berber skinks offered to me about 8 years ago. These heavy-bodied, foot long, omnivorous beauties are easy to maintain but have proven almost impossible to breed. They are known to be oviparous and like many skinks seem to be quite long-lived. Successfully breeding this terrestrial North African skink certainly remains a goal.

More photos under the jump...

Hobbyists have always had an interest in locality-specific corn snakes, Pantherophis guttatus guttatus. References to Miami phase, Okeetee phases, Florida Key phases, and others are commonplace in the hobby. But there are in Florida alone several other locales in which corn snakes, although variable to a degree, are of characteristic colors and patterns. One such is Levy County, a rather sparsely populated area located on Florida’s Gulf Coast west, and a bit south of Gainesville.

The corn snakes of that area are typically rather small, being adult at 30 to 40 inches in length. But what they may lack in size they make up for with beauty.



On these pretty corn snakes, the dorsal and lateral ground color is usually a cinnamon-buff. The rich orange-red dorsal saddles are well spaced, edged anteriorly and posteriorly with black markings about a half a scale wide, and are usually about as wide as the areas of ground color that separates them. The orange-red lateral spots are small and usually edged with only one to four half black scales. The spearpoint atop the head is bright orange-red and may or may not be partially edged with black. The belly is white and checkered with pale orange, hazy black, or both.

If you think this description sounds pretty in print, you should see one of these corn snakes in the long red rays of the setting sun as it moves across an open patch of sandy soil or is surprised on a dirt or tarmac road. Such a sighting is nearly unforgettable.

More photos under the jump...