— I originally wrote this post for the Sitka Conservation Society‘s website in 2014. This trip was part of the Stika Community Wilderness Stewardship Project.

The day we headed out from Hoonah was like most days in Southeast Alaska. Grey clouds diffused the light and an almost imperceptible rain left everything damp. We were headed to the Inian Islands, a cluster of knobby isles on the western end of Icy Strait, just inside the entrance to Cross Sound where the Inside Passage meets the angry Pacific. Our trip held a dual mission: to conduct volunteer wilderness monitoring for the Forest Service and to gather traditional subsistence foods for the Hoonah locals on the trip: Owen James and Gordon Greenwald, our boat captains and wizened culture-bearers, two young men named Randy and Sam, and another adult volunteer, Kathy McCrobie.

The Inians along with two other large islands make up the Pleasant/Lemesurier/Inian Island Wilderness. The PLI Wilderness is one of 19 areas within the Tongass National Forest designated as Wilderness, the highest form of protection public lands can receive. The islands are also historic gathering and hunting grounds of the Huna Tlingit, the native tribe who call this section of northern Southeast Alaska home. Because the Inians are close to the open sea, they are rich with unique flora and fauna. A trip to these distant islands is an opportunity to collect delicacies not common in interior waters near the town of Hoonah. For instance, one of our subsistence targets was black seaweed, a species that thrives in the cold, wave-washed intertidal zone of the outer coast, but is rarely found more than a few miles into the Southeast archipelago.

The outside waters can be a harsh place in the summer and downright inhospitable in the winter. Although the Huna Tlingit are seasoned open ocean travelers and motorized skiffs make the 40-mile journey from the village of Hoonah to the islands much more manageable than a Tlingit canoe, it is still a sizable trip for locals. The same factors—difficult access and a short season—also make it difficult for the Forest Service Wilderness Rangers who are headquartered in Hoonah to access these areas that they are tasked with managing and protecting.

On the first day of our trip we arrived at the Inian Islands after a few hours of skiffing over unusually calm waters. Our first stop was at low tide on a rocky beach, the perfect habitat for Black Katy chitons, one of the traditional foods commonly called Gumboots which we hoped to return with.

The beach also looked like it could be a prime camping area, so while the rest of the crew flipped rocks and pried unsuspecting chitons from their hiding spots, I headed up the beach to look for recreational impacts. Monitoring impacts from visitors is one of the tasks the Forest Service has asked us to assist with. Wilderness areas are intended to preserve nature in its wildest state, but trash, campfire rings, and other signs of previous visitors detract from the wild character of these places. Also, once a site has been impacted, the trend is a downward slope to a trashed site. To prevent cumulative impact, we check known campsites and cleanup and naturalize any human traces we find. Fortunately, this site was in the same condition it’s probably been in since it was uncovered by the glacier, so I spent some time flipping rocks and adding to the gumboots collection.

As the tide neared its apex, Gordon pointed out a small rock island set apart from the larger Inian Islands. For generations, this rock had been the prize destination for Huna families. Set far from land and too small to support trees, the rock is the perfect nesting grounds for seabirds like gulls and cormorants. We had timed our trip perfectly to harvest the new eggs.

As we approached the rock in skiffs, Gordon and Owen explained the protocol: as the swell surges, he runs the skiff up to the rock, one person jumps off, and he pulls the bow away before the swell drops the boat onto the shore, then he resets and we try again for the next person to leap from the bow onto the island. Before they maneuvered the skiffs toward the rock, they carefully taught the boys the traditional method to appropriately harvest the eggs. If done in an ecologically responsible way, these practices will be able to continue forever. (Learn more about the regulations regarding egg collection by Alaskan Natives and locals for subsistence).

Sam was the first to make the jump. The birds immediately erupted in a cacophony of squawks and feathers. Randy and I traded apprehensive glances. I made an excuse that I needed to pack my camera gear in drybags before I could jump…really I just wanted one more chance to see how it was done. Randy landed an impressive leap, despite receiving a bootfull of water. I followed him up the rock.

Blankets of birds flapped above us. The few green tufts of grass made a stark contrast to the guano-bleached stone and the blue-grey sky and water. It took no time for Sam and Randy to collect plenty of eggs to share with family and elders back in Hoonah. With concentration, steady boat handling, and good timing, we all made it safely back aboard the skiffs.

As the day went on, I was impressed with the way Owen and Gordon pointed out new landmarks to the two young men. Every remark about a headland or bay included not only geographical references, but also historical, cultural, and subsistence context. That night, while we ate chowder made with local salmon, smoked octopus, and cockles, I reflected on the education Randy and Sam had inherited on this trip. I have no doubt that they were more interested in learning about hunting spots, edible shellfish, and traditional stories than they were about the Wilderness land designation of their home. But, I would like to think that by relating the cultural values and subsistence practices of the Inian Islands along with the Wilderness values that will continue to protect this place for those practices, they have a better chance of retaining a favorable perspective of public lands, too. In the end, the idea and values of Wilderness are stories, stories that must be repeated and retold to maintain their relevance. Gordon and Owen have endeavored to pass those stories to Hoonah youth. My esteem and thanks goes out to them for including the value of respect for public lands in the stories they tell.

Sunset over Icy StraitThe Inians along with two other large islands make up the Pleasant/Lemesurier/Inian Island Wilderness in Icy Strait, Alaska.

Collecting black seaweedThe Inian Islands are the perfect spot to collect black seaweed, a species that thrives in the cold, wave washed intertidal zone of the outercoast, but is rarely found more than a few miles into the Southeast archipelago.

The nesting islandFor generations, this small rock island within the Inian Islands has been a prize destination for Huna families seeking sea gull eggs.

Preparing for the leapAs we approached the rock in skis, Gordon and Owen explained the protocol: as the swell surges, we run the ski up to the rock, one person jumps

Leaping onto the islandAs we approached the rock in skis, Gordon and Owen explained the protocol: as the swell surges, we run the ski up to the rock, one person jumps

Searching for gull eggsI was impressed with the way Owen and Gordon pointed out new landmarks to the two young men. Every remark about a headland or bay included not only geographical references, but also historical, cultural, and subsistence context

Gull nest with eggThe traditional method to harvest gulls eggs, done in an ecologically responsible way, these practices will be able to continue forever

Some nests are difficult to reachFor generations, this rock had been the prize destination for Huna families. Set far from land and too small to support trees, the rock is the perfect nesting ground for seabirds like gulls

Harvesting gull eggsFor generations, this rock had been the prize destination for Huna families. Set far from land and too small to support trees, the rock is the perfect nesting ground for seabirds like gulls

Collecting gull eggsBlankets of birds flapped above us. The few green tufts of grass made a stark contrast to the guano-bleached stone and the blue-grey sky and water.

Bounty of the harvestIt took no time for Sam and Randy to collect plenty of eggs to share with family and elders back in Hoonah.

Harvesting gumbootsAfter the Gumboots have been collected, they are typically canned for preservation and storage.

Gumboot (Black Katy chiton)Black Katy chiton (Katharina tunicata) is a traditional food, commonly called Gumboots.

Black Katy chitonGumboots live in the intertidal zone, and are particularly susceptible to contamination from development and timber harvest. Wilderness designation ensures that these fragile ecosystems and the subsistence foods within will be protected in perpetuity.

Flipping rocks for gumbootsOwen instructs the students on the art of Gumboot hunting.

I found this population of toads on a tiny island during an expedition to the South Prince of Wales Wilderness Area. The toadlets were dispersing at edge of the tidal saltwater zone near a stream outlet.

There are three things that surprised me:

1. that this small island could retain water all spring (we had a really hard time finding water for ourselves to drink even on the larger islands),
2. that toad would have been able to disperse to the island in the first place given how far away it is from the mainland, and
3. that such a small island would be able to sustain a toad population.

The catalog entry (HERA.023177) and photo are available online through the Peabody Museum of Natural History collections.

Here is the full page to dowload.

From my field notes, 17 August 2018:

“Last night I slept on the flat bench of duff-covered ground at the base of the ‘camp tree,’ a white and skeletal cedar with the characteristic axe marks from decades-past Tlingit or Haida woodsmen who had notched the bark from the underhanging side of the leaning tree trunk. As Wayne, our on-hand anthropologist, explained, the notched wood of the tree would have died and dried in the rainshadow of the trunk making for ready tinder to be harvested the next season when the camp was reoccupied. The overhanging tree would have also provided the Native campers with shelter for fire or lean-to bivouac. One of the same purposes for with I utilize it today. 

As I fell asleep under the history-laden tree, I dreamed of a boat at anchor in high winds. As the gales tugged at the boat, the anchor dug into the muddy bottom and the rode strained taught to the windlass bolted to the foredeck. But the wind was strong, and the windlass was pulling from the deck boards and the road was splitting. With each gust, the planks screamed “Eeeeerrrrck!”

A few more heavy gusts would rend the boat from anchor, setting it adrift in the turbulence. Another gust and a louder “Eeeerrrrck!”

In my dreamy torpor I was frozen, I could do nothing but watch.

“EEEEEERRRRCK!” and I watched the windlass pull loose, hanging by a single bolt.

Just before the final fastener snapped, I woke up to the sun shining sidelong under my tarp and straight into my eyes. I could still hear the creaking Eeeeerrrck sound out in the cove and realized it was the agitate call of a belted Kingfisher. The sound of the gusts in my dream had been the sound of light swell washing the beach.”

One of my favorite quotes about Wilderness is from former Senator Clinton Anderson who said, “Wilderness is an anchor to windward. Knowing it is there, we can also know that we are still a rich nation, tending our resources as we should—not a people in despair searching every last nook and cranny of our land for a board of lumber, a barrel of oil, a blade of grass, or a tank of water.” No doubt, I must have had that quote on my mind as I fell asleep on the third night of our three week expedition in South Prince of Wales Wilderness.

South POW is one of the many forgotten Wilderness areas of Southeast Alaska, overshadowed by the iconic ice-filled fjords like Tracy Arm or Glacier Bay, and tourist hotspots like Misty Fjords. Nevertheless, it can easily compete in scale and dynamic topography, and what it lacks in defining photo-geniality, it more than makes up for in its isolation and profound solitude.

At just under 90,000 acres, South POW is the 10^th largest and the southern-most (narrowly outcompeting the southern point of Misty Fjords) of the twenty-four Wilderness Areas in Southeast Alaska. As its name implies, the designation was carved from the southern portion of Prince of Wales island, including the watersheds draining into Klakas Inlet, all watersheds south that drain to Cordova Bay and Barrier Islands. Encompassed in the boundary is a labarynith of convoluted (some might say fractal-like) shoreline. This is dynamic and magic country. It is intricate and you need to see it intimately, by kayak, or even better, by foot. Inlets and passages otherwise hidden from sight appear as if by incantation, the trees parting to a kayak-width channel only when you paddle immediately beside.

From my field notes, 18 August 2018:

“From our southernmost camp, we paddled out to the most seaward rocks and islands. Out here on the outside waters, among the breakers, expansive kelp beds, and scattered, battered islands with rocky headlands. White breaking water sparkled in the sun with each swell, but the water was otherwise calm. All of the branches of the few trees on these islands point leeward, like frozen weathervanes recording past winter storms originating from the Dixon Entrance to the south.”

From my field notes, 19 August 2018:

“After exploring the Barrier Islands, we spent time tracing the coastline of the main island which is punctuated by deep, multi-chambered inlets, bays, and saltchucks. For instance, a side channel in Hunter Bay opens into Biscuit Lagoon. At the back of Biscuit Lagoon, the Saltchuck opens at high water above a tidal waterfall. The shoreline is like walking through a labyrinth with new passages appearing and opening into whole new habitats.

We paddled up to the base of the Saltchuck where salmon were preparing to run at high water. Wayne, whose eyes always seem to catch any inorganic shape on the landscape, noticed that beneath our tethered kayaks, below the waterline, rocks had been arranged in a line. He reasoned that at lower water the stones would cordon off a pool. The Native fishermen would have either trapped salmon in the pool or used it as a holding pen for their catch pulled from the falls.”

The Wilderness is a mélange of habitats from wave washed coastal shores, to glass-still secluded bays, upland muskegs, lowland salal thickets, and rich estuaries throbbing with activity. The varied habitats granted us countless wildlife sightings, include a few once-in-a-lifetime encounters.

From my field notes, 19 August 2018:

“As we ate lunch next to the falls and pondered the rock wall, Kim noticed two wolves trotting up the shoregrass upwind from us. When the wolves saw us, the first bolted. The curiosity of the second got the best of him. With the wind preventing any scent information, he boldly came up to us for a close look. Satisfied, he trotted back away only to decide he still needed a closer look. This process repeated, with us standing like stones, the click of my camera shutter the only sound, until he dematerialized in to the forest.”

The Alexander Archipelago wolf are a controversial subspecies (Canus lupus ligoni) of North American wolf that occur only in the islands and mainland of Southeast Alaska. They are absent from the ABC islands which are dominated by brown bear, but the range is largely congruent with black bears in Southeast. No fossil evidence of the wolves exists, suggesting that the species colonized after the last glacial maximum.

Goldman (1944) was the first to describe the species and granted the name Alexander Archipelago wolf. A more recent molecular study (Weckworth et al. 2005), corroborated the original distinction, finding that the Southeast Alaska population was genetically delineated from the continental population and was itself highly structured and diverse. That same study found evidence that the Prince of Wales population formed its own unique and isolate subgroup within Southeast Alaska. Having spent a fair amount of time with wolves in Glacier Bay and Gustavus, our crew had guessed this was the case. In fact, it took us a split second to even realize we were staring down a wolf when it appeared–it was so dissimilar from the canids we had encountered up north. These island wolves appeared smaller, more dog-like, and with an unusual coat pattern.

The biogeography of the Prince of Wales wolves puts them in a particularly perilous position. It is a general rule in ecology that the smaller and more isolated a population, the more sensitive it will be to environmental and demographic fluctuations (for example, the case of Isle Royale wolves). Although Prince of Wales is an exceptionally large island (the 4^th largest in the U.S., just after Puerto Rico), the landscape itself has been highly fragmented and reduced by massive clearcuts and the most extensive road system in Southeast Alaska (about 2,500 miles; more roads than the rest of Southeast combined, many times over).

Roads are a major problem for POW wolves (even more so than for most widlife). Studies across all U.S. populations of wolves have shown a negative correlation between road density and wolf abundance. Wolves were absent where road densities exceed 0.9 mi/mi² (Jensen et al. 1986,
Mech et al. 1988, Fuller 1989, as cited in Schoen and Person, n.d.).  Most of the roads on POW were created by logging companies (on tax-payer dollars), which makes a strong correlation with roads and clearcuts, both of which are avoided by wolves (Person 2001).

Black-tailed deer, the wolves’ primary prey, require old-growth forest for summer browse and winter habitat to shelter from heavy snow. Clearcutting areas leads to a “succession debt” for wolves as logging removes habitat which removes deer. And logging continues on the island, driving the succession debt further into the red. In fact, habitat loss from logging alone is expected to reduce the wolf population by a further 25% before 2045 (Person 2001).

But habitat loss is not the only threat to POW wolves. Despite Canis lupus being listed as an endangered species in the lower 48, wolves are considered both big-game and furbears in Alaska, subjecting them to both hunting and trapping. Between the 1980s and 2010, around 175 wolves were killed in Southeast Alaska; 75 of those were from POW (Schoen and Person, n.d.).

As logging and associate road infrastructure continue to proliferate, “wolf populations on Prince of Wales and adjacent islands will be caught between two significant pressures: declining prey abundance and increasing hunting and trapping mortality” (Schoen and Person, n.d.).

The South POW Wilderness, at least, is a partial refuge for the wolves. While Wilderness designation prevents future roads and logging, it does not exclude hunting nor trapping; so, there really is no safe haven for these unique canids. My hope is that the isolation and extreme difficulty of hunting here compared to the road system will keep it to a minimum.

In addition to the wolves, we came nose-to-nose with loads of wildlife, including sandhill cranes, black bears, whales (alive and bones), and so many kingfishers and river otters.

From my field notes:

“More kingfishers than I’ve ever seen! The shoreline seems like it is just dripping with kingfishers from every low-hanging branch. And below, the tidal rocks are writhing with families of river otter. It must be a productive place for small carnivores and pescavores!”

We spent a large chunk of our time in Klakas Inlet, the long fjord that dominates the norther reach of the Wilderness. Although not too steep, the shoreline harbors very few beaches along the flanks. One exception is a grassy cove sheltering a pink and sockeye waterfall. We spent an entire day watching black bears filter through, try their luck with the flying salmon, and continue their up-fjord journey.

The density of black bears in Klakas was astounding. We paddled to the head of the inlet, where the fjord splinters into three massive estuaries, each full of late-running salmon. At one point, I could see 7 bears around the shore. They circled the shoreline of the fjord almost like a slow and dispersed school of fish circling a pond.

From my field notes, 27 August 2018:

“In the morning I watched multicolored bat stars pass beneath my kayak. Their five to six bright arms were like a dappled rainbow fluorescing against the dark water. Watching black bears pass by on shore is like the inversion of the bat stars. The dark fur seems to absorb light and looking for bears is more about looking for the absence of a bear or a bear shaped black hole in the otherwise colorful shoreline.”

From my field notes, 21 August 2018:

“On every trip, we try to make a point of hiking uphill, above the treeline, in order to look back down on the landscape. Experiencing a Wilderness is a lot like experiencing a painting. It takes time. You have to shift your focus and view it from different angles to take it all in. Look close, then step back. Put your nose right up to the canvas, then from across the room. In wild places, you have to paddle close to shore, get out and crawl through the brush of the forest, then get up high to see the whole thing. The detail and the composition are the functional integral of artistic mastery; same goes for the majesty of nature.”

So, we set our sights on a bald knob at the mouth of Klakas inlet and landed below a steep, even-aged stand of spruce and hemlock. We had envisioned a strenuous, patience-trying hike over old growth deadfall and bashing through endless under-story brush. It turned out that the stand had been beach logged many decades ago. The regenerating forest was the perfect age to shade out the under-story brush, but too young to accumulate much deadfall. It turned out to be one of the easiest routes we’d ever hiked. Surprisingly, there was not even brush at the transition from the forest to the subalpine bald, so we walked out into the sun and onto the rocks. From the top, we were treated to views of the entire southern half of Cordova Bay, up into Klakas Inlet and the ridges of the surrounding watersheds. In short, we could see almost the entire Wilderness area and the saltwater well out into the Pacific.

The pools on the bald were ringed by bright red sundews, a carnivorous plant that produces a sticky, sweet digestive enzyme from the tips of hairs on its leaves. Bug are attracted to the scent, land on the leaf, then wrap themselves up in the leaf as they struggle and adhere to more leaf hairs.

I see the round leaf sundew (Drosera rotundiflora) often, but I was surprised to see the English sundew (Drosera anglica) was more common and growing right alongside the D. rotundiflora.

From my field notes, 22 August 2018:

“The Native Haida and Tlingit folks who frequented this region made ample use of the fractal coastline. In almost every landable spot, Wayne noticed some trace of human occupation Some hints were subtle, like notches in trees or new forest growth indicating an area that had been cleared. Occasionally, the signs were more obvious, like the square foundations of old plank houses subsumed into the ground, and even pilons supporting old floor joists, now fixed in place by the roots of saplings growing atop them. The debris of stoves and other iron objects were sunk into the moss of a few such sites.

Wayne pointed out an iron ax head—the same type of ax head used to make the tree notches we’d been seeing all over the coast.”

After 16 days, we left the Wilderness toward Hydaburg. After days of calm waters and avoiding the oppressive sun, we found ourselves preparing for some exposed sections and large crossings in big water. The water shut us down and sent us back to camp for an extra night. We made progress despite lots of waiting and watching as the conditions fluctuated. We made our longest crossing of Cordova Bay in building, following seas. About midway across, we spotted black fins slicing the water miles away. As we thrashed onward on our heading, we watched the pod of orca surface and dive, rapidly closing the distance between us. The bull crossed comfortably forward of our bows, but the four females intersected our course. They surfaced with explosive spouts close enough to startle us. We exchanged some wide-eyed glances of concern while the females cavorted amidst out kayaks until they melted back into the water and joined the male far off to starboard.

From my field notes, 30 August 2018:

“South POW is a palimpsest. The page has been written by glaciers, over-written by many chapters of ecological succession, punctuated by interludes of logging, and a final chapter back to succession, all with the footnotes and interjections of Haida and Tlingit history throughout.
Now, having departed the Wilderness Area, our time there seems even quieter in contrast. Clear cuts appear over every ridge and we hear the whining buzz of outboards every few tens of minutes as boats zip in and out of Hydaburg.”

We paddled into Hydaburg on a quiet mid-morning diffused with grey. The brightly painted poles and homes seemed like holes pricked into the grey blanket of the day.

We found the folks in Hydaburg incredibly welcoming. We were invited into smokehouses and carving sheds, folks told us stories and we even made canine friends after saving a dog from drowning at the dock.

Overall, our South Prince of Wales expedition will remain one of my favorites. The immense quiet and solitude, the shoreline full of intrigue, the enigmatic wildlife—will define my memory of this place.

Route and Logistics:

Out trip could not have happened without Katy. We rented all of our kayaks through her, and in order to maximize our time in the Wilderness, Katy transported us to Klakas by skiff. She also picked us up and even stored our gear for us.

If you decide to paddle in South POW (and you should) keep in mind that camping can be sparse, weather can pick up quickly, parts of the coastline are committing, and communications are almost non-existent. Talk to locals, know your own skill level, and pour over your charts. Of course, I’m always happy to provide beta. Just drop me a line.

Check out my posts from other expeditions.

Check out other posts about designated Wilderness. 

References:

Fuller (1989) Population dynamics of wolves in northcentral Minnesota. Wildlife Monographs 105.

Goldman (1944) Classification of wolves. In S. Young and E. Goldman, eds., The wolves of North America, Part 2. Dover Publications, New York

Jensen, Fuller, and Robinson (1986) Wolf (Canis lupus) distribution on the Ontario to Michigan border near Sault St. Marie. Canadian Field Naturalist 100: 363-366.

Mech, Fritts, Radde, and Paul (1988) Wolf distribution and road density in Minnesota. Wildlife Society Bulletin 16:85-87.

Person (2001) Alexander Archipelago wolves: ecology and population viability in a disturbed, insular landscape (Doctoral dissertation). University of Alaska, Fairbanks, AK.

Schoen and Pearson, Chapter 6.4 “Alexander Archipelago Wolf.” In A Conservation Assessment and Resource Synthesis for The Coastal Forests and Mountains Ecoregion in the Tongass National Forest and Southeast Alaska. The Nature Conservancy.

Weckworth, Talbot, Sage, Person, and Cook (2005) A signal for independent coastal and continental histories among North American wolves. Mol. Ecol. 14: 917-931.

29 March 2018

My first wood frog of the season, hopping slowly from one snowy bank to the other across the mist-dampened road. This is the first warm night of the spring. The air has condensed against the cold ground into eerie sheets of mists that look like they are getting tangled in the trees and spilling out over the more open ponds.

I pick up this first little frog caught in my headlights to move her on toward her destination and away from tires. I can feel the gritty snow crystals on her skin, which I imagine must be terribly uncomfortable on her soft underbelly. She is sluggish but clear-eyed. Females generally are redder in coloration, but she seems brighter and more sanguine than any wood frog I’ve ever seen. Maybe her ruddy complexion is due to the profusion of blood just recently mobilized and coursing through the capillaries of her skin—blood that until just a few hours ago had been frozen in her cells.

30 March 2018

Noon – The ponds are mostly quiet. A few bold peepers chirp in the warmer ponds with more open canopies. I see wood frogs listlessly floating at the surface and racing for the leaves at the pond bottom when I step into the water, but none of them are vocalizing, yet.

5 PM – The warm day and persistent drizzle this evening were a clear call for the lethargic amphibians to join the early wood frogs in the ponds. Spotted salamanders and wood frogs are out in waves, but other species are on the move, too. I saw one crayfish scuttling across the road from forest to a large tussock-filled pond and two four-toed salamanders apparently racing side by side.

9 PM – Driving around tonight as slowly as possible yet still swerving to miss late-recognized salamanders, I realized that spotted salamanders are a great object lesson against teleological evolution. Evolution is obviously not forward-looking if it resulted in a slow-moving, soft-bodied animal that so perfectly matched the color or wet pavement. Even the bright yellow spots that one might think would stand out in the headlights are indistinguishable from the bright flecks in the chip-and-seal road and just act as further camouflage.

The frogs have found their voices and the choruses are erupting in vernal pockets across the forest. In one pond, I caught a mass of six or more wood frogs clamoring together in a tangle of splayed hindlegs. It is clear that these frogs are driven by a severe case of FOMO incomparable to even the most angst-ridden teenager—all are too concerning with missing out on the chance for breeding none have realized that they’ve engage not a gravid female wood frog, but a male spotted salamander! The poor salamander is helpless in the trap-like bear hugs of the frogs.

31 March 2018

A handful of early clutches were generated in last night’s excitement. I collected a few eggs from each clutch, carefully recorded the water chemistry, and installed a temperature logger at the oviposition site. As the eggs develop, I’ll be back to check their progress and monitor the water conditions, comparing the wild embryos to their brethren back in the lab.

1 April 2018

It is a cloudy day but dry and breezy. A few ponds are chorusing, but they are skittish and clam-up any time I get near. Only a few new egg masses appeared overnight. The forecast is calling for snow tonight, so it may remain quiet for the next couple of days.