Right off the bat on our first field trip at New River Birding and Nature Festival, the guide on the bus asked if there was something in particular we wanted to see. Or, as the parlance goes in birding world, something we “needed”—a life bird. The usual requests were put in for the cerulean warbler, a yellow-winged, and a cuckoo or two.

“SALAMANDERS, PLEASE!” I bellowed, politely.

I am what some people refer to as a smart-ass, or, I submit, a Person of Charming Impertinence. The guide was unfazed. “No problem,” she said. “Our afternoon talk will be by the world’s greatest herpetologist, West Virginia’s own Dr. Tom Pauley, and later in the week, if things dampen up, he will be leading a special evening salamander walk for anyone interested.”

Well. This old girl’s heart near flang itself out of her chest. The salamander is the most winsome critter our blue marble has ever whomped up. That is not my personal opinion, but a point of fact, albeit one many people are not aware of. I was thrilled to pieces.

And I was in the right place for it. Appalachia has more species of salamanders than any other place in the world. Some day they will be revealed as its greatest treasure, and not the coal they have the misfortune to be living over. Human or otherwise, if you want to thrive, try to not be born over fossil fuel.

Dr. Pauley is soft-spoken, funny, 84 years old, and packed to the metaphorical feathered gills with knowledge about amphibians and reptiles. And he is by all accounts adored by legions of students he has taught. Thursday night a group of about sixteen of us carpooled out to a known habitat. It was a massive sandstone wall scored with fissures in which salamanders were likely to appear, especially if it dampened up. Which it didn’t.

My iPhone flashlight wasn’t quite up to the task of lighting my way, and I edged toward other people’s pools of light. We were advised to be on the lookout for copperheads and timber rattlesnakes as well, something many of the herpetologically inclined were eager to find—myself, not so much. I especially do not want to find one with my hands. And while I crept around in the dark, squinting for tree roots and man-eating crevices, I was not thrilled to see a paramedic’s backboard tied to a fence, all handy and waiting. But others were finding a salamander here and there, some of which I had never seen. I perked up.

Then it started raining. Kind of a lot. I was wearing a T-shirt.

Now I had to put away my phone so it didn’t drown and I’m creeping around ledges and slick rock in serious dark. In twos and threes, moistened people peeled off to go home around 9:30 having scored a couple salamanders, and I realized: The only two rides I have left are with the local guides Josh and Tabitha Stover, who might be even more revved up about this than I have ever been, and guide Jim McCormac, who knows more about nature than anyone I’ve ever met, and is pumped to the utter max. It came to me then that unless I wanted to walk five miles back to my cabin in the dark, I was going to be out in the rain for a very long time. Until they got tired.

Bulletin: They don’t get tired.

seal salamander

But then the rain stopped and the salamanders came out. And suddenly I was not tired. I brought out my flashlight again. And there, on the vertical face of this rock slab, tiny perfect faces appeared in every slot and fissure, shining like dimes in a coin collection book. That rock was exuding salamanders. Weeping salamanders.

If that were not entertaining enough, Jim, who is an extraordinary photographer, was repeatedly dropping to the ground with his ear in the mud shooting pictures at eye level—salamander eye level, that is. Josh was his official salamander wrangler and nudged the subjects into fetching poses as best he could. Work it, baby, I found myself thinking.

It was looking likely we’d sail into the wee hours but all of us had to get up at 5am and with some regret we packed it up and drove away. Or tried to. When salamanders are on the road, they need to be coaxed off (and photographed first). But we did make it back by midnight.

It was not to be topped. I was so high I still have after-images of salamanders on tap every time I close my eyes. There was another daytime field trip for herps and we scored some more species including the magnificent long-tailed salamander, but at least as satisfying was watching our guide Jim Rapp (“Other Jim”), who not only can produce herps for us but does not at all care how silly he looks doing it. This is an immensely appealing quality in a grown man.

Thank you, New River Birding and Nature Festival, for salamander joy, for the balm of nature in our bruised and fractured world, and for the mental image of Jim Rapp’s heinie disappearing down a manhole. I needed all of it.

 

https://youtube.com/shorts/DX0EKE01evs?si=H-8PD7KBlosGaUdX