I was sitting in the quiet section of Wendt Library when my phone started lighting up. I picked it up as quickly as possible, as the vibrating was drawing angry stares from the students around me. I flipped it open to find this cryptic message:
""Russell Labs, nine o' clock. Raincoat. Flashlight. Camera.""
I packed up immediately. It was go time. In the pouring rain, I sprinted back to my apartment, where my roommate was sitting, unknowing that her night was about to take a turn for the best. It was Salamander Night.
Ever since I stumbled on the Wildlife Society at the last student org fair, I had been preparing for this night. Well, by ""stumbled on the society"" I mean my friend happened to be an officer of the club and called us over and bribed us with candy and tales of adventure. But mostly candy.
One such adventure was Salamander Night. There is a species of salamander called the tiger salamander that breeds and lives near Madison. Like many animals, spring has brought them out to frolic, breed and do whatever it is salamanders do with their free time.
Unfortunately for the salamanders, someone decided to build Mineral Point Road and several intersecting roads right between the spot they like to hibernate and the spot where they like to breed.
This is where the Wildlife Society swoops in to save the day. Well, actually, it was the night. A freezing cold, rainy night and I was out with my flashlight searching through people's yards for salamanders in need of a lift across the street.
And although my mind had envisioned a herd of salamanders parading down Mineral Point as far as the eye could see, I was to be disappointed. It turns out salamanders are mostly solitary creatures, and my hopes of wrangling a herd cowboy-style were dashed. I sadly put away the tiny lasso I had crafted just for the occasion.
Now I had to bring out an entirely different skill set for Salamander Night. Turns out the six- to eight-inch amphibians are a rather rare sight and look exactly like every dark leaf that happens to fall within range of your flashlight. You had to have diligence, sharp eyes and determination for salamander hunting. So instead of my lassoing skills, I had to depend on my mind. Things were not looking good for the salamanders.
An hour into the hunt and my coat soaked through, my excitement for Salamander Night was wavering. I had been burrowing through the muck like they do with no success. I tried acting like I wasn't paying attention then spinning around really fast, hoping to catch them off guard and surprise them out of hiding, but alas, I did not. I even attempted to lure them out with a mating call, but apparently Marvin Gaye's ""Let's Get It On"" doesn't have the same arousing effect on salamanders that it has on humans.
Nothing was working, and the more diehard members of the club were fast leaving me behind. But then my flashlight fell upon him: a tiny, beautiful little salamander crawling toward the gravel to impending doom on Mineral Point.
He was a dark brownish green with little speckles all over. My friend told me he was a rather small specimen, only about six inches from snout to tail, but I didn't care. I had scooped him up before he was squished by oncoming traffic; we had a bond now. I named him Ferdinand, and he was my pride and joy of the evening.
I waited for a break in traffic, then marched little Ferdi across the street. The point of Salamander Night was catch and release, but now that I had one of my very own, I was having trouble letting go.
We had had so many good times together, like when I first found him, when I first held him, when he first looked up at me with those big salamander eyes and tried to sell me insurance. OK, that last part didn't happen, but if that cocky gecko can do it, then my little Ferdinand could.
But I knew ol' Ferdi's place was in the wild. I set him down and let him wander off into the night to frolic, breed, and do whatever it is salamanders do. It was a fitting end to a beautiful Salamander Night.
If you want to save the earth, one salamander at a time, e-mail Megan at mcorbett2@wisc.edu.
