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Authors: DavidGeorge Haskell
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more than a few meters; some individuals move farther downward into the soil than they do across the surface of the litter. This rootedness accounts for the diversity of woodland salamanders. Because they seldom move far, the salamanders on different sides of a mountain or valley are unlikely to interbreed. Local populations therefore adapt to the particularities of their habitat. If this divergence keeps up for long enough, separate populations may come to look different and have different genetic characteristics. Some may even get called different “species,” depending on the current taxonomic fashion. The Appalachian Mountains are ancient rocks, and their southern end, where the mandala sits, has never been covered by a killing sheet of ice-age glaciers. The salamanders here have therefore had time to explode in a burst of diversity that is unmatched anywhere on the planet. This diversity partly accounts for why salamanders are so difficult to classify into species.
Unfortunately for the salamanders, the old wet, warm forests that produced salamander diversity also grow large, profitable trees. If these trees are removed in large clear-cuts, the shady leaf litter turns into a sun-beaten crisp, killing all the salamanders. If the clear-cut is lucky enough to be surrounded by mature forest, and if it is left alone for several decades, salamanders will slowly return. But the salamanders do not return to their former abundance, although no one knows why. Perhaps large clear-cuts eliminate genetic fine-tuning from local populations? Logging also removes trees that would have fallen to createmoist crevices, nesting holes, and refuges from the sun. The scientific jargon for these life-giving fallen trees is “coarse woody debris,” a term that seems too dismissive for such a life-giving part of the forest’s ecology.
The salamander in the mandala thrives among the messy tree falls in this small protected patch of old-growth forest, but although clear-cuts are unlikely, the animal is not free from danger. This salamander is tailless, probably the result of an encounter with a mouse, bird, or ringneck snake. When attacked, salamanders thrash their tails to divert the predator. If needed, the tail will break off and undulate violently, providing distraction while the salamander escapes. The blood vessels and muscles at the base of
Plethodon
tails are specially adapted to clamp shut once the tail is lost. The base of the tail also has weaker skin and is constricted, presumably to help the tail break free without hurting the rest of the body. Evolution has therefore struck two bargains with these animals, both secured with flesh: better mouths bought with lunglessness and longer lives bought with detachable tails. The first deal is irreversible; the second is temporary, erased by the mysterious regenerative power of the tail.
Plethodon
is a shape-shifter, truly a cloud. Its courtship and parenting defy our haughty categories, its lungs were traded for stronger jaws, its body parts are detachable, and it is paradoxically moisture loving yet never enters bodies of water. And, like all clouds, it is vulnerable to strong winds.
March 13th—
Hepatica
T he temperature has been warm all week, giving us an unseasonable but welcome foretaste of May. The first spring wildflowers have sensed the change and have pressed up from below the litter, causing the formerly smooth mat of dead leaves to buckle as the stems and buds of flowers elbow through.
I shed my shoes for the first part of my walk to the mandala, treading barefoot on the worn public foot trail, feeling the ground’s mild warmth. Winter’s sharpness is gone. As I walk in the gray predawn light, birds are in full song. Phoebes rasp from the rocky bluff, accompanied by titmice whistling from low branches and woodpeckers cackling from large trees below the trail. Aboveground and below, the season has turned.
At the mandala, I find that one flower bud, a
Hepatica
, has
Unfortunately for the salamanders, the old wet, warm forests that produced salamander diversity also grow large, profitable trees. If these trees are removed in large clear-cuts, the shady leaf litter turns into a sun-beaten crisp, killing all the salamanders. If the clear-cut is lucky enough to be surrounded by mature forest, and if it is left alone for several decades, salamanders will slowly return. But the salamanders do not return to their former abundance, although no one knows why. Perhaps large clear-cuts eliminate genetic fine-tuning from local populations? Logging also removes trees that would have fallen to createmoist crevices, nesting holes, and refuges from the sun. The scientific jargon for these life-giving fallen trees is “coarse woody debris,” a term that seems too dismissive for such a life-giving part of the forest’s ecology.
The salamander in the mandala thrives among the messy tree falls in this small protected patch of old-growth forest, but although clear-cuts are unlikely, the animal is not free from danger. This salamander is tailless, probably the result of an encounter with a mouse, bird, or ringneck snake. When attacked, salamanders thrash their tails to divert the predator. If needed, the tail will break off and undulate violently, providing distraction while the salamander escapes. The blood vessels and muscles at the base of
Plethodon
tails are specially adapted to clamp shut once the tail is lost. The base of the tail also has weaker skin and is constricted, presumably to help the tail break free without hurting the rest of the body. Evolution has therefore struck two bargains with these animals, both secured with flesh: better mouths bought with lunglessness and longer lives bought with detachable tails. The first deal is irreversible; the second is temporary, erased by the mysterious regenerative power of the tail.
Plethodon
is a shape-shifter, truly a cloud. Its courtship and parenting defy our haughty categories, its lungs were traded for stronger jaws, its body parts are detachable, and it is paradoxically moisture loving yet never enters bodies of water. And, like all clouds, it is vulnerable to strong winds.
March 13th—
Hepatica
T he temperature has been warm all week, giving us an unseasonable but welcome foretaste of May. The first spring wildflowers have sensed the change and have pressed up from below the litter, causing the formerly smooth mat of dead leaves to buckle as the stems and buds of flowers elbow through.
I shed my shoes for the first part of my walk to the mandala, treading barefoot on the worn public foot trail, feeling the ground’s mild warmth. Winter’s sharpness is gone. As I walk in the gray predawn light, birds are in full song. Phoebes rasp from the rocky bluff, accompanied by titmice whistling from low branches and woodpeckers cackling from large trees below the trail. Aboveground and below, the season has turned.
At the mandala, I find that one flower bud, a
Hepatica
, has
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