salamander hike
on lizard loop and finding excitement
Dear Reader,
I think sometimes, in the grand scheme of things, we forget that we are allowed to be excited.
I’m a person who grew up in a loud family, my grandmother and her siblings are known to carry on different conversations as they all simultaneously yap across the dinner table. I am a person who welcomes loudness. I have a bursting laugh, I sing as I fold laundry, and I’m often dropping something because I haven’t yet figured out how to pace myself. My mother always said I never learned how to whisper.
On a Saturday in February, I spent an afternoon at Ruffner Mountain at the Irondale entrance. I had unknowingly double-booked myself at Ruffner that day by hiking with my junior board friends earlier that morning. We had hiked all the way up Quarry Trail and back—at the end, I said to La’Tanyta, “I don’t know if I’m going to make the guided hike.”
She said, “If I know you, you’ll make it.” After a quick 20-minute lunch and a refill of my water bottle, I was back at Ruffner, hoping to see my favorite amphibian: salamanders.
Ruffner Mountain is a part of Jefferson County Greenways, a non-profit dedicated to preserving the land and trails of Ruffner, Red Mountain, and Turkey Creek Nature Preserve.
Originally, this salamander hike was planned for January, but with the lack of rain and the temperature,e it was moved to February. The early parts of the week had been cool and damp, and with the temperatures reaching mid-60s, it was the perfect time to pick up rocks and move some logs to see if anyone was hiding underneath them.
Both of our group leaders were bouncing in their boots, welcoming each new person and asking them questions about how they learned about the program and whether or not they were members of the park.
Before heading towards the Lizard Loop trail our leaders grouped us in a circle and had us find adjectives that we felt described us, the catch was that our adjective had to begin with the first letter of our first name. As we declared our new name we had to strike a pose. The first people in the circle were shy, mumbling the adjective they felt described them, and had meager poses. By the time we circled back to the beginning, our voices matched the railroad next door. Adults and kids alike were loud, creative, and excited to let others know who they were.
One of the boys in our group couldn’t have been older than 7 or 8 years old. He had a dark blue baseball cap that sat crooked on his head, each way his head turned the lip of the cap flopped forward. He was the picture of a young explorer, in one hand he gripped the lapel of his backpack, and the other held a great big net. He was determined and focused on the mission at hand.
Our group stood at the base of the ore crusher on a branch of the main trail. Peaking through the pine and rocks were the last signs of the old railroad that carried iron ore. From the parking lot, we could hear the massive wrangling of chains and railroad cars but here in the glen, the trees offered a soundproof layer of protection. All we could hear now were the chirpings of winter birds and the wind on the creek.
Small to-go containers were distributed and we were sent to pick up rocks and logs (putting them back where we found them of course) and soon the little glen was filled with different bursts of ‘I got one! I got one!’ or ‘Look at what I found!’
I will be honest in that it took me a little longer than the others to find one. First, a dusky salamander wiggled away from me, then rock after rock I found nothing underneath. Just when I thought I might be out of luck I lifted a mossy rock and there was a beautiful tiny slimy salamander (above). Jet black with splotches of creamy white dots, I scooped them up and placed them in my container.
I felt that familiar warmth rising in my cheeks, only I had no one to shout my enthusiasm to. I had come on this journey solo, looking for a way to explore and recharge for the week on my own. I moved to a different spot and lifted a rock. A flat and thick dusky salamander lay in the pool of water.
The boy with the crooked baseball cap saw it slither away from me, “I’ll help you!” he cried out before ducking. When he stood back up there clasped in his hands was our dusky salamander, its tail and head poking out from his fingers. We were both beaming at our shared catch, and then, he did something that all children tend to do when they catch a critter — his hands started closing in — not a squeeze but an almost one.
His goal was to protect and preserve, but the rules for outdoor adventures are still new to young explorers. I heard myself go, “Hey hey, don’t squeeze! Where’s your net?” I turned around and grabbed it from across the creek. I held it out without thinking I should have put my hand at the bottom of the net. Still beaming, and claiming victory, the boy with the crooked hat plopped the salamander down into the net.
I balked. What may have been a foot or two for a human may have felt like skydiving to a salamander. Over my shoulder, a woman said, “Are you listening to what that lady tells you to do?” It was the gentle sternness only a mother knows how to speak.
The boy with the crooked hat spattered off a tale of how we caught the dusky salamander before she repeated her question, “Yes, Mom, I’m listening to her.”
His mother had to have been 8 months pregnant, and she apologized if he had gotten out of hand, “He’s just excited,” I told her, “and learning the way of things or discovering something can be overwhelming.” We watched as he ran over to the place where his sister sat. He wet his hands in the creek and gently scooped the salamander out of the net and placed it in the plastic container.
At the end of our hour at the creek, we all returned to the ore crusher to identify, log, and share our findings. Soon, we had joined the boy with the crooked hat in unleashing our excitement. We were peeking over each other’s shoulders, passing bowls around, ignoring the giant frog that shared a fish bowl with a southern red salamander, and pointing out the juvenile salamanders who still had gills. There was a buzzing of discovery and kinship that couldn’t and didn’t want to be contained.
As you go forward this spring,g search for ways to show off your excitement. Add a little flourish to your walks by the creek and lift a rock. You may find something there worth sparking that loudness that’s begging to come out.
Also:
Reading: Valley So Low: One Lawyer's Fight for Justice in the Wake of America's Great Coal Catastrophe by Jared Sullivan
Alabama coal ash to be recycled, but questions remain | SELC
Can dam removals restore Alabama river biodiversity? | Courthouse News
quick answer: yes!