“Oh the night life, ain’t no good life, but it’s my life.” – Willie Nelson
It was nearing midnight, and I was standing alone on the edge of a remote Mason County road intently listening. The mid-April night was so quiet that I could hear barking dogs miles away and the slight breezes passing through newly leafed-out trees. But I tried to filter out all other sounds in order to focus on the breeding calls of the rare Illinois chorus frog, of which I heard none.
Illinois Chorus Frog (Photo credit: Missouri Department of Conservation)
So after the required five minutes of listening, I jumped into my Chevy Trail Blazer and dashed to the next stop on my 65-mile chorus frog survey route. When I arrived and shut down my vehicle lights, I became engulfed in the pure darkness of a moonless sky. From where I stood, I could see lights from several home sites miles away and the blinking lights from an airplane; but otherwise I stared into clear skies that opened to the universe. By starlight I again listened for the high-pitched, squeaky-wheel-sounding Illinois chorus frog. And heard nothing for five minutes. Not even a barred owl, which I did hear earlier in the evening just after sunset. And certainly no frogs, which did not surprise me since the area I was sampling, chosen at random, held no standing water. Without water I have learned not to expect frogs. So I proceeded on, quite a bit less energetically than the first stop of the night, 13 miles to the Illinois River bluffs and the final square-mile section of the survey route.
At well past midnight, far from any town, I was the only car on the road. I fought to stay alert and ready to avert the occasional white-tailed deer, raccoon, or rabbit that might dart in front of my vehicle at the last second. Driving the back roads at night required a constant awareness of where I happened to be at any given moment. Once disoriented, precious time could be lost finding my way again. So I paid close attention to the trip meter, county road map, key intersections, and whatever landmarks I could make out in the darkness.
After finishing the last of the survey stops, I had still not heard any Illinois chorus frogs. I knew, however, that my survey run was not wasted effort. This was only the first year in a ten-year survey conducted by the Illinois Department of Natural Resources (IDNR), and my sample route was one of nine being conducted by other IDNR staff in southern and central Illinois, from Alexander County on the south to Tazewell County on the north. My data would feed into the larger analyses conducted by the IDNR. In addition, because the Illinois chorus frog is state-threatened (if populations fall, it could become state-endangered or even extirpated), any information on its abundance, distribution, and behavior is valuable.
Gaining insight into the habitat needs of such a secretive species, I’m sure, has not been easy. Because except for the brief spring breeding season, the Illinois chorus frog spends all it its life buried underground, where it survives on small invertebrates. Its forelegs are highly adapted for digging in pure sand, which is why it is only found in areas with open sand, in only 10 of Illinois’ 102 counties; the Mason County sand area, about 25 miles northwest of Springfield, with wind-blown sand dunes, native sand prairie, and ephemeral wetlands (lacking fish that prey upon tadpoles), is of special importance to the Illinois chorus frog.
Sand Lake, Mason County, in 1993, along Route 97
As it turned out, I did finally hear Illinois chorus frogs during the second run of my midnight frog surveys a few days later; on this second run, though, I heard Illinois chorus frogs at only two listening stops: a good number calling at the nearly dry Sand Lake, just south of Havana, and one calling frog at a listening stop near the Illinois River. But calling whip-poor-wills at several stops—sometimes western chorus frogs, gray tree frogs, and American toads—made up for the lack of the missing target species.
Following my last stop at one o’clock in the morning, with a slight tension behind the eyes, I wearily headed for home. Staying up late is not as easy as it was decades ago. I was not meant for the night life, and I expected my biorhythms to be out of kilter for days. But I eagerly looked forward to next year’s survey, and the next eight years after that. Being part of something larger makes it all worth the effort. So the night life can, indeed, be a good life.
[The Illinois Department of Natural Resources published an expanded version of this essay (@ORC Issue #40), with graphics, side bars, and more photographs. It is available as a download by clicking Download @ORC Issue #40 Lerczak ICF Article.]