The big toe pads secrete a slightly
sticky substance that helps them cling to the smoothest
bark. You might mistake a Cope's gray treefrog for a toad,
given its mottled, textured skin. But stand back. Toads
hop only an inch or two. Tree frogs perform "astonishing
acrobatics" and are said to be so agile that they
seem to fly through the trees.
When they leap, a shocking flash of
bright orange and yellow on the inner thighs (see a
picture of one in action) distracts the potential
predator. Just a hint of this color is exposed above.
Look at the edge of that contortionist hind leg on the
right, near where those cupped toes cling to the mottled
trunk that, itself, is just getting its first dark bark.
Chamelionlike, these frogs change
color — from green (when they're warm and dry in
the treetops) — to gray (when they're cold and wet).
Each spring, the males sing high in
trees near water during the day, then at night descend
closer to the ground. Females climb the song-filled trees.
When a female finds the singer that's just right for her,
she puts her hand on him, and he stops singing. They embrace,
descend, and swim together for an hour, depositing and
fertilizing eggs. The couple may remain quietly joined
for a few hours more.
Michael Redmer is a knowledgeable
and dedicated conservationist with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife
Service. He has found treefrogs to be doing well in the
larger preserves like Palos, Midewin, and Waterfall Glen
where they even try to breed in the entry fountain of
a nearby gated community. But they're not so often found
in apparently suitable habitat in preserves of less than
a few hundred acres. No one knows why.
The showy lady's slipper is another
puzzle. It may grow in fens, bogs, woodland seeps or sand
savannas — very different kinds of places —
but only rarely, in small areas. The flowering stems were
once heavily collected for commercial sale, and, like
most species, the showy lady's slipper does not persist
under dense invasives. Thus, most populations have vanished,
and it is now a rare plant. One site in Hammond still
had hundreds of them in 1986. Near Barrington, when volunteers
cut back the brush in a area fen, one splendid plant appeared.
Something was right for it.
There are thousands of specialized
imponderables about thousands of species in Chicago Wilderness.
And there's no chance we'll have scientific certainty
about the answers in time to save most of them. But if
their beauty and grace — and our curiosity —
help us cherish them, perhaps we can marshal enough science,
enough land, enough common sense, and enough good stewardship
to hold the ark together.
In a sense, every species, indeed
every genetically unique individual, is a specialist.
One goal of conservation is to save growing conditions
for as many of us as possible.
