Tadpoles are charming, interesting

My husband is working on an outdoor project for which he covered some of his materials with waterproof tarps.

 

All this year’s rain has gradually been deposited on the tarps, bit by bit causing the fabric to form to the shape of what’s underneath it, creating some unintended pools of water. Frankly, it’s very impressive how far the tarps have stretched down into the open spaces and how much water is being held without any leaks–at least so far.

 

It’s like the weather is carrying out a stress test. “Oh, it hasn’t broken yet? How about three more inches of rain?”

 

If asked to guess, I would hazard some of the spaces are holding five gallons or more of water suspended about four feet above the ground.

 

But this column is not about the amazing flexibility of the tarps–though I am truly impressed.

 

It’s about the tadpoles.

 

It has been easily a decade since the idea of tadpoles has been brought to mind for me.

Frogs, of course, have been a persistent presence. One sees them everywhere–one hears them singing after dark. When we go walking across wet grass, they jump ahead of us. As we move along a stream, lake, or pond, they leap as a group to get away from our shadows.

 

Since I know they eat insects, I automatically regard them as a positive influence and try to cause them as little harm as possible.

 

I admire their sleek form, their landscape-tinted markings, their cheerful night songs, and their big, curious-looking eyes. I marvel at a tree frog’s ability to climb and a leopard frog’s versatility. 

 

When I was fishing a few days back, I used a lure that mimicked a swimming frog and was startled at the force with which it was snapped up by a hungry bass. The moment forced me to recognize the frog’s vital position in the food web.

 

In short, at least for someone who lives in the country and enjoys time on the water, it is impossible to ignore or forget frogs.

 

But tadpoles are another matter, it seems. When John showed me a picture he had taken with his phone of one of those suspended pools of water occupied by a few dozen tadpoles, it was like an unexpected phone call from an old friend. “Oh, yes, I remember them.”

 

The little creatures are charming and interesting enough on their own; I cannot resist being fond of them because, at least eventually, they will eat mosquito larva.

 

But how did a frog–well, a pair of frogs–happen to be on top of those four-foot-tall stacks of boards? Having scaled the precipitous heights, they then, apparently, had to jump down into the suspended pools and deposit the necessary eggs.

 

Did they have any trouble getting back out again? I am glad to report there are no little frog skeletons in evidence, so they must have found a way.

 

Fortunately, my husband is working on a separate phase of the project just now, so the suspended water tanks will be available for a while–still, some online research reveals that under optimal conditions, the tadpoles will need at least 60 days to become frogs. They’re about an inch long right now, but I have no idea how long ago they hatched. The good news is, when the tarps have to come off, we should be able to transfer the water–tadpoles and all– to the LeSueur River, which isn’t far from our property.

 

For now, though, I can enjoy the wonder of it.

 

The tarps held the rain; the water created miniature ponds. Against all odds, at least that’s how it seems to me, some frogs found the ponds and laid their eggs. Algae has developed in the water to supply food and, in this artificial environment, there are no fish or other creatures prowling the nursery for a treat.

 

These seem to be rather lucky little hatchlings. It will be fun to watch as they develop into frogs.