NH Outside: Marine Ecology and Aquaculture Archives

Snow lingers in the woods, though a few bare spots have emerged under the firs, where the snow never amounted to much. The ice is mostly gone from the pond, and now, in mid April, we listen carefully for the wood frogs, lovely tan creatures with black masks who find the merest signs of spring reason enough to wake up and go for a swim.

One day I hear a couple of frogs and then a day or two later, I hear hundreds of them, their low key quacking easily mistaken for ducks. If any other frogs are about, it’s only a few spring peepers that pierce the wood frogs’ soft symphony.

The males are the first to reach the pond. Some command a foot or so of shoreline, hoping a female will hop down the hillside; others spread out across one of the coves, spacing themselves about a yard apart, hoping to intercept the females who must swim across from the opposite shore.

When a female arrives, males will try to climb on her back and then grasp her very tightly around her neck, gaining a position that will allow them to fertilize the eggs when they are eventually deposited, a process known as “amplexis.” Since two or more males will, if they can, glom onto a single female, it is essential the females be much larger than the males so they can pop up for a breath of air whenever they want to.

One year the frogs arrived on a Sunday, April 19. I found a spot near the shore where I could see five dozen frogs without even moving my head. While sitting there, I would hear rustling behind me and then watch crazed males take wild leaps into the pond. While any quick movement would cause all the males to submerge, an extremely loud sneeze had no effect!

Finally, a female appeared. Redder and larger than the males, she swam up under some grass clippings and stuck her nose up, the grass hanging over her forehead, making her seem like a teenager who’d dyed her hair to upset her parents. She eventually moved to within an inch of the shoreline. After a while, she set out for the nearest male, who was just hanging in the water four feet away. But she quickly veered off and swam within a couple of inches of the next male, then sped past. This guy quickly caught up, jumped on, and grabbed her around the neck.

Another female made passes at three males. Each time she approached and stopped, allowing the male to swim by for her inspection. The first two times, she apparently didn’t like what she saw and swam away. The third time, she swam past the male, paused, and allowed the male to mount. A would be suitor contested the pairing, but the first male held on tightly enough and the pair swam off.

The wood frogs continued most of that Sunday, taking a break for a couple of hours during the middle of the afternoon, then continuing until at least 9 pm. On Monday morning, there were only a few dozen frogs left in the pond, but there were more than 325 clumps of eggs in the reeds, each with two hundred or so eggs well over 50,000 eggs!

It was a lovely 65 degree day, the first real day of spring, when I next went out to check on the wood frog eggs. Numerous migrating birds had arrived overnight, including a small flock of evening grosbeaks, a phoebe, a flicker, a pair of wood ducks and three mergansers. Two ruby crowned kinglets, faster even than warblers, flitted about in the willows and the brush, while a song sparrow serenaded a pair of tree swallows that were checking out a bird house by the pond.

The wood frogs were gone, but their egg masses attracted a lot of notice. Nine newts squirmed in, around and through the jumble of egg clumps, sometimes twisting around each other and at other times plunging solo through the gooey masses. Several huge leeches attached to the clumps of eggs, and a painted turtle swam by, checking out the whole operation.

Within five or six days, about half of the tadpoles were out or active within their sacs; within a week, all had emerged; within another day or two, the egg cases themselves were mostly gone. I couldn’t tell who was eating them, it could have been ducks, newts, other frogs, the muskrat I noted hiding in the reeds or perhaps they just dissolve.

It may or may not be coincidence that ducks and a magnificent pair of great blue herons began to visit our little pond just after the wood frogs arrived. They were certainly enjoying their feeding, though I never could see what they were capturing.

From time to time over the next several weeks, I would see a vast swarm of tadpoles a yard wide, a foot deep, and more than 50 feet long, moving slowly along the edge of the pond, feeding on minute bits of vegetation and detritus and generally cleaning up the grasses and sedges at the edge of the pond. What a marvelous example of the incredible explosion of life in the pond!

Carl D. Martland, Coverts Cooperator

Although news stories generally feature harmful bacteria such as Salmonella saintpaul that's been sickening people across the nation, or E. coli O157:H7, responsible for so many ground-meat recalls, the bad guys are a tiny fraction of a huge world of bacteria, a life-world so important that taxonomists classify bacteria as a separate kingdom.

Consider a road kill at the side of the road. Watch over time as the carcass begins its ancient reversal back into the soil. Before the maggots began devouring it, bacteria worked inside the body from the moment of its passing, breaking down and recycling its carbon-based molecules.

Bacteria help decompose the remains of everything: insects, flowers, leaves, trees-even other bacteria-recycling the carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, sulfur, and oxygen through their bodies to be used by your grass, your tomatoes, and eventually by you.

But which one of our little creatures in the environment works enough magic in our state to be worthy of recognition as the official state bacterium? One of the species that work so tirelessly to decompose all the materials you placed in your compost pile would find its way to the top of anyone's list. Or perhaps one of the nitrogen-fixing bacteria, working with peas, beans and other legumes to add nitrogen to the soil.

My vote though, goes for Aquaspirillium magnetotacticum, a dumpy, rod-shaped, bacterium, with one whip-like flagellum at each end, found in the oxygen-poor muds of our coastal environments and freshwater lakes.

As its name implies, A. magnetotacticum has magnetic properties resulting from small (especially small in bacteria) pieces of lodestone (Fe3O4) in its little tiny body allowing it to serve as a biological compass. The addition of lodestone in this bacterium's body gives it the ability in the Northern Hemisphere to swim up and down relative to the earth's magnetic field to the low-oxygen environment they favor. The advantage for this organism is, in a magnetic field like the Earth's, A .mag, it can sense oxygen's presence and then move away to a friendly environment.

Like many bacteria, it prefers to decompose organic material found in low oxygen levels of our salt marshes and in the soft mud of our New Hampshire lakes. Once these muds are disturbed by kids swimming, dogs frolicking, and lake shore life in general, these bacteria use the downward trend of the Earth's magnetic field to find their way back to a low-oxygen environment.

If A. magnetotactium is found everywhere, what’s the value to New Hampshire? It turns out that A. mag. was first identified in the 1970s by Richard Blakemore, PhD, of our own University of New Hampshire.

As a graduate student in Georgia, I remember a page in my bacterial physiology textbook describing A.mag. and there, underneath the photo I found this caption: A magnetotactic bacterium found in a freshwater pond in New Hampshire. (Courtesy of R. and N. Blakemore of the University of New Hampshire.)

What serendipity! Here studying late at night in a cold, steel, laboratory, as far away from a freshwater pond in New Hampshire as I could be, a picture of a little bacterium was taking me to a remote corner of my brain, stimulating those storage neurons to release the sounds of loons, the smell of white pine, and images of bunchberry on the forest floor. A. mag was pointing the way home.

It started with an eel.

When it came writhing out of the black water that long-ago summer night, my second thought, after first wondering how I would get it off my line, was how it ended up here in a small Chester bog pond almost 40 miles from its origin in the Atlantic Ocean.

I knew from past reading the eel had made its way upstream as a one-inch elver nearly a decade earlier and would soon return to the saltwater as a full-grown adult. The contemplation of that epic journey inspired me to retrace its route.

And so some years later on a spring flood, my 12-year old son and I retraced the eel’s journey in a canoe and, in so doing, discovered the Exeter River.

The Exeter is one of the family of New Hampshire coastal rivers that flow eventually to the Atlantic. The Lamprey, Winnicutt, Oyster, and the river I grew up on the Bellamy are virtually indistinguishable from one another. A voyager plunked blindfolded in a kayak into one of these rivers would be hard-pressed to identify it as one or the other when the blindfold was removed.

The rivers are uniformly tea-colored from the leaf tannins, mixing slow bends with fast-drops over shale rapids, but at some point or another­usually over dams constructed by the first settlers to capture the power of falling water­they become salt water.

Over the 20 years or so following my first spring trip, various companions and I made the Exeter River trip several times, dubbing our adventure “Chester to the Sea” the "sea" liberally defined as the salt water below the dam at Exeter.

We typically leave at first light from a roadside in Chester and finish, sometimes in the dark, at Newfields, Adams Point or Newmarket, depending on how well we judged the outgoing tide. We may portage as many as 20 times over dams and blowdowns along the river’s length.

A friend and I once estimated we dipped our paddles 20,000 times during the 12- to 14-hour trip.

We start out bundled against the morning chill, shed clothes in the midday warmth, and rebundle as the shore lights twinkle. Along the way,we see the best and worst of this coastal river that rises in hillside seeps in Chester, gathers itself from many streams, then passes largely unnoticed through six towns on its way to becoming the Squamscott River that finishes in Great Bay.

The best parts of the river are the confusing swamps, where the river’s true course is often determined by the bend of the underwater grass, and the stretches of dark rapids where the tea-colored water disguises the rocks that scrape plastic curlicues from our boats.

The worst parts of the trip aren’t the natural hardships of the journey but seeing the insults to the river done by those who see it as convenient disposal for their leaf piles, old tires and worse. Less obvious, but more damaging, are the chemically-treated lawns at the river’s edge whose lushness spells slow death for the river.

It has been the misfortune of the Exeter River, like the other coastal rivers, to flow through some of the most heavily populated areas of New Hampshire, doubly unfortunate because the rivers have been largely unprotected by the state’s Shoreland Protection Program and so have suffered more insults than their larger inland counterparts.

Each year we’d set out optimistic, hoping that for every clear-cut shoreline with a lawn sweeping down from the house to the water’s edge, we’d find a secluded river bend, and for each discarded tire, we’d find a log covered with painted turtles.

This year, we have cause for new optimism. Changes to the Comprehensive Shoreland Protection Act due to take effect July 1 will protect the Exeter River from Sandown to the sea. The new rules will prohibit many insults to the river.

So each spring when the trout lilies bloom and the water is high enough to allow passage, we’ll once again dip our paddles and head downstream. I like to think that as we paddle, we float above elvers squirming upstream toward a distant bog pond.

By Greg Lowell, Wildlife Coverts Cooperator

The volunteers of Great Bay Coast Watch (GBCW) call them “bad guys,” scientists call them harmful algal blooms (HABs), and the press and public generally use the term “red tide.” But whatever the name, the worst bloom of toxic algae in decades arrived in the spring of 2005.

Since June of 1999, GBCW volunteers have been sampling coastal waters to capture, examine, and identify the renegade single-celled algae that create these toxic blooms, whose presence may necessitate shutting down shellfish harvesting operations to protect public health.

This spring, data collected by GBCW volunteers gave a heads-up about an emerging bloom to New Hampshire Department of Environmental Services (NHDES) Shellfish Program personnel. Ideally, volunteers find the toxic algae cells before shellfish ingest enough to become toxic; however, this spring’s HAB arose so quickly and at such high concentrations, volunteer sightings coincided with elevated toxin levels in shellfish tested at the state NHDES laboratory.

Good things in small packages
Phytoplankton, the common term for single-celled marine algae, provide the ultimate example of a “good thing in a small package.” Cells are so small that they are invisible to the naked eye, yet so exquisitely beautiful artists have copied them in stained glass. Individual species take several forms, among them: opalescent ovals punctuated with thousands of tiny holes, pill-box-like chains with protruding spines, and plated-and-grooved “spaceships” with flickering flagella. (See figures 1, 2, 3, 5 and 6).

Millions of phytoplankton can exist in a single drop of sea water, inhabiting a tiny world all but invisible. Through the process of photosynthesis, microscopic “meadows” of single-celled plants sustain the entire food web of the oceans. The lives of all animals that live in the sea depend on phytoplankton for energy and minerals. Phytoplankton photosynthesis is a key element of the global carbon cycle, which regulates the temperature of our planet and produces life-sustaining oxygen. Perhaps no other group of organisms plays such a major role in maintaining life on Earth.

Toxic “blooms
A “bloom” happens when conditions allow algae to multiply very fast and accumulate in dense, sometimes visible patches. Blooms of toxic algae (HABs) are what GBCW volunteers look for.

Like handsome strangers wearing black hats, the presence of toxic cells spells trouble. Scientists don’t know why these “bad guys” out of an estimated 20,000 different phytoplankton species produce toxins. When toxic cells are abundant in the water, filter feeders like shellfish will consume them and concentrate the toxins, which can then be passed along the food chain. Humans who eat the now- contaminated shellfish can get sick or even die.

Of the six types of potentially toxic cells that GBCW volunteers look for, Alexandrium species are always toxic and are the culprits that caused this spring’s event.

People who eat shellfish harboring elevated levels of Alexandrium-produced toxins can suffer Paralytic Shellfish Poisoning (PSP). PSP symptoms range from tingling of the lips to, in rare cases, respiratory system arrest and death. Coastal states spend millions of dollars annually to identify HAB-contaminated shellfish before the shellfish can be sold and endanger public health.

Volunteers as early warning system
Using volunteers to act as an early warning system for HABs began in California in 1991. Theorists opined that since it was possible to train citizens as enemy plane spotters in WWII, it was also possible to train people to use simple methods (e.g., plankton net and field microscope) to identify incoming toxic cells before the filter-feeding clams and mussels became contaminated.

In 1999, supported by a grant from the New Hampshire Coastal Program and with training provide d by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration, New Hampshire became the third U.S. coastal state to use volunteers as citizen scientists to collect data on harmful algal blooms.

Many people briefly harbor a desire to be a scientist and “go where no man has gone before” or travel the seas as Jacques Cousteau did on the Calypso. Few pursue it because they think scientists are smarter, braver, or somehow different. The GBCW phytoplankton program allows all its volunteers to be scientists. The work is exacting and sometimes tedious, but rewards volunteers with small discoveries and, on rare occasions, a breakthrough. Comrades work side by side looking for the” bad guys.” Weeks and months go by without an observation—then there is a tidal wave of sightings and everyone becomes recharged.

Training volunteer phytoplankton monitors
Training volunteers to collect water quality information, fill out data sheets, and use microscopes to identify the six toxic or potentially toxic cells out of the thousands possible presents challenges. For some, just looking through the eyepiece of a microscope and seeing more than their eyelashes is the first step.

GBCW trains all its new volunteers first in the classroom at UNH’s Kingman Farm, then in a cooperative training, then with their Maine counterparts in April at the Darling Marine Center in Walpole, Maine, and finally in the field.

Although the process may seem intimidating at first, most volunteers quickly learn identification methods and develop an eye for spotting anything unusual in their samples. One of us (Cooper) has developed photo-ID sheets to help in the process.

Each volunteer then becomes part of a team assigned a sampling site along the New Hampshire coast. Each team collects data weekly and sends it to the GBCW office at Kingman Farm. Potentially toxic cells observed are immediately reported to the coordinator, who relays the information to the N.H. Shellfish Program personnel ultimately responsible for the management of shellfish beds.

GBCW communicates with other scientists and with the public
During this year’s substantial HAB event, GBCW established daily communication and shared observations with scientists from Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute, the University of Massachusetts in Dartmouth, Massachusetts, the Massachusetts Water Resources Administration monitoring team, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), the Maine Department of Marine Resources, and the U.S. Food and Drug Administration, Office of Seafood Safety.

GBCW also seeks to educate the public about marine issues. The world of phytoplankton is a wonderful means of introducing students and adults to ocean food webs, the impacts of coastal pollution, and the use of satellite imagery to determine ocean productivity. Home-schooled students hav e become monitors; other students have used their phytoplankton data for science fair projects. Phytoplankton monitoring has been offered as a school enrichment activity. GBCW volunteers have for three years presented programs about phytoplankton to all the fifth grade students at the Portsmouth Middle School and to other school groups through Cooperative Extension’s Marine Docent Program.

You can learn more about the dangers of HABs from Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute.

By Candace Dolan, Phytoplankton Monitoring Program Coordinator, and Steve Cooper, GreatBayCoast Watch volunteer.

Phytoplankton photos by Steve Cooper; at 400x magnification. Other photos by Candace Dolan.

The Great Bay Coast Watch(GBCW)
The Great Bay Coast Watch (GBCW) was founded in 1990 as part of the University of New Hampshire Cooperative Extension/Sea Grant citizen outreach and education program. More than 100 adult and teenage volunteers work to protect the long-term health of New Hampshire ’s coastal environment through volunteer water monitoring. Additional program funding and phytoplankton project support is provided through grants from the New Hampshire Coastal Program (NHCP) and New Hampshire Estuaries Project (NHEP).

NHDES Shellfish Program
Since 2001, GBCW has been helping NHDES manage a paralytic shellfish poisoning (PSP) sampling site at Star Island, Isles of Shoals. Since blooms of toxic Alexandrium species tend to move in from offshore waters, the Star Island site is ideal as it is six miles from the NH coast. Because there are few easily accessible mussels at the island, volunteers collect mussels from the plentiful mussel beds in Hampton Harbor and place them in mesh bags that are transported out and left to hang from the Star Island docks. Left to filter-feed for at least a week, the mussels collect whatever toxins may be present. Volunteers then collect and transport the mussels to the NHDES laboratory in Concord for testing.

Phytoplankton Photo ID
Identification of phytoplankton species is difficult, especially using portable field microscopes. The images aren’t as sharp as those of lab equipment, and field scopes are subject to harsh field conditions.

Two years ago, the only field aids available to GBCW volunteers were marginal black-and-white photos and small line drawings, both vastly different from the images one sees in the field. Today, volunteers have full-color, lifelike photo-ID sheets that make their job much easier.

These sheets, developed by long-time GBCW volunteer Steve Cooper, evolved slowly. According to Cooper, “In 2003, I was involved in a UNH project that required volunteers to analyze once-per-week ocean samples by determining plankton species and quantities in a fixed amount of seawater. I began taking photographs in the lab to help identify many off-shore species I had never seen before. It soon dawned on me that this concept could be useful for our coastal samplers.”

Cooper combined photos taken in the lab with others he took in the field using coastal samples. He used these photos, along with a few from other sources, to design a pictorial document to be used in the field.

The fun part? “It soon became a real quest to get good photos of all the species that the volunteers see,” Cooper says. “Sort of a Peterson’s Guide to Phytoplankton. Even better is the thrill of seeing beautiful phytoplankton structures under the microscope. Such diversity—the intricacies and beauty embodied in nature never cease to amaze me.”