48 Nebraskaland • November 2022
I
was on the way out to The Nature
Conservancy's Platte River Prairies
when the preserve manager, Cody
Miller, called.
"Hey, have you ever seen a spadefoot
toad?"
"Just once," I said, "but never along
the Platte. You got one?"
"Yep," he said. "I saw it hopping
away from the mower, and so I moved
it to safety. It wasn't the kind of toad
I expected! I'm holding it until you get
here."
Fifteen minutes later, I arrived to
find Miller holding the little spadefoot
gently in his hand. The spadefoot,
of course, wasn't interested in sitting
for a portrait. While a grinning Cody
watched from above, I scooted around
on my belly in the mowed grass, trying
to get the spadefoot to stop hopping
long enough for my camera to focus. I
wasn't having much luck.
Finally, I grabbed the toad and stuck
it on top of a mowed-off pocket gopher
mound, sure it would once again hop
away. Instead, it sat perfectly still,
and I quickly snapped a few photos
before I noticed that its back feet were
shuffling discreetly in the loose soil.
That's when my brain clicked into gear,
and I realized what was happening.
The plains spadefoot is
colloquially called a toad, but
several characteristics, including its
smooth, moist skin, make it more of
a frog. They're rarely seen because
they spend most of their lives
underground, emerging only during
or after rainstorms to mate and lay
eggs in puddles. The adults then dig
themselves back into the earth and
their tadpoles try to grow up before
their puddle evaporates.
As Cody and I watched, the
spadefoot in front of us slowly started
to sink into the gopher mound. It sat
fully upright and slowly rotated as its
hind feet worked the soil from beneath
its body. Within three minutes, the
toad had been completely swallowed
up by the earth, leaving almost no sign
it had been there. It was mesmerizing
and magical to watch.
I took lots of photos of the spadefoot
as it gradually disappeared. In the
moment, I wrestled with whether to
switch to video but decided to stick
to still photos. Afterward, I briefly
considered digging the spadefoot
back out to see if it would repeat the
performance on video, but I quickly
dismissed the thought, and we left the
little guy alone in his subterranean
hideout.
N
Chris Helzer is The Nature
Conservancy's director of science in
Nebraska.
Disappearing Act
Story and photos by Chris Helzer
O
1
