have liked to put in a jar, had there been any jars to put it in. The next
morning, Cohn-Haft pointed out a pair of Manaus slender-legged tree
frogs, locked in amplexus. The frogs were an orangey brown, with shovel-
shaped faces. The male, clamped on the female’s back, was about half her
size. I recalled having read that amphibians in the Amazon lowlands, so
far at least, seem largely to have escaped chytrid. Cohn-Haft, who, along
with everyone else, had been kept up by the din, described the frog’s call
as a “prolonged groaning that explodes into a roar and ends in a chuckling
laugh.”
After several cups of coffee, we set out to watch the ant parade.
Lovejoy had planned to come with us, but when he went to go put on a
long-sleeved shirt, a spider that had taken up residence in it bit him on
the hand. The spider looked relatively ordinary, but the bite was turning
an angry red, and Lovejoy’s hand was going numb. It was decided that he
should stay at the camp.
“The ideal method is to let the ants come in around you,” Cohn-Haft
explained as we hiked along. “Then there’s no way out; it’s like painting
yourself into a corner. And the ants will come up on you, and they’ll bite
your clothes. And you’re in the middle of the action.” In the distance, he
heard a rufous-throated antbird making a sound somewhere between a
tweet and a cackle. As the name suggests, rufous-throated antbirds are
obligate ant-followers, so Cohn-Haft took this as a promising sign.
However, a few minutes later, when we reached the spot where we’d seen
their endless column the day before, the ants were nowhere to be found.
Cohn-Haft heard two other antbirds calling from the trees: a white-
plumed antbird, which makes a high-pitched whistling noise; and a white-
chinned woodcreeper, which has an upbeat, twittery song. They, too,
seemed to be looking for the ants.
tuis.
(Tuis.)
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