he previous night's freeze has left a glaze of ice on the vernal pools. The salamander traps come up with a couple of wood frogs and some large pond beetles, but no salamanders. "We may be too early," Klemens says. "We've got a lot more surveying left to do."

Exploring the west side of the property, by the golf course, Klemens finds what might be good bog turtle habitat, a rare fen for a rare species among the rare wildflower that is called Grass of Parnassus. He pronounces it "one hell of a habitat -- a land before time." Since bog turtles mate in May and deposit their eggs in June, it's too early to tell whether the area will prove productive.

Two golfers, bundled up against the cold, pull up in their cart to the tee nearby and watch Klemens and Way looking over the high grass of the rough.

"I guess they don't think this is too compelling," says Way, who has rejoined our little expedition in her dual capacity as town official and lover of the outdoors.

"One man's uncompelling is another man's biodiversity," Klemens responds.

We move from one site to the next, Klemens always ready to talk but all business when he's got the wetland in front of him. He has to make his analysis and move on. The season is short.

"There's the panic of trying to see as much of it as I can while it's going on. But I can only be in one place at one time. What's going on in the next pool? What pool should I go to tonight? What a shame if I go to a pool that's too far to the north and I miss this great party going on in a pool in the south. Often I hit it right, but not always. Sometimes I wake up and see the ground's all wet, the rains have come, and all of this stuff happened and I slept through it."