I look down and see the clear, gelatinous ball in the marsh water with its many dark specks. It is about the size of a baseball, and I know from experience that it will feel firmer in my hand than its appearance would suggest. The onset of warm, spring nights sets in motion the great migration of northwestern salamanders to the shorelines of marshes, ponds and slow streams, their preferred breeding sites. Perhaps less dramatic to our eyes than the extraordinary movements of wildebeest in the Serengeti, or Caribou across the arctic tundra, the few hundred yards these animals will travel is an immense journey in the scale of their lives. After spending the entire year possibly under a single log or in a single animal burrow, how strong an urge must be felt to cause one of these creatures to risk the dangers of predation and exposure that their coital pilgrimage entails. As I gaze at the cluster of eggs at the edge of the marsh, this symbol of risks taken and future potential, I think about the opportunities in my life that have proven compelling enough to drive me out from under my log. I wonder what will be next.