A dozen conservationists clad in khaki and forest green march into the Hill Country brush.
Noontime sun hasn't broken through the clouds. The prickly pears are full of ripe purple fruit. Late summer rain has kept the grasses green and red dirt damp. Conditions are ideal for this rescue mission as the procession moves wordlessly onward.
In their hands are cameras and clear deli cups, the kind used to take home leftover potato salad. Inside each are tiny lizards, about the size of a quarter and only a few weeks old.
They are the latest, greatest hope for bringing their species back from the brink.
Call them horny toads, horned frogs, Phrynosoma cornutum or the Texas horned lizard, the state reptile is in dire straits. For several decades, they've been vanishing from Texas landscapes for reasons researchers cannot fully explain.
This story is part of Curious Texas, an ongoing project from The Dallas Morning News that invites you to join in our reporting process. The idea is simple: You have questions, and our journalists are trained to track down answers.
Last December, while the Texas horned lizards were in hibernation, Sharon Castleberry wondered where all the horn toads had gone and asked Curious Texas to investigate. We met Diane Barber at the Fort Worth Zoo, who told us about the plan to breed 300 hatchlings for release. This is the story of the partnership between zoos, Texas Christian University biologists and Texas Parks and Wildlife officials to bring the Texas state reptile back from the brink.
Now, Texas zoos, Texas Parks and Wildlife Department officials, Texas Christian University biologists and more are working together to release hundreds of horned lizard hatchlings here, on state land about 100 miles west of Austin.
The horned lizard procession arrives in a clearing surrounded by granite hills at Mason Mountain Wildlife Management Area. There's open dirt, a few tufts of low grass, tall brush nearby, lots of termites and a few varieties of ants. Perfect horned lizard habitat.
Jim Gallagher, a wildlife biologist with Parks and Wildlife, spreads his arms wide.
"Ground zero," he says. "Who's got how many?"
"I've got 15," says Jamie Peltier, a zookeeper at the Fort Worth Zoo.
She kneels and pries the lid off one of the cups.
Carefully, she lifts each baby lizard and sets it on the ground. Some scurry away quickly, others hunker down and hardly move at all. Peltier's face turns red as Diane Barber, her boss, pulls out a phone to take photos of the zookeeper.
"I'm trying not to cry," she says, grinning.
Peltier has worked with the horned lizards for months to prepare for this day. She helped pair lizards for breeding, scooped droppings, refilled ant feeders, checked for nests, watched, waited, weighed and measured them week after week, packed the hatchlings into these cups and brought them here.
It's emotional, she says, to finally see them scamper out of sight.
In a booming bass, Gallagher sings as the little lizards look for ants to snack on.
"Born free, free as the wind blows ..."
