Bob, About That Hellbender

Bob,

A few days ago, you posted a short video of yourself pulling a hellbender out of a stream and holding it up for the camera — sharing it on Facebook, Instagram, and YouTube.

When I scrolled through the comments on your Instagram, I kept seeing the same concern come up, which happens to be something wildlife biologists have been raising for years: hellbenders are incredibly sensitive animals, and handling them, especially with bare hands, can stress them out and strip away the protective mucus on their skin.

Hellbenders are special creatures. They are the largest amphibians in all of North America. They live entirely in cold, fast-moving creeks and streams in eastern states. They have unusual loose, folded skin, which allows them to breathe directly from the streams they inhabit. This skin allows them to absorb oxygen. What that means is that their skin is critical to their survival. Contaminating it or disrupting it directly impacts their health.

Most of a hellbender's respiration happens through this skin. Oxygen diffuses across its surface into the body, while the mucus layer also helps protect the animal from infection and pathogens. For an animal designed in this particular way, contact matters.

The subspecies in your video, the Eastern Hellbender, Cryptobranchus alleganiensis alleganiensis, is in serious trouble. Its sister subspecies, the Ozark Hellbender, Cryptobranchus alleganiensis bishopi, is already federally endangered — and the Eastern isn't far behind, currently under consideration for the same listing and already recognized as endangered in several states. This is part of a much bigger picture: amphibians as a group are experiencing steeper population declines than any other vertebrates on Earth, something I wrote about at length in a recent essay on how biodiversity quietly holds up the foundations of human civilization.

That's part of why wildlife agencies along the East Coast have put rules in place around hellbender handling. In Pennsylvania — where your video appears to have been filmed — the Eastern Hellbender is listed as Endangered by the Pennsylvania Fish and Boat Commission. As I understand it, even touching one requires a scientific collection permit from the PFBC. Researchers who work with hellbenders follow careful protocols specifically designed to minimize stress on the animal and reduce the risk of spreading disease.

And even when someone does have a permit, agencies are pretty consistent about flagging another concern: when people publicly show themselves handling sensitive species, it tends to inspire others to do the same. This has become more of a concern, as more and more wildlife influencers gain popularity by showing themselves handling ever more rare creatures.

When your followers raised these concerns in the comments, you responded in the thread:

"Who said I didn't have a permit? I've been a county coordinator for the PA Herp Atlas for 10 years. I do things by the book."

You also wrote:

"If I may humble brag, I've been able to donate $150k+ by educating people, building a following, and selling products. Every cent I earn from wildlife, I give back to wildlife."

Those are admirable things.

But they are not the question people were asking.

The question they were asking was simpler: is it wise to show hundreds of thousands of viewers that picking up hellbenders is normal behavior?

At one point, another commenter raised a concern many people have when they encounter amphibians:

"Our hands seem so germy and chemical laden… does handling amphibians not affect their skin?"

You replied:

"It can. But I had been in the creek myself for a while. So whatever I had on my hands, the salamander had on it. And I held it for like 20 seconds."

Another commenter attempted to explain a different concern:

"They are cold blooded animals. Their skin actually burns when humans touch them. They are the temperature of the water. But your hands are almost 99 degrees."

You responded:

"This is wrong and uninformed."

The commenter's explanation about temperature was not entirely accurate. Amphibian skin does not literally "burn" from brief contact with human hands. But the underlying concern is valid, the commenter was essentially correct, and you could have used the moment to tune his knowledge.

Again, amphibians, and perhaps especially hellbenders, are extremely vulnerable to handling. Their skin is so delicate, and it plays a key dual role. Not only does that skin help them breathe, but it also protects them from infection. This double whammy is why biologists are so against direct contact whenever possible.

Another commenter put the concern more bluntly and simply wrote:

"Just stop. Leave it alone."

You replied:

"Ok well since you said so."

Individually, these comments might seem like ordinary social-media disagreements. But, as a group, they point to a pattern. Some viewers immediately worry about the animal. Others assume the interaction must be harmless. The discussion quickly slides past the real issue: what behavior is safest for the animal itself?

This is where amphibian biology matters.

Substances on human skin — oils, sunscreen residue, trace chemicals, even pathogens — can transfer during handling. Contact does not have to last long to cause problems. Even briefly touching a hellbender can disturb the protective mucus layer that allows these animals to breathe through their skin and defend themselves against infection.

This is why wildlife agencies generally advise against handling hellbenders except during permitted scientific research carried out under controlled conditions.

Social media adds another dimension to encounters like this.

A single wildlife video can reach hundreds of thousands of people. Among those people will be anglers, hikers, and kids exploring creeks. Any of them may one day turn over a rock and find a hellbender sitting quietly beneath it. They will remember your video and assume that picking the animal up for a quick look — or, more likely these days, for their own social media moment — must be harmless.

Now imagine that decision repeated across thousands of streams by thousands of curious people.

That is why wildlife biologists tend to emphasize a very simple guideline: observe, don't handle.

None of this requires bad intentions. Most people who post wildlife videos do it because they genuinely care — and I don't doubt that's true for you. Writing children's books about wildlife is real, meaningful work. Getting young readers excited about the natural world, helping them see the creatures around them as worth knowing and protecting — that matters, and it adds up over time in ways that are hard to measure.

But that kind of influence cuts both ways. When viewers raised concerns about this video in your comments, several of them were brushed off or even actually blocked rather than heard. That's worth sitting with. The people pushing back weren't being hostile — they were responding exactly the way you'd hope someone raised on a love of wildlife would respond. Caring about animals and caring about how they're treated aren't opposing instincts. They're the same one.

Conservation ethics aren't something you earn through good intentions, a long track record, or even generous donations to the right organizations. They get built — and rebuilt — through honestly reckoning with how fragile some species are, and then modeling the behavior that gives them a real shot at surviving. That's especially true when you have an audience watching.

For hellbenders, the guidance from wildlife biologists isn't complicated:

If you find one, leave it where it is. You can admire it from the water's edge.

That's it. That's the whole ask. You can photograph it in place. If you are not doing permitted biological work, you shouldn't disturb it.

Hellbenders have survived for millions of years largely because they are rarely seen.

That quiet anonymity has always been their greatest protection.