Going froggin’ with dad

From time to time, every good son should spend quality time with his father.

He should take him to a classy restaurant, take him to a good movie, take him to a ballgame or maybe book a fishing trip with him at a beautiful lodge somewhere. Yep, that’s what good sons do. ... Then there’s me.

We parked the truck along a field of wheat stubble and stepped out into the hot, steamy, mosquito-infested July night air. We slathered on bug spray, donned ragged old sneakers, each grabbed a flashlight and what looked like a mini pitchfork on a long bamboo pole and strolled off into the darkness.

Yes that’s right; I took my 82-year-old dad frog hunting. We both enjoy the sport. We both fancy fresh frog legs, and I’m cheap, so this was the perfect outing.

Frog season opened here in Kansas July 1, and this was our second try. Two nights before, we had hunted a shallow wetlands pond I figured sure-as-shooting was overrun with monster bullfrogs.

Not so, and the walking was nearly impossible thanks to an almost invisible carpet of water weeds. We saw plenty of tiny frogs, and the few “bulls” we heard were unreachable on foot.

Plan “B” was a couple nice farm ponds just outside of town. The first pond was an easy walk through the darkness, but I was concerned with the lack of deep, bass “barroom” bullfrog sounds from anywhere around us. The pond’s depth forced us to walk on the bank, and after stumbling halfway around it with absolutely no frog legs for our trouble, we turned back and headed toward the second pond.

There are several legal methods with which to take bullfrogs here in Kansas, and we choose small, pitchfork shaped spears known as “gigs.” A long pole of some sort for a handle helps reach frogs hidden back in cattails and makes it possible to harvest them from a little farther away.

Our chosen attire was old jeans and sneakers — something you don’t mind smelling like black, oozy pond mud the next morning. Waders are nice, but too often I’ve ended up on my butt in the lake, filling waders to the brim and soaking my jeans anyway.

A net bag over my shoulder to carry our harvest and bright flashlights completed our ensemble. I wore a headlamp for convenience, but they’re not necessary.

As we walked away from the first pond, the light from the cloud-shrouded moon and from my headlamp revealed water in a low spot below the pond dam. It was a small area about the size of a normal back yard with cattails along one edge that was supplied with runoff water from the pond, and from its confines came the unmistakable bellows of bullfrogs. Paydirt!

I waded along the cattails while Dad slowly worked his way around the other edge. Fifteen minutes later, when we reached the other end, two bullfrogs dangled in the bag. A fence stood between us and the second pond, and while shining our flashlights around in search of a good crossing, a lump in the short grass several feet from the water caught my eye.

A cow pie, I thought at first, but the cow pie glistened wet in my flashlight beam and had eyes that looked back at me. So, this was either a wet cow pie with eyes or the biggest bullfrog I had ever seen!

One trick to successfully harvesting bull frogs is to keep the flashlight beam in their eyes, temporarily stunning them, as you slowly approach. Lots of water lay between me and this monster, but I didn’t get my feet tangled and fall down, I didn’t thrust the spear wildly off course and the light beam did its job so he soon joined the others in the bag.

The steep edges of the second pond also forced us to walk the banks. As I gingerly picked my way around a huge bull thistle growing in my path, a blur shot past my leg, splashing loudly into the water.

Occasional loud splashes from Dad’s side of the pond also helped convince me this pond held some nice frogs we were not seeing ahead of us. This would be a good pond to hunt from a small boat, floating silently along the edge and scanning the banks for bullfrogs lounging in the grass along those steep banks.

We called it good for the night with five nice frogs and headed home to clean our catch. After removing the legs and peeling off the skin, our reward was a nice bowl of snow white frog leg meat.

We’ll dip them in egg and milk, dredge them in fish fry coating and pan fry them. Part of the fun of frog hunting is watching the meaty legs quiver and twitch as they sizzle away in the skillet.

This reminded me of childhood frog hunts with my buddies, and maybe Dad and I will do it again, but for or our next outing, I think we might just try the ball game or a movie; they require less bug spray and we both smell better when we crawl into the pickup.

I’m very thankful that at 82 years of age, my dad’s health still allows him to go with me to Explore Kansas Outdoors. And yes, that was the biggest bullfrog I have ever seen!

Steve Gilliland is a syndicated outdoors columnist, and can be contacted by e-mail at stevegilliland@embarqmail.com.