And now for a change of pace: Frog gigging

When I was a little kid growing up in the San Joaquin Valley, I hated the neighbor boys.

We lived next to an irrigation ditch that was teeming with life - especially carp, crawdads and bullfrogs - and it was like my own personal aquarium. So of course, it really pissed me off when I'd walk to the ditch and see a bullfrog floating, innards spilling out of a hole in its belly. The boys had been doing target practice again.

This is what I was thinking about Friday afternoon as I sped east on the Jackson Highway toward Rancho Murieta to meet Boyfriend and our friend Peter to try something we'd never done before: frog gigging. Read more...
Of course, what we would be doing wasn't the same thing. Little boys kill wantonly because they're little boys. We kill things because we want to eat them - not for target practice.

But I wondered what it would be like. Would I feel pangs of guilt killing my old friend the bullfrog? Would it be different - harder? - killing by hand, rather than hiding behind a gun?

Of course it would turn out exactly the same - but I would be surprised nonetheless.

* * *

I was unusually unprepared for this hunt. I'd spent the afternoon at school tying up loose ends and had to rush home to pack everything we'd need. Boyfriend sent me the list:

- Both our waders
- the trident and rod in the living room
- Blue cooler with ice in it. Maybe a few beers.
- crayfish trap in the garage. It is a black cylindrical thing near the garden equipment.
- Some twist ties. I think there are a bunch in the "junk" drawer in the kitchen.
- The bag o'shad heads in the box freezer. They should be in a white grocery bag in the upper left-hand corner at the top of the freezer.
- Bug spray

We were heading to a bass club where there were stocked farm ponds that had crawdads and bullfrogs in addition to the prized bass. We planned to use daylight to fish and drop in the crawdad trap, then shift to frog gigging - which Peter had done before - at nightfall.

I bolted out the door wearing blue camo BDU's (night camo - ha!) and flip flops. As I headed down the street, already 20 minutes late, I realized I'd left my socks lying on the bed. Mmmmmm ... waders without socks. Cool.

The flip flop thing should've been fine. Farm ponds are pretty accessible - there's usually a road to them, and there are paths beat down by cattle.

But the first pond we sought out was oh, maybe 200 yards across mostly untouched grasses, which, this being California, have all dried up and gone to seed. Every step I took wedged more and more thorns into my flip flops and my feet.

I stopped periodically to shake off what I could. But I was a wreck. And the pond we were looking for wasn't there, so the whole trek was for nothing.

No problem, Peter said - there's another pond with a road going right up to it. We'll go there.

We drove across the ranch and there it was - perfect!

It was getting late enough that there wasn't much time to fish, so I just donned my waders and stalked around the pond with my gig while Boyfriend and Peter cast their lines into the water a few times.

We could hear some really big bullfrogs the whole time, so we were feeling optimistic.

After about 50 yards, though, I had rubbed the skin over my un-socked anklebones raw.

Step.

Ow.

Step.

Ow.

Step.

Ow.

Idiot! I should've turned around and gotten the socks when I was just a block from the house.

When it got dark enough, we got serious about the frogs. Boyfriend donned his waders. Peter got the flashlight. He ran through what we would do: Shine the light around the edge of the pond trying to spot yellow eyes, which will be about all that sticks up. One person shines the light in the frog's eyes, immobilizing him, while the other moves around to the side or back and gigs the frog.

(Tangent: Why can we spotlight frogs but not deer? They only answer I've gotten so far is, "Because they're frogs.")

For our first run, Boyfriend would hold the light and I'd hold the gig.

We crept along the edge of the pond, being as quiet as we could walking through crackly grass wearing waders, but we didn't see any eyes.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.

A couple times frogs busted us - we heard them jumping into the water before we could see them, and we would all groan.

Finally, the beam of the flashlight found two yellow eyes.

"Move in closer," Peter told Boyfriend. You need a good strong beam of light to make the frog freeze.

I crept around and moved in behind the frog. The pain in my ankles disappeared. All thoughts of what the neighbor boys had done to my old bullfrog friends were gone. This was business.

I put the barbed prongs of the gig about five inches behind his head - wondering if I would be able to miss something that seems so obvious and easy, as I have done so many times with guns.

Peter was right. Poor little bugger was transfixed by the light. He had no clue I was so close.

I thrust, pushing the gig a foot into the water until I met the mushy bottom.

I'd hit him!

I held for a second, then pulled the gig out, and I'll be damned if there wasn't a heavy, wiggling bullfrog on the prongs!

Boyfriend and Peter cheered as I pulled the gig back to shore, a big grin on my face. I hadn't screwed it up!

Then the bullfrog wiggled off the prongs and leapt away.

What???

I could see his shadowy figure, dimly lit by the first quarter moon, as he bounced further and further away.

Then, in confusion, he bounced back toward us. Boyfriend spotlighted him again and I tried to stab, but he leapt. I tried again and hit dirt as he finally aligned himself properly, burst into the water, dove and swam away, doing little underwater frog kicks illuminated by the flashlight.

I'm not sure how long my jaw hung open, but there were lots of bugs out so I finally had to shut my mouth.

"Uh, what the hell?"

This was exactly like the first pheasant I shot and the first duck I shot: He did not meekly fall dead like an actor in a melodrama. He fought for his life.

But unlike my first pheasant and my first duck, he won.

We walked the pond's edge a few more times, and we got busted a few more times, but we didn't see anymore telltale yellow eyes.

"This is tough," Peter said. "Usually there are a lot more frogs."

We considered searching for another pond, but it was getting late, and we'd all worked that day, so we called it quits.

But I got the answer to my question: Frog gigging was like every other form of hunting. When the time came, I had no problem doing what I needed to do. But just because I hit my target didn't mean it was in the bag.

And that failure left me craving another chance to see if I could get it right.


© Holly A. Heyser 2009