Frogs don’t carry swords or pistols, but they look as though they wish they could.
Frogs are physically incapable of smiling, but they can look insufferably smug, as if they know something the rest of us don’t. Maybe they do. What I know is that frogs are biologically interesting, fun to fool with and utterly delicious to eat. As one predator to another, I tip my hat to them.
Sit by a pond or a lake on a summer night and you’ll likely hear the two principal stud ducks of North American frogdom. One will be the distinctive basso profundo of Rana catesbeiana, the American bullfrog – jug-a-rum, jug-a-rum. A loud, plosive chuk! means a green frog, Rana clamitans. Lay out one of each side by side and you can see a difference, but they’re more fun to distinguish by what they have to say.
I can’t decide whether to think about catching frogs as hunting, fishing or something else. There is more than one way to skin those particular cats. I’ve shot them with a .22, caught them on fishing rods, gigged them, and simply grabbed them as they sat looking dour and self-satisfied.
Shooting frogs certainly is effective, but not all that much fun, and I don’t care to shoot bullets around water. Gigging requires a bit more skill and stealth; you don’t throw the gig like a spear, but rather reach out and stick them, so you have to get close. Grabbing can be hair-raising at times. More on that later. Force me to choose a single approach and I’d have to go for a fishing rod. More on that later, too.
However you do it, frogging is largely a nocturnal affair, at least in my mind. They’re out and about during the day, of course, but those are targets of opportunity. Serious frogging always raises for me images of clear, starry skies on sultry summer nights. In Missouri, where I lived for nearly 30 years, the frog season opened on July 1. If there’s a more miserable time of year to be outdoors, I couldn’t name it. Heat and humidity do not combine into an environment that’s comfortable to me. But the prospect of frogs makes up for the sweat.
Probably the oldest form of frogging is simply grabbing them as they sit on a riverbank or the shore of a pond. I’ve done it, though never with much satisfaction as a sporting pursuit. Their slick, moist skins are hard to hold onto, and they’re difficult to approach within arm’s length, either in a boat or walking the shore. But it can have its moments.
I was frogging one night in the shallows of Missouri’s Niangua River, wading wet and operating on the theory that I might get closer if I came from the water instead of from the land. It worked okay. I didn’t like slogging through the mud, but I had a few frogs on the stringer clipped to my belt. I was in calf-deep water in a long, knee-high patch of water smartweed, playing my flashlight along the bank and paying no attention to where I was going. It wouldn’t have mattered much anyway. In the dark I blundered onto a pair of wood ducks that had tucked in for the night. They blasted right up into my face, and it’s still a wonder to me why I didn’t blast off into my shorts. I decided right then that my frog-grabbing days were over.
I gigged them for a while after that, bought a two-piece bamboo pole and a three-tined gig head, trimmed the tip of the rod back to where the socket was a close fit and installed a safety line in case the tip should break. It worked well enough that I took home my fair share of frogs.
Still, nothing proved to be quite as much fun as catching them on a fishing rod. For that I came to prefer a stout, 9-foot fly rod and made up some 4-foot leaders with 20-pound tippets.
Frog flies are not complicated. Start with a No. 3 treble hook and simply knot on a narrow, three-inch strip of cloth. Or you can tie on a short length of orange or red yarn and comb it out into a fluff. Frogs don’t seem to care about the color; anything that might be an insect is likely to catch their interest. The action is more important than the pattern. You’re not dealing with keen intelligence or great wariness, only with an animal that’s willing to eat anything smaller than itself.
If you go a-frogging at night, you’ll want a good flashlight and perhaps a pair of Wellington boots. If you don’t mind getting your feet muddy or wet, the boots are optional. I suppose a headlamp would be useful, though I’ve never used one.
The technique is to stalk a shoreline, moving slowly and quietly, searching with your light. It’s much like catching nightcrawlers, where your advantage lies in keeping ground vibration to a minimum.
When you spot one sitting and looking as self-important as a banker or a Senator, ease up within the length of your rod and dangle the lure right in front of his nose. Often as not he’ll snap at it. If he doesn’t – and some don’t – lower the rod so the lure is under his chin, make a short, quick upward jerk (hence the treble hook), and you’ll have a frog on the line.
One thing I do recommend is that you conk him on the head before you unhook him. Chasing a frog in grass at night is the stuff of slapstick comedy and a game you’ll probably lose.
Once home, fortified by a cool shower and an even cooler gin and tonic, you’ll need to dress your game. It’s not difficult. The only really edible parts are the hind legs. Some highly skilled chefs might know ways of preparing the rest, but it never has struck me as being worth the trouble. Just cut the skin right above the pelvis, peel the legs with pliers, snip off the feet and you’re done.
The meat of frog legs is so white that it’s nearly translucent. Some years ago, as I was in the process of making a frog-leg dinner, a young friend called and asked what I was doing. Cooking frog legs. “Oh,” she said, “are they green?” Only when the skin’s still on, and I don’t eat the skin. “Oooh.” Never eaten frogs, eh?
You can separate the legs if you wish, or leave them attached at the pelvic bone. Either way, cook them with a light touch – no marinating, breading or burying them under seasoning. Despite what your mother or grandma might have said, frog legs don’t taste like chicken. Nothing tastes like chicken, except possibly library paste. Frog legs taste like frog legs, which is a wonderful, delicate flavor that’s too easily destroyed by over-cooking.
I prefer to saute them lightly in butter or olive oil with a dab of chopped garlic and a few drops of lemon juice and leave it at that. As frog season corresponds with the time when tomatoes are coming ripe, you can easily find a good complement to a feast. Back it with a glass of whatever white wine you like, served icy cold, and you’ll think you’ve died and gone to Heaven.
I have to assume there are bullfrogs and green frogs in Heaven. And I must also assume they’re available for the catching. If not, then to quote Mr. Browning, what’s a Heaven for?