Gigging Frogs

Mornings are warm in San Diego. In the summer the dew dries early, the dust kicks up before dawn sometimes.

Pete made me get up before light, pulling the sheet off me, grousing at me to get dressed, all because mom told him he had to take me along. I suppose I'd rather go as not. It's better than being in the house when my father gets up.

Pete swung through our room on the way downstairs, picking my dungarees off the floor and throwing them at me where I sat on the bed. I stood up, pulling them on over my shorts. I grabbed a tee shirt out of the dresser and started looking for my shoes. I could hear Pete downstairs, talking with mom in the kitchen, probably getting something for us to eat for breakfast, egg sandwiches probably, maybe some cookies.

My shoes were under the bed where I'd kicked them off last night, old brown shoes mom got for me last summer, too big then, too tight now, but they were coming loose around the welt so that didn't matter so much. I grabbed two pairs of socks out of the drawer, one for my feet, the other in my pants pocket in case I needed them for later.

Pete yelled up from the bottom of the stairs. "Come on, lard bucket, we gotta get going.!"

"Just a minute, I'm putting my shoes on."

"Well come on pokey."

Now I heard noises coming from my parents room, down the hall; my father getting up. I grabbed my jacket from the bed post and ran downstairs.

Pete stood on the front porch, knapsack on his back, looking angry."It's about time. Get your stuff and let's go."

I pulled my knapsack out from under the porch seat, my canteen already inside, along with an old shirt, the jack knife I inherited from Pete, a couple of rags, string, and, in the bottom, the gig. Pete handed me a sack with a sandwich and two cookies which I shoved into the knapsack, along with the spare pair of socks, before slinging it on my shoulders.

"Don't forget your shoe pokey!" Pete glared at me, pointing at my left foot where the laces still dangled from the top grommets of the shoe. The pack shifted as I knelt, the strap dropping down my arm, getting in the way as I tied my shoe. Pete put his hands on his hips and looked at the sky, shaking his head. "How did I ever get stuck with a brother like you?" he said, stabbing the last word in my direction.

"Oh shut up." I said, not too loud.

"You boys get the hell out of here!"

My father walked unsteadily down the stairs, bumping against the bannister. I tossed my pack strap back over my shoulder and ran after Pete who was already trudging down the gravel road that runs past our house. I looked back at the front door, to see if my father was there, but all I saw was the screen door swinging closed.

I caught up with Pete, sweat already breaking out on my forehead only half an hour after dawn.

"See what you did being such a slow poke. If we don't come back with some frogs the old man's going to raise a stink. Come on, get the lead out of your pants."

We turned off D Street onto the track that runs through Mr. James' hay field, ducking under the rail fence that separates it from the road. The trail runs between the hay field and Mr. James' cow pasture, on the hay field side. The cows keep the track clear by reaching through the fence to eat the hay when the pasture gets brown and stubbly. I smelled cow patties, hay, and the sharp, dusty brown smell of the tarweeds drying along with the grass. Every summer along about July it smells this way, for as far back as I can remember. I walked along behind Pete. The dust we kicked up hung in the air behind us, drifting slowly through the fence into the cow pasture. The sun, coming up over the San Diego hills, cast long shadows from the fence onto the track in front of us.

The river is about two miles as the crow flies. Mr. James' hay field runs down to the river road, where it turns away from paralleling the highway. It's paved for about half a mile before it peters out into the sandy banks of the San Diego river. The river runs east here, taking a big turn around the James' place. There's a grove of old cottonwoods upriver from where the paving quits. The roots reach out into the water, making an eddy where cattails and river weeds grow, a perfect place for herons, ducks and frogs. Crawdads too, but Pete and I were after frogs.

Pete reached our spot first, tossed his knapsack down into the sand, tossed himself down along side it. I sat on the cottonwood snag that made a small hollow in the chalky sand. He pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, likely stolen from our father's dresser, and shook one out. He straightened it, tried to tamp it against his thumb nail, then lit it, holding it between his first two fingers, his thumb pointing up at a right angle. He took a big puff, just a bit before blowing the rest out into the gentle river breeze.

He took another drag and looked over at me. "Here, you want some?"

I took it, sucked in a mouthfull, pretending I was inhaling.

Pete cocked his mouth to the side, shaking his head. "Give it back if you're just going to waste it."

"I was not wasting it!" I said, handing it back to him. The smoke left a taste of wet ashes in my mouth, like the smell of my father's butts in the toilet. I got out my canteen and one of the cookies to clear the taste while Pete finshed the cigarette.

We sat in the hollow, smelling the river breeze, watching cottonwood fuzz float down into the water, letting the sun climb up to warm the river mud. Pete says you have to wait until the banks are warm before the frogs swim up to sun along the edges. That's where you catch them.

When Pete was satisfied that the sun was high enough he pointed upriver, toward one end of the cattail swamp. "You go on up that way, I'm going to start down river and work up." He pulled his string and gig out of his knapsack, kicked up onto his feet and headed off through the horsetails. He turned and yelled "Get a move on!" before disappearing into the reeds.

I yanked my sack in between my feet, reached down to the bottom to pull out my string and the gig. Pete showed me how to make it, using a piece of wire from an old hanger, wooden thread spools, and cloth tape from the toolbox in the garage. You have to straighten out one end of the wire, squeezing it one way or the other in the vise bolted down to the work bench. Once it's straight you put the spools over the end, then bend it around the last spool so the tape will hold them in place. The other end of the wire sticks out about a foot, the hook of the hanger at the end. You clamp it in the vise and file a point on it, kind of flat, and as sharp as you can get it, using an old metal file.

I pulled my gig out and looked at it. Some threads from the canvas clung to a couple of burrs on the point, dirt was already sticking to the edges of the cloth tape. I closed the sack and pulled it tight with the draw string, to keep the jays and squirrels away from my breakfast. I could hear the frogs croaking in the cattails, a sound like rope being drawn, hand over hand, across a rafter. I walked along the bank, watching the redwings chase damsel flies through the reeds.

If you're quiet enough you can get right up to the water before the frogs stop croaking. I lay down on the bank, creeping up on my stomach to look over the edge. What you do is, you go along until you spot a frog floating near the edge. You have to move slowly. If you move slowly enough, and if you're lucky, you can sneak the point of the gig right up under the frog's chin. Then, with a little flipping motion, you hook the point right through the lower jaw. That's gigging frogs.

I didn't see any frogs near by, but I lay there, watching the minnows swimming in and out of the duckweed. I could hear the redwings singing, sort of chirawee, chirawee, shrilly, on a rising tone. Cicadas buzzed in the cottonwood saplings growing behind me, and ducks were chuckling nearby.

Frog legs are alright, I guess. They're sort of a bother to fix and there's not much meat on them. My father likes them. I suppose that if frogs were any easier to catch he'd have eaten every one in the river by now. He'll sit at the table with a plate of fried frog legs in front of him, picking them up one by one, sucking the bits of meat off the thin bones, smacking his lips, washing them down with beer. He used to go out gigging with Pete. He'd drive down to the river with Pete holding a half dozen bottles of beer wrapped in an oilcloth packed with ice. He'd come back, the truck wandering down D Street, smelling of beer and the fishy odor of frogs, a dozen or more wrapped in whatever cold was left in the oilcloth.

A deep gurgle sounded from the water in front of me. I looked across the patches of algae and duckweed, to where a circle of ripples widened. Closer in, by the base of a cattail, nose just breaking the surface, the biggest redleg frog I'd ever seen lay staring at me through green speckled eyes. Through the water, below the white skin of his belly, I could see him steadying himself against the cattail, one front hand grasping the frond, his hind legs, long and bloody pink, hanging quietly, disappearing into the murky water. A minnow swam by, brushing against the frog's belly. He blinked, waving it away with his free hand, like a man brushing away a fly. He took a deep breath, blew it out, raising bubbles around his nostrils.

The gig lay by my hand. I reached for it slowly, touched it, rolling my fingers over the tape wrapping the spools. The frog's eyes were following the movement of my hand. I pulled it along the ground, little stones grating against my knuckles, until it was right next to my head. I looked to the side, at the point of the hook lying on the ground next to my face. When I looked back, the frog was looking right into my eyes. Slowly as I could I began moving the wire out into the water. The frog watched it disappear under the surface. My hand disappeared after it, my arm forming a low wake in the duckweek. The frog opened his mouth and I froze. I could feel minnows nibbling at my hand under the water. The frog must have been yawning because he closed his mouth again, blinking his eyes, watching me. I began moving my hand again, scaring the minnows back into the algae, inching the sharp point of wire out into the water, out toward the frog's chin.

You can't count on judging the distance by looking at the point. The way things look under water will fool you, Pete says. You just have to know how far the wire sticks out in front of your hand. When I figured I had it right I began tipping the point up to where I decided it lay just under his chin. The minnows returned, their little mouths sucking at the skin on the back of my hand. Sun reflected off the water slicking the frog's chin, winking as he drew his breath in, let it out. I drew a breath in slowly, held it, and flicked my wrist, driving the point upward, right through the frog's throat.

The frog struggled, kicking at the water, trying to turn himself off the hook. I leapt up, shouting, dragging the frog out of the water, his red legs jerking the air, the front legs waving around, shoving at the wire hooked through his throat, his mouth opening and closing, making little grunting sounds that vibrated up the wire to my hand. He clutched at the wire, his fingers wrapping around it, pulling, pulling himself further onto the hook, staring, grunting, kicking. The birds were rushing away into the reeds, the cicadas stopped buzzing. I jerked the gig, jerked it again, trying to drive the point up into his brain, to kill him, to stop him. Slowly the kicking died down. His front legs dropped away from the wire, curling down slowly to hang loosely at his belly. The grunting stopped. His mouth hung open, eyes staring down at the water where muck and algae rolled in a green brown cloud beneath the surface.

I pulled my string out of my pants pocket and put the frog on it, threading it through his mouth, out the hole made by the gig. I lay the frog in the water. He floated, white belly exposed, front legs waving loosely in the small currents, long red legs hanging down behind. Minnows swam up to suck at the pale green skin along his sides, where the green back skin blends into the white underneath. I sat down on the bank, put my head down onto my knees. My skin felt hot and cold at the same time and my stomach hurt. The cicadas started up again, I could hear the redwings flapping about in the reeds.

Pete walked up behind me, through a clump of cottonwood saplings. "Jeez, is that all you got?"

I looked up at him. He held his stringer in one hand, a dozen frogs stacked on top of each other, their legs dangling out in all directions, stuffing the remains of his sandwich into his mouth with the other.

"Come on, we gotta get back before they go bad."

The sun was well overhead now. It hangs there, in the summer, staying in one place most of the afternoon. Dust, from cows, cars, people, hangs in the air too. The air becomes a hot fat brown cloud that all things move through reluctantly. The shadow of Mr. James pasture fence hid under the bottom rail and around the posts. I could see Mr. James cows lying under a broken oak tree in a corner of the pasture, chewing and dozing. Pete's stringer, slung across his shoulder in front of me, swung gently from side to side, bouncing against his pack, frog legs flopping a beat behind the bodies. My own stringer hung from my hand, the big frog collecting dust as it dried in the warm air, catching at the shreds of grass where the cows had not eaten it to the ground.

The dusty air muffles everything except the sound of flies. Even the gravel on D Street is quiet. Pete and I went around to the back of the house, down the steps through the slanted doors, into the basement where the ice box is. Pete held the door of the ice box open, tossed his stringer into the coolness inside, held it open for me.

We are sitting at the dinner table. Mom fixed potatoes, beet greens from the garden, fried chicken. My father is sitting at the head of the table, drinking from a bottle of beer, potatoes and greens already on his plate. There is an open space on his plate, right in front of him, white like the frog's belly. The cooked beet leaves, red and green, look like algae hanging in the water. Mom is in the kitchen, I can hear the fat in the frying pan, smell the fishy chicken smell of the frog legs frying. I'm trying to eat, but my fork is vibrating in my hand. Every time I move it against my plate it makes a little grunting sound.