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As promised, the second installment of our epic tale of frog murder.
As the sun sank slowly below the horizon, and with only one confirmed frog kill, I was beginning to wonder how successful out overnight foray was going to be. I sat on the ground chowing down on some tamale pie and chili that C had brought along, and watched G assemble our weapons for the rest of the evening. The encroaching darkness meant that C's .22 was nearly useless, but I was assured that there would be many more kills that night. What G was putting together were three gigs. These gigs were essentially 6 ft long steel rods topped off with a nice little 15350 picture to the right. At the non-business end of each gig was a loop of elastic PVC tubing which could be hooked around the users top hand in order to add an extra level of thrust and accuracy.
After digesting the gastrointestinal bomb C had supplied for dinner we suited up in waders, strapped on headlamps and headed for the edges of LMT. I watched closely as C and G employed various tactics in attempts to sneak up on the weary bullfrogs. The general method included a mix of creeping along the gravely banks, wading cautiously through the shallows, and intermittently shining the bright beams of the headlamps along the bank and edges of the pond. After observing for a bit, I slowly crept into a shallow bay along one end of the tank and began what would prove to be a frustrating and invigoration game of cat and mouse...or human in waders and over sized invasive habitat destroying bullfrog. After about a half and hour of attempting various methods, I managed to catch the glimmer of a set of frog eyes about a foot from the edge of the tank. Holding my light steadily on the frog in order to keep it frozen, I waded cautiously in its direction and began to aim my gig and apply tension to the PVC tubing. With the frog still frozen by the glaring beam of my headlamp and the three pronged tip of my gig just inched from his beady little eyes, I let the tension release and the gig struck the frog with surprising force. After holding the frog pinned against the bottom of the pond for a few moments, with one prong thoroughly through its back and the other two pressed against its sides, I flipped the frog kabob onto the bank. Before it could make an escape, yes they are that resilient, I grabbed its hind legs and fumbled for my the knife strapped to my waders. I pulled the knife from its sheath and plunged the blade into the frog approximately where its shoulders were...if frogs have shoulders...but you get the idea. I slowly slide the knife from one side of its back to the other, slicing into its spine and releasing a strange hissing sound. The sound was a strange mix of what may have been a last gasp for breath and pockets of air inside its torso. It was a sounds I would become quite familiar with as the night continued.
After another 45 minutes or so, and with 5 kills between us, we packed up and headed out to another tank. This tank was about a 20 minute drive, and a 30 minute walk, and would turn out to be the motherload of bullfrogs. 25 yards from its banks our lights cast out across the pond, and were reflected by countless sets of golden iridescent frog eyes. For the next two hours we would stalk slowly along the edges and banks of the ponds. From time to time we would pause, turn our lights off, and stand utterly still hopeing to lure the spooked frogs back to the surface. These periods of silence would often last 15 or 20 minutes, punctuated by the occasionally hoot of an owl, the distant howl of a coyote, or the low hum of a border patrol helicopter.
When we eventually called it a night was had a garbage bag full of about 25 frogs ready to be dissected and discarded the next day.
I have been in some odd places and situations, but this nears the top of the list...kneeling on the bank of a stock tank, deep in the mountains, cutting into the back of a bullfrog, listening to the hissing sound as I split its spine, while border patrol helicopters circle overhead and the border wall itself twinkled in the distant valley.
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