On the way home from a snipe hunt, Hobbs went on about farm ponds. It was hard for him to imagine anyone who did not learn to fish on a farm pond... plenty of 'gills and bass. That big largemouth is finally hooked. That first big bass becomes a lifelong memory, and fish, any fish, becomes a lifefong passion. Somewhere along the way, with ducks, sunsets, snappers and mosquitoes, Hobbs mentioned bullfrogs and their coarse message... the bigger the frog to more baritone to bass the croak.
"I love frog legs," I interupted.
"Oh Son, I didn't know you gigged!"
"Never haved, but I bet I can cook 'em."
With his captivating grin, Hobbs pontificated about the fine art of gigging. We planned to meet the next saturday at a pond near Leading Creek. Hobbs would bring his canoe and gigs. I assured him that with some garlic, butter and a fire, I could simmer up some fine legs. It was settled.
Saturday could come none too soon for me. Armed with three Marshall Tucker Band tapes, a fist full of garlic, a pound of butter and eight Miller ponies, down Backbone Mountain I went.
The ol' boy was unloading the canoe when I drove up. Chelsea was tail waggin' up a breeze, looking like a grinning veteran and knowing she was the anchor of logic and intellegence of the trio. We passed the time until dark gathering some firewood for our fresh frog leg feast and casting into the pond for a bass or two. Well past dark, Hobbs said, "Let's go!"
Hobbs had some nice 10' bamboo shafts tipped with gigs of his own making. Everyone has seen those blue ones in the stores. Mr. Smith's gigs make those look like Nerf toys. They looked like something from a medieval torture chamber. It looked like he meant business and knew what he was doing or was taking me for a ride like that bow fishing for carp fiasco back in '95. I just wanted to cook up some garlic legs about midnight.
It turns out he did know what he was doing. I paddled first and used the light as Hobbs took point. He would spot a frog and poke it before I knew or saw anything and I was holding the light. He would unload the frog, slap the amphibian's head on the side of the boat, cut the legs off with pruners, throw the rest over his shoulder and toss the quivering legs to me. "Skin em!"
Never had I skinned a frog leg, much less while trying to paddle a canoe and trying to work a light.The occasional two-legged frog slapping me in the face or landing in my crotch did not help. For a while, it was quick work in front of the boat. I may have caught up with the skinning, dropping the legs in an open cooler full of salted ice.
I think I was having fun. I know Chelsea was. With every leg set tossed or frog fragment thrown, she would take a swipe at it and make that dog chomping sound. She may have caught a leg or two. In the flashlight, Hobbs was grinning like a possun eating cheese. The whole round, too, not just a few slices.
When It was my turn to point the boat, it wasn't long before we knew the frog man was in the back of the boat. I managed to spear a few. One never forgets his first frog. Soon enough, about the time the gig was working for me, we called it quits. On the shore was the firewood, a few cold ones and, most likely, a feast.
Fire lit, butter melted, garlic softened, frog legs golden brown.
"Let's throw the canoe in the back of the truck while the leggins cool off."
While we were strapping the canoe in the truck, Chelsea came running up and jumped into the open truck door.
"She must have already eaten and is ready to go home," I said.
"Let's just eat!"
We turned around to our fire, about 30' away, and there was a skunk circling the hot frying pan. Instinctively, Hobbs picked up one of his gigs and heaved it with everything he had. Sure enough, he pinned the skunk by one of his front legs. After an instant of surprise on the skunk's part, and while we were deciding what to do next, ol' Mr. Skunk starts flailing around wildly trying to free himself and pi##ing on everything--the fire, the open cooler, the beer, the frying pan, the frog legs.
"Well, I'm full."
"Yep!"
"Think Wimpy's is still open?"
"Chili dogs again?"
"Yep!"
"I love frog legs," I interupted.
"Oh Son, I didn't know you gigged!"
"Never haved, but I bet I can cook 'em."
With his captivating grin, Hobbs pontificated about the fine art of gigging. We planned to meet the next saturday at a pond near Leading Creek. Hobbs would bring his canoe and gigs. I assured him that with some garlic, butter and a fire, I could simmer up some fine legs. It was settled.
Saturday could come none too soon for me. Armed with three Marshall Tucker Band tapes, a fist full of garlic, a pound of butter and eight Miller ponies, down Backbone Mountain I went.
The ol' boy was unloading the canoe when I drove up. Chelsea was tail waggin' up a breeze, looking like a grinning veteran and knowing she was the anchor of logic and intellegence of the trio. We passed the time until dark gathering some firewood for our fresh frog leg feast and casting into the pond for a bass or two. Well past dark, Hobbs said, "Let's go!"
Hobbs had some nice 10' bamboo shafts tipped with gigs of his own making. Everyone has seen those blue ones in the stores. Mr. Smith's gigs make those look like Nerf toys. They looked like something from a medieval torture chamber. It looked like he meant business and knew what he was doing or was taking me for a ride like that bow fishing for carp fiasco back in '95. I just wanted to cook up some garlic legs about midnight.
It turns out he did know what he was doing. I paddled first and used the light as Hobbs took point. He would spot a frog and poke it before I knew or saw anything and I was holding the light. He would unload the frog, slap the amphibian's head on the side of the boat, cut the legs off with pruners, throw the rest over his shoulder and toss the quivering legs to me. "Skin em!"
Never had I skinned a frog leg, much less while trying to paddle a canoe and trying to work a light.The occasional two-legged frog slapping me in the face or landing in my crotch did not help. For a while, it was quick work in front of the boat. I may have caught up with the skinning, dropping the legs in an open cooler full of salted ice.
I think I was having fun. I know Chelsea was. With every leg set tossed or frog fragment thrown, she would take a swipe at it and make that dog chomping sound. She may have caught a leg or two. In the flashlight, Hobbs was grinning like a possun eating cheese. The whole round, too, not just a few slices.
When It was my turn to point the boat, it wasn't long before we knew the frog man was in the back of the boat. I managed to spear a few. One never forgets his first frog. Soon enough, about the time the gig was working for me, we called it quits. On the shore was the firewood, a few cold ones and, most likely, a feast.
Fire lit, butter melted, garlic softened, frog legs golden brown.
"Let's throw the canoe in the back of the truck while the leggins cool off."
While we were strapping the canoe in the truck, Chelsea came running up and jumped into the open truck door.
"She must have already eaten and is ready to go home," I said.
"Let's just eat!"
We turned around to our fire, about 30' away, and there was a skunk circling the hot frying pan. Instinctively, Hobbs picked up one of his gigs and heaved it with everything he had. Sure enough, he pinned the skunk by one of his front legs. After an instant of surprise on the skunk's part, and while we were deciding what to do next, ol' Mr. Skunk starts flailing around wildly trying to free himself and pi##ing on everything--the fire, the open cooler, the beer, the frying pan, the frog legs.
"Well, I'm full."
"Yep!"
"Think Wimpy's is still open?"
"Chili dogs again?"
"Yep!"
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