Post by sam on Jul 27, 2010 20:48:02 GMT -5
The Joys of Frog Gigging
As the sun sets over a tranquil pond the peeps, croaks, and hums of hundreds of frogs begin and grow louder until they reach a deafening crescendo, which is maintained throughout most of the night. This sound signals the season for frog gigging on Maryland¹s Eastern Shore. For one or two weeks every May, the frog population peaks here. And every year the James family traditionally takes this opportunity to gig for frogs.
“Gigging,” for those not in the know, is hunting for bullfrogs by first spotlighting and then spearing them. Shortly before sundown on a cool May evening my father, brothers, and I load our truck with the gigs (long pronged poles that are used as spears), waders, flashlights, a frog sack, and a small baseball bat. We drive about twenty minutes to the hunting club and spend an hour or more sharpening our gigs with sandpaper until the points are sharp enough to draw blood with the slightest prick. Around 9 or 10 p.m. we make our way to that evening¹s designated pond. Immediately, the noise is overwhelming; small frogs peep continuously, and, occasionally, the deep, throaty croak of a large bullfrog disrupts this flute orchestra with its overpowering and reverberating bass. The sound of the bullfrog makes our hearts jump, for this giant of the frog family is the beast that we seek.
In silence, we board our boat, and we pole along, making the least amount of noise as possible to not to scare the frogs. One of us poles, two search with flashlights, and one sits ready with a gig. As our eyes become acclimated to the dark, we focus them on the task of looking for the frogs; however, our ears and our eyes must work together for a successful frog-gigging venture. First, we steer towards the deceptive origin of the low hums of the larger frogs. Then, we shine our powerful four-cell Maglites across the lily pads looking for their beaded eyes and prominent white chins. Nothing beats the excitement of finally locating a giant bullfrog, but here begins the real challenge. One of the flashlight holders spots a frog and the other shines his flashlight to the same spot, to stun the animal like a deer caught in headlights. If the frog is blinded by the light, he will be less likely to move off into the darkness and out of reach. While the lights remain constantly on the target, the boat must be stealthily maneuvered close enough for the range of the gigs. Occasionally, an inevitable low hanging branch or a reed will scratch the side of the boat. Any noise is highly risky, because if the bullfrog suspects anything, he¹ll just dive under and disappear, dying twin ripples on the water¹s surface the only reminder that he¹d ever been there at all.
This particular evening, our first frog lies half submersed in the water, his chin and eyes just breaking the surface and his large legs splayed out behind him. We are so close to the edge of the pond; the water is no more than two or three feet deep, ideal for successful gigging. The trick to a good gig is to position the pitchfork-like points as close to the frog as possible without scaring him off. My father grasps the pole with precision and eases it toward the spot of light that illuminates the frog. There is a climactic pause, as there is in most forms of hunting, just before the kill. The action has not been initiated, the kill is still an uncertainty, and the live beast can look upon his predator. After this seemingly eternal preparation, the thrusting action of the gig is actually quite simple. One must stab forward with a quick, deliberate motion, through air, frog, and water, and to the bottom of the pond, pinning him into the sticky mud. Sometimes, one can reach down and grab him right then, but more often one needs a second gig because the first one does not mortally wound the frog. My father speared our first frog directly through his stomach. My brother reached down and yanked the frog off the gig, tossing it--thump--into the bottom of the boat.
Frogs are survivors. They persist in hopping around the boat, admirably refusing to surrender to death. It is for these stubborn cases that we must bring the small baseball bat. A well-placed whack on the head usually discontinues the frog¹s suffering; however, even after we throw them into a sack and tie the end, the frogs often continue to hop about intermittently.
By the end of a good night of gigging, we have a heavy sack of frogs. Some are smaller ones, but most are larger bullfrogs, sometimes as long as a foot from head to toe. We drive home, and deposit the sack of frogs in the refrigerator. I will never forget the morning after my first night of frog gigging when, reaching into the refrigerator for milk, I saw our sack of frogs still squirming around! Those buggers really are tough.
My childhood experiences on the Eastern Shore instilled in me a deep reverence for the yearly ritual. I missed gigging so much at boarding school in Delaware that I convinced one of the maintenance men, Dave McKelvey, to go out on a hunt with my friend John and me. After an excellent night of gigging on a pond that had not been hunted for decades, we had a superb lunch the next day. Dave cut and skinned the legs of the frogs and dipped them in egg yolk and a breaded flour batter. We fried them outside on a gas ring stove in a full stick of butter, right beside the banks of the pond where we had hunted them the night before. Some of the legs were as large as the frying pan. Aside from the hunt itself, the most rewarding part of frog gigging is the feast that ensues. The meat is a delicious white meat, juicy and flavorful when fresh and properly prepared. Few game meats are more sought after.
Sadly, gigging is a dying sport. While it used to be a common practice, few hunt anymore. For its fellowship, its challenge, and its cuisine, frog gigging is unsurpassed.
As the sun sets over a tranquil pond the peeps, croaks, and hums of hundreds of frogs begin and grow louder until they reach a deafening crescendo, which is maintained throughout most of the night. This sound signals the season for frog gigging on Maryland¹s Eastern Shore. For one or two weeks every May, the frog population peaks here. And every year the James family traditionally takes this opportunity to gig for frogs.
“Gigging,” for those not in the know, is hunting for bullfrogs by first spotlighting and then spearing them. Shortly before sundown on a cool May evening my father, brothers, and I load our truck with the gigs (long pronged poles that are used as spears), waders, flashlights, a frog sack, and a small baseball bat. We drive about twenty minutes to the hunting club and spend an hour or more sharpening our gigs with sandpaper until the points are sharp enough to draw blood with the slightest prick. Around 9 or 10 p.m. we make our way to that evening¹s designated pond. Immediately, the noise is overwhelming; small frogs peep continuously, and, occasionally, the deep, throaty croak of a large bullfrog disrupts this flute orchestra with its overpowering and reverberating bass. The sound of the bullfrog makes our hearts jump, for this giant of the frog family is the beast that we seek.
In silence, we board our boat, and we pole along, making the least amount of noise as possible to not to scare the frogs. One of us poles, two search with flashlights, and one sits ready with a gig. As our eyes become acclimated to the dark, we focus them on the task of looking for the frogs; however, our ears and our eyes must work together for a successful frog-gigging venture. First, we steer towards the deceptive origin of the low hums of the larger frogs. Then, we shine our powerful four-cell Maglites across the lily pads looking for their beaded eyes and prominent white chins. Nothing beats the excitement of finally locating a giant bullfrog, but here begins the real challenge. One of the flashlight holders spots a frog and the other shines his flashlight to the same spot, to stun the animal like a deer caught in headlights. If the frog is blinded by the light, he will be less likely to move off into the darkness and out of reach. While the lights remain constantly on the target, the boat must be stealthily maneuvered close enough for the range of the gigs. Occasionally, an inevitable low hanging branch or a reed will scratch the side of the boat. Any noise is highly risky, because if the bullfrog suspects anything, he¹ll just dive under and disappear, dying twin ripples on the water¹s surface the only reminder that he¹d ever been there at all.
This particular evening, our first frog lies half submersed in the water, his chin and eyes just breaking the surface and his large legs splayed out behind him. We are so close to the edge of the pond; the water is no more than two or three feet deep, ideal for successful gigging. The trick to a good gig is to position the pitchfork-like points as close to the frog as possible without scaring him off. My father grasps the pole with precision and eases it toward the spot of light that illuminates the frog. There is a climactic pause, as there is in most forms of hunting, just before the kill. The action has not been initiated, the kill is still an uncertainty, and the live beast can look upon his predator. After this seemingly eternal preparation, the thrusting action of the gig is actually quite simple. One must stab forward with a quick, deliberate motion, through air, frog, and water, and to the bottom of the pond, pinning him into the sticky mud. Sometimes, one can reach down and grab him right then, but more often one needs a second gig because the first one does not mortally wound the frog. My father speared our first frog directly through his stomach. My brother reached down and yanked the frog off the gig, tossing it--thump--into the bottom of the boat.
Frogs are survivors. They persist in hopping around the boat, admirably refusing to surrender to death. It is for these stubborn cases that we must bring the small baseball bat. A well-placed whack on the head usually discontinues the frog¹s suffering; however, even after we throw them into a sack and tie the end, the frogs often continue to hop about intermittently.
By the end of a good night of gigging, we have a heavy sack of frogs. Some are smaller ones, but most are larger bullfrogs, sometimes as long as a foot from head to toe. We drive home, and deposit the sack of frogs in the refrigerator. I will never forget the morning after my first night of frog gigging when, reaching into the refrigerator for milk, I saw our sack of frogs still squirming around! Those buggers really are tough.
My childhood experiences on the Eastern Shore instilled in me a deep reverence for the yearly ritual. I missed gigging so much at boarding school in Delaware that I convinced one of the maintenance men, Dave McKelvey, to go out on a hunt with my friend John and me. After an excellent night of gigging on a pond that had not been hunted for decades, we had a superb lunch the next day. Dave cut and skinned the legs of the frogs and dipped them in egg yolk and a breaded flour batter. We fried them outside on a gas ring stove in a full stick of butter, right beside the banks of the pond where we had hunted them the night before. Some of the legs were as large as the frying pan. Aside from the hunt itself, the most rewarding part of frog gigging is the feast that ensues. The meat is a delicious white meat, juicy and flavorful when fresh and properly prepared. Few game meats are more sought after.
Sadly, gigging is a dying sport. While it used to be a common practice, few hunt anymore. For its fellowship, its challenge, and its cuisine, frog gigging is unsurpassed.