Frog Kingdom

It began down by the creek beyond the alder trees, where the mud smelled rich and cold, and the summer air buzzed with dragonflies the size of pocketknives. The water spread out into a shallow pond under the redwoods, green around the edges with pond scum, and alive with croaking frogs that sang from every direction like rusty screen doors opening and closing in the heat.

Adam declared himself “Chief Frog Catcher” before anybody else could think of a title. That was his style. If a thing required charging headfirst, Adam was already halfway through the charge before the rest of us understood the rules.

Deirdre and Marcy approached the matter scientifically. They brought old kitchen strainers and a butterfly net with half the mesh torn out.

They crouched carefully near the reeds, whispering things like: “There’s one.” “Don’t scare him.” “Move slower.”

Then Adam would thunder past them like a buffalo stampede and yell, “I GOT HIM!” three seconds before falling face-first into the cattails.

Goldie believed strategy was for cowards. She proposed building “frog traps” out of sticks, leaves, and an old coffee can. None of the traps caught frogs, but one nearly caught Marcy.

As for me, I became the official recorder and referee because somebody had to settle arguments over what counted as a legitimate catch. Tadpoles counted half. Tiny frogs counted full points only if they actually croaked. Toads were under review by the committee, which was me sitting on a log pretending to be important.

The first hour went beautifully.

Buckets filled with squirming tadpoles. Tiny frogs sprang through our fingers.

The mud cooled our bare feet while the sun cooked the tops of our heads. Every few minutes, somebody shouted, “THERE HE GOES!” followed by splashing and accusations.

Adam developed a technique he called “The Double-Hand Slam,” which involved throwing both hands onto a frog at once with all the delicacy of a lumber accident. He caught exactly two frogs that way and swallowed half the pond.

Deirdre and Marcy did better. They moved slowly through the reeds, easing the nets beneath the water’s surface. Their buckets became crowded with tadpoles flicking their tails like commas.

Goldie, meanwhile, attempted diplomacy. “You have to think like frogs,” she announced.

Nobody knew what that meant, and I suspect not even Goldie knew. She crouched beside the pond croaking at them for several minutes until one large frog leaped directly onto her shoe and frightened her so badly she screamed and kicked it into Adam’s shirt pocket.

That was the first true battle of Frog Kingdom.

Adam hollered. The frog exploded upward. Marcy shrieked. The bucket tipped over, and about a hundred tadpoles escaped down Adam’s leg. In the confusion, I attempted to restore order by blowing through a cattail stalk like a trumpet, which did not help.

The heat rose through the trees. Mud climbed up the legs to the knees. We smelled like swamp water and wet socks, and the frogs continued to outmaneuver us with insulting ease.

Then came the Great Disaster.

Goldie spotted what she swore was “the king frog,” a monster crouched on a half-submerged log near the deep part of the pond. It was enormous. At least by kid standards. Probably the size of a hamburger.

Adam and I approached from one side. Deirdre and Marcy circled left with the net. And Goldie directed operations like a battlefield general who had never seen a battlefield.

“NOW!” she shouted.

Everybody lunged at once. The frog escaped untouched.

Adam slipped first. I grabbed Adam. Goldie grabbed me. And somehow all four of us went into the pond together in one magnificent muddy collapse while Deirdre stood safely on shore yelling, “I TOLD YOU SO!”

The water was shockingly cold. Mud puffed upward around us in black clouds.

Frogs shot away in every direction like living popcorn. One landed briefly in Adam’s ear before abandoning ship.

For a long moment, nobody moved. Then Goldie started laughing. Then Marcy. Then all of us.

We laughed so hard our stomachs hurt while water dripped off our noses and the frogs croaked triumphantly from the reeds like tiny swamp comedians mocking us. The frogs had won decisively.

Our parents reacted with less admiration for our expedition than we expected.

My mother took one look at the five of us standing on the porch, coated in black mud, and said, “You children smell like something that died.”

Goldie’s mom found three tadpoles in her pockets while doing laundry.