On the weekend, I went hiking with my Dad. Quite the hike, all uphill for about 2 1/2 hours in the sweltering heat. We stumbled upon this bog overflowing with frogs about 2/3 of the way through.
Well - I just cannot resist a pond full of frogs.
While I identified the different frogs and discussed how healthy it is to see so many thriving amphibian friends - I dropped down onto the bank and started trying to catch one. It was such fun that I told my Dad he could join in. (In return I received the "look") He told me he didn't touch toads, let alone slimy amphibians. Riiiiiiiiiiiiight. So on I went trying to catch the sneaky little things. The duck grass was so healthy it made it damn near impossible to see them - let alone catch them. But I must have made it look like fun since my dad soon came clambering down the bank to join me.
I know he thought he could kick my ass at frogcatching. But he couldn't hold a candle to me and my wiley frog capturing ways.
Liz 1 - Dad 0.
He lunges and makes contact but it slips through his grasp. I laugh and point and hold up my little frog to tease him with. Then I spot the mother of all bull frogs (Rana catesbeiana) . (I know). I release my little Leopard Frog (Rana pipiens) and set about taking the "I'm a big frog too don't mind me" stance. I sneak up inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter and make my move. He croaks at me and slips through one hand after the other until - sploosh - back into the bog. Now I'm on a mission.
Over my shoulder my father is moving in on a victim. I hear a hoot and then some unidentifiable sounds. I turn to look and he is running on the spot. In the mud. With his arms flailing about his head like a six year old tap dancing. Finally he throws himself up and over the embankment and is laying in the grass face down groaning. A muffled "slippery mud" is all I hear. I ensure he is okay and then return to the bullfrog who is taunting me with his little bullfrog sounds.
I see his little eyeses watching me from beneath the duck grass. I spend the next 10 minutes hypnotizing him with my gaze. Then I dive and TADAAAA.
Liz 2 - Dad 0.
I sing a little song. Let Dad inspect my trophy. Stand there a while trying to get him to croak (this resulted in a little grunt that I am sure meant f- off in bullfrog), and allow him to return home.
I went on to catch a couple more frogs that day, and a frogpole (this is an actual term for one of the final stages in development silly sounding, huh?). But nothing can beat the vision of my Dad dancing in the mud and the feeling that I have finally beat him at something.
Final score: Liz 4 - Dad 0.
Taste that? That's victory (not froglegs - bletch)