Green Frogs, Bull Frogs, and Fireflies
By Dave Elliot
Category: Tales on the Road
Or perhaps it could be the fact that this was my first trip of the summer after one of the most historical years of our lives – the Covid pandemic – and grinding out a school year teaching through remote, hybrid, and visual phases. Or quite conceivably, maybe it was my brain spinning circles thinking about the trip ahead with a glimpse at Acadia National Park and bicycling a 25 mile route around Mt. Desert Island.
Whatever it was, I couldn’t avoid the constant repetition of the frogs. The American bullfrog staked its claim with the sound of a foghorn like a ship blasting its way through a dark perilous storm. Over and over. Who knew when I arrived and found this perfect little spot behind my Bunk a Biker host’s home that I would be coping with such banter. I drove in earlier among some green evergreen trees over a grass lawn strewn with pine cones down into a cul-de-sac with a fire pit that hadn’t been used in some time. I circled the pit with my motorcycle and trailer thinking I had the most perfect location for a peaceful night of sleep.
I settled in by making a tuna sandwich – one for supper and another for my bicycle excursion the next day. I had a wonderful conversation with my host chatting up a storm about everything from her current job, to her Harley with Motorvation Spyder sidecar, to the barn that housed so many of her prized possessions from childhood along with a wonderful collection of antiques.
As darkness established itself, the mosquitos put an end to a delightful conversation that could have gone on into the wee hours of the morning. I bolted for my tent trying to beat the ravaging bloodthirsty critters to my safe haven. I was amazed as no less than 50 female critters tried in vain to get my attention by landing on my tent window screen just under my rain flap. Their wings buzzing close to my ears were outdone only by the frogs who were quickly seizing dominance of the sounds of the night. These frogs were eclipsing the occasional 18-wheeler rolling along I-95 in the distance, the peepers holding over from the spring season, and the nocturnal crickets who sleep during the day only to wake at night in search of food and a mate.
This perfect harmony of life and love pounding the airwaves. I heard a splash like a beaver crashing the still waters of the pond that started on one side of my tent where my head was laying on a pillow all the way to the other side where my feet poked out from under my blanket. The beaver, also nocturnal, spends its evening eating and building a dam creation on this tiny pond. These busy beavers will be at work from dusk to dawn. It was a complete 180 degrees of water creating a semi-circle around my tent. Lining the interior edges of the cul-de-sac were rows and rows of poison ivy. I could only hope that I wouldn’t be taking my first sleep-walking venture of my life anytime soon.
Louder and louder the frogs sang out. I listened intently as some frogs established their territory for the evening, and others moved on to a new location hoping to find love, or at least action. I felt like I was at a toad party inside Croaker Lounge.
Twice during the night the frogs incredibly formed an ensemble distinctly and proudly coming together as one voice. It left me wondering if this was intentional, or whether the odds of it happening was like a lottery and I was the lucky winner to be blessed with such good fortune.
The rising volume of frog oneness made me want to pee, but I aborted the thought after looking at the mosquitoes lining up at the tent entrance for a well-beyond midnight snack. I would have to hold on until daylight. Wait, wasn’t that dawn making its entrance?
I closed my eyes hoping I would be able to cope with a significant loss of energy from a lack of sleep when I tackled the next phase of my ride toward the coast of Maine. As I finally drifted off to what was left of dreamland, my last memory of the evening was a question I kept asking myself. Would I rather have a full night of sleep or no sleep but the memory of an enchanted evening? Pondering, I chose the road less traveled, the one that most never experience, or hear, or see. Nature’s sounds this evening won out for they not only soothed my civilized soul, but also told tales of their makers’ lives.
One last time my eyes opened. They were very heavy. A lightning bug caught between the inner and outer covering of the tent directly above me beamed on and off like a lighthouse at port. Its presence seemed to bring back memories of youth and innocence, when the world was a magical dreamland and nothing was outside the realm of possibility. A sense of childlike wonder consumed me as though I was being touched by an angel’s wand. My night was complete.