WHEN NATURE CALLS : It doesn’t take too much work to get a great pair of legs
Posted on Sunday, July 6, 2008
The summer of 1985 often found me and a few friends chasing the best-looking pair of legs this side of a Victoria's Secret catwalk. Some chased easy. Others played hard to get. Neither scenario bothered us guys. There was plenty of action to go around.
Meaty up top, skinny down low, man, those legs were phat. Being green, slightly slimy and having the scent of pond water were the only drawbacks, unless you count the webbed feet. But once those big thighs were adorned with flour, salt and pepper, we witnessed the best thing to come out of a skillet since Mom's fried chicken.
Frog legs are a treat too few Americans enjoy. For one thing, they're pricey, when you're lucky enough to even find them on an upscale menu. Also, frog gigging doesn't have the vast following of, say, crappie fishing.
Nope, I don't hear much from the sport of gigging but I'm sure several folks still delve in the dark for those bug-eyed bullfrogs. It's great fun. Some of my fondest outdoorsy memories revolve around those latenight soirees at local stock ponds.
Whenever you get a few guys together - regardless of age - a competition is likely to break out. Whether it's a card game, skipping rocks or spittin' in the wind, we like to stand out, to be the best. Frog gigging's no different. A bass tournament relies on total weight to determine its winner. When you're after frogs, the number of legs crown the champion.
I don't know if I ever won one of these events but I certainly held my own. Like running track in ninth grade, my chief goal was never to finish last. Mission accomplished.
Some giggers use stiff cane and a three-prong gig. Not me. I opted for a four-pronger at the end of a 10-foot metal rod. All three aspects of my gigging rig were specifically designed to give myself the utmost advantage over my slightly older gigging mates.
We didn't use boats and we stuck to ponds instead of traveling to nearby streams and rivers. We didn't need to go anywhere else. Frog heaven was pretty much in our backyards.
When we first started, things were simple. One guy would hold a powerful light while the others took turns with the gig. If I remember right, a gigger got one chance and a miss would put him at the back of the line. If you connected, well, you still went to the back of the line but it wasn't nearly as lonely. Yes sir, a miss guaranteed ruthless ribbing and merciless heckling by the same people you call friends.
As we became a bit more experienced and invested in individual lights that strapped around our heads, the frog count went through the roof. This is when the competition really began.
Once the shorelines were cleared of frogs, we slid into the water and eased towards the lily pads. Frogs love to take refuge on the pad tops and with a well-placed light and an better-placed gig, another pair of legs began the journey to the frying pan. Sharp prongs and a heavy gigging pole sure came in handy when sticking a frog sans solid ground underneath.
Of course, with every good, a little bad must be overcome. Though not quite the lions, tigers and bears that Dorothy feared, snakes proved every bit as formidable when I began stomping around their living rooms.
I have the fear. It's a big fear. An Indiana Jones fear of snakes. Like Indy, I hate'em but that wouldn't stop me from using the gig if one ventured too close. Musky smelling cottonmouths routinely met their demise at the business end of that metal rod. It still creeps me out.
After the frog legs are cut, peeling them is easy. A little scrubbing under cold water and you're ready to dip, batter and fry. Besides ice cream, nothing's better on a hot summer evening.
Bobby Hill is the outdoors columnist for the Times and lives in Fayetteville.
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