Froggin' on the Bayou

Imagine venturing out in a flat-bottomed jon-boat on the darkest night of your life, drifting into an alligator infested lake of lily pads, surrounded by towering cypresses and filled with strange exotic noises, amid a background crescendo of a million croaking bullfrogs. Throw in the fact that your Dad just advised you that the Black Bayou you paddled down to get here was dredged to a depth of 100-feet to accommodate the steamboats that steamed into the old port of Jefferson. So, aside from the fact that you are hopelessly lost, you are in pitch black and you are in a swamp filled with large fish, snakes, possible alligators, and deep enough to float an ocean liner-- you have nothing to worry about.

The good news is that you are in good hands. Your Dad is the Captain of the boat, and your two older brothers are fellow paddlers and crew members. It was a summer night and although the moon was out, the giant cypress trees overhanging the watery bayous made your passage dark and secluded. After paddling for a half hour, Dad said, “Duck your head boys, we’re going in here”. He sat in the rear of the boat and steered us through a narrow opening between two giant Cypresses. We immediately ducked to miss the low-hanging, moss covered branches and were greeted by several thousand mosquitoes; who had been lurking in the marshy edges of the bayou. We zigged and zagged between trees for a hundred yards and then, viola!, we emerged into a huge marshy lake that was totally covered in lily pads and thousands of bullfrogs. The larger the bullfrog, the greater the volume and the deeper the sound of his bellowing. We were inundated by hundreds of deep bass croakers. It was like a bullfrog farm where you can go and pick out your own breakfast. That, of course, was the intent of the entire excursion. And, since the cypress trees were no longer hanging directly over you, the moon shined brightly to illuminate your choices. The imagery was powerful; you are literally surrounded by a surreal setting painted in shadowy shades of grey and black and hiding unknown secrets dating back to the genesis of time.

 

Softly, we paddled toward a pad that promised a huge reward. Dad was now in the front of the boat, and my oldest brother, Mike, was holding a high beam flashlight pointed directly at the imminent prize. He was a beauty, sitting half submerged amongst the lily pads. As we got within range, he suddenly escaped beneath the surface. A blip on the surface of the water, and then he’s gone. Not to worry, for there was another just a few yards away. We stealthily approached the next one and he lingered too long; the frog gig was extended and snapped around the unsuspecting bullfrog. “Here” says Dad to my brother Ted, “Put this one in the sack”. Funny thing, the bullfrogs just sit there with the bright light mesmerizing them, until the trap is set, and then he goes in the bag. If you make a noise, or you approached them clumsily with the gig, they immediately dropped below the water and swam away. This continued for several minutes, and the bag was starting to fill up. Mike asked, “Can I try it?” He was already in junior high school, so he was big enough to handle the gig. Dad gave him explicit directions and then handed it over to him. He was not successful on the first try, but he learned quickly, and was soon handing bullfrogs back to put in the burlap bag. This routine continued for a couple of hours with continued success. In the back of the boat, I didn’t have a flashlight and I was at the mercy of those who are entrusted to handle them. As I looked over the side, I wanted to dip my hand in the water and feel the coolness, and splash around a bit. Primarily, my fear of what might be in the water, kept my hands well inside the boat. I knew that there have been alligators here because my Dad told me that my Grandad had killed one years before. My Dad didn’t lie; if he said there had been gators here, then there had been gators here. And of course, we had seen more than one snake swimming near the boat. I had never seen an alligator gar, but Dad said they lived in this lake too. Everyone’s Dad should be a hero to them; mine certainly was to me. Not in the sense of bringing home a chest full of medals, but in the sense of being everything that I would ever want to be. He was truly a pioneer born in the wrong era. He hunted and fished and trail-blazed paths through areas that I could never imagine doing myself. While floating around in this huge lake, I suddenly became aware of the fact that everything around us looked exactly the same. In fact, the lake of lily pads was completely surrounded by the towering cypress trees. How in the world were we going to get out? Soon the bag was full and the hour was late, so it was time to go home. Dad shifted to the rear of the boat to take over the steering and told us to paddle. We headed across the lake, and soon, he deftly steered us back in between two large cypress trees, as before. We ducked and dodged as we paddled through the marsh for another hundred yards, and then we popped out into the Black Bayou again. Wow, I thought, all that time and he brought us back to almost the same place we entered. I was so proud of my pioneer Dad, he didn’t even have a compass, and he navigated us like a pro. We had frog legs for breakfast. Years later, when I relayed this story to my children in front of their Grandpa, I told them what a great pioneering spirit he had always been. I told them how he was never lost, and what a great feat it was to steer us out of that marshy lake under such difficult circumstances. He looked at me and smiled proudly. “I’d like to take credit for being what you thought I was, son, but there was really no special talent in getting us out of that swamp. You see, when the spring floods come, the water rises twenty feet or more in that area. Local fishermen tie off rags onto the limbs of trees that are level with their boats at the time. By the middle of summer when we were there, their flags are 25 feet up in the trees. I just followed the rags in the trees back to the Bayou”. My Dad was still my hero, and still is today, even though he’s been gone for many years. The truth is, he lived a simpler life in a simpler world, and he used the markers left for him to guide his way through it. If he had never taken us frog gigging with him, I would not have learned a valuable life lesson; when you are in unfamiliar territory, follow the markers of those that have gone before. And oh yea, our Dad’s can always be our heroes. 

 Written by David Warbritton for the exclusive use of the Warbritton Family.