CHS Blog

Catching the Elusive

April 19, 2020
Briar Hunter

What began as exhilaration quickly dwindled into despondency and frustration. The trill of Western Chorus Frogs, which we had spent hours driving in search of, had at first fallen on my ears like life-giving rain, yet now pierced me as a mocking call of defiance.

We had found our first population of Western Chorus Frogs. The night was bitter cold, dropping below expected temperatures for calling, yet the frogs cried on throughout the darkness. We could not ignore this opportunity, but rather layered on our warmest attire and set forth into the woods beyond. Fueled by hope and positivity, we pressed on in the direction of the chorus, seeking to get closer to those calling. It was not merely enough to hear their musical call from a distance; this was no auditory survey, you see, but rather what one might call a ‘frog hunt’. We needed to get as close as possible and actually hand-capture at least one, and ideally two, chorus frogs from this site in order to take tissue samples for future genetic processing.

This was our first attempt at sampling chorus frogs, and I must admit it was not a pretty sight. The longer we plodded around that swamp, the more our spirits dwindled. Every time I approached an area where I heard frogs calling, I was met with only silence. Until, further in the distance, I would hear the song pick up again. It felt as if they were walking just ahead of me, keeping me always a hundred metres behind. Yet that was surely nonsense, and I was certain I had just heard them calling precisely where I was now standing…

Let me tell you, certainty does not last long in a dark swamp filled with elusive frogs. Truthfully, I had never yet seen a live chorus frog and, 2 hours into our attempted sampling, I was beginning to give up hope of this being the night I would. Yet if I am anything, I am competitive and persistent. So, I plodded onward, sometimes literally plodding and sometimes sitting still on fallen logs or emergent hillocks in an attempt to encourage timid frogs to start calling again.

Yet, all this to no avail. We had begun “sampling” before 8 pm and now it was almost 11 pm. The trilling frogs sounded like mocking laughter and I could feel the frustration building up inside me at these unseen antagonists. Suddenly another headlamp appeared from the shadows and one of my coworkers, Hannah, brought the bad tidings that we ought to call it quits at 11. I nodded, but my heart was nowhere in it. To give up now was to give up victory and to have wasted hours standing in a freezing swamp without even the experience of having seen a chorus frog. However, I knew we couldn’t stay out here all night. I relented in my inward battle and suggested we walk back toward the car by way of the direction of calling frogs; Hannah agreed. We stalked slowly between tall, eerie tree trunks; scanning every inch of water and vegetation at each step. Every shadow was suspicious, and every ripple of water brought a flash of hope, only to be dashed by the emergence of a stick we had brushed against.

As we ever neared the truck, the sound of frogs dwindled. We came upon a slightly more open area of water, and its glistening surface seemed to stare at us with empty, innocent eyes.

Yet there, in the stillness, the world came alive.

Hannah saw a chorus frog.

After sacrificing her arm and full sleeve to the depths of mercilessly cold water below, her hand came up empty, yet our spirits were suddenly infused with new vigour and adrenaline. Every nerve ending was tense and poised with newfound alacrity. The bleakness of the night was transformed into an oasis of opportunity. Each new shadow whispered promises of revealing the frogs they were hiding in their depths.

I am sure a number of minutes passed between these events but in the renewal of energy and hope it seemed barely long enough for a single heartbeat. For there, suddenly, in the shimmering moonlight I saw a reflection of a new and exciting sort. The type of glimmer that moonlight produces when it pierces the surface of water and bounces off the pale exposed underbelly of a chorus frog who, in his efforts to cling to a submerged stick, had unwittingly unveiled his most revealing colours.

And so the time had come. I would love to say it was my skill and speed that allowed me to capture that frog, but I think that would be a false claim. When I spotted the chorus frog, I truly think my instincts and reflexes reverted back to their default mode. The mode that had been developed during childhood days beside the pond where I practically lived. This default was refined while waist-deep in rank water, covered in leeches, yet proudly clasping a bullfrog that seemed bigger than me. The methodology perfected by unceasing practice when I was too young to have an agenda to distract me.

Suddenly, I had plunged my arm into the watery depths, scattering moonlight and shadows alike, and brought forth my quarry. Yet even greater than the sight of a victoriously clutched hand was the feeling: the flailing of tiny limbs against the gentle caress of my delicately closed hand. But there was something else—the flailing of too many limbs. More limbs than I had expected. For there, upon partially opening my hands just enough to peek inside without losing my precious cargo, there was not one frog-but two frogs, caught in amplexus!

And so, with fingers numb and nearly useless, we processed those two frogs at midnight with hearts and minds absolutely soaring with our success. The stalking season had begun.