May 25, 2023 at 12:02 p.m.
The Lake Where You Live
Caught in the act
By Ted Rulseh-
Since we've lived here I've had one walking route that takes me along Sand Lake Road past various water-filled depressions where frogs breed in spring. I hear them calling loudly as I approach. Then when I come near, they go silent. Typically I would stop beside the spot and look carefully, but I never could see who was doing the singing.
A couple of weeks ago I tried a different tactic when I heard the songs coming from the roadside. Well, they weren't really songs, because these were wood frogs calling, and collectively they sounded like some machine with sand or loose ball bearings in its gears. As usual, when I came up beside a brushy pool emitting a wood frog cacophony, the noise faded and stopped.
I walked on by, but this time on the return trip I approached from the opposite side of the road, and then crept across, moving at just a bit more than a snail's pace, stepping softly to eliminate vibration through the earth.
As I reached the edge of the pool the sound diminished, and little swirls appeared on the surface as the frogs ducked under. In an instant the ditch went nearly silent, only one or two frogs calling, and then those last holdouts also stopped.
Now came the test. I was in no hurry, so I just stood dead still, scanning the water, where faded grasses and bare branches of low-growing shrubs pierced the surface. It was only a couple of minutes before a swirl appeared, and just like that a wood frog lay on the surface, snout and eyes above the water, hind legs spraddled wide.
Then up came another. And a couple more. Another surfaced and then, like a breast-stroking Olympic swimmer, propelled itself across the pool, just an inch or so underwater. And soon the frogs began calling, not just the few I could see, but dozens of them, hidden among the vegetation, dead twigs and various detritus in the ditch.
Together they made their mechanical racket, oblivious to my presence, the looming shape of my body now just part of their surroundings. For a few minutes I stood there, listening to their calls, watching for more of their shapes to appear.
Right then I made myself a promise, for the breeding season, to try the same tactic on peepers, chorus frogs, toads, and any springy-legged amphibian whose calls I came upon.
For the rest of early spring, it made my walks along the town roads just a bit more interesting.
Ted Rulseh is a writer, author and lake advocate who lives on Birch Lake in Oneida County.
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