And now, as Paul Harvey would say, the rest of the story:

Chapter Three by Adam

Before anybody could think long and hard enough to back out, Michael had flashlight in hand and was off through the undergrowth, the boys sucked in behind as if tethered to him, loathe to let any distance grow between them and his flashlight as he headed into the dark woods creating bounding shadows. Not towards any “landmines” where he’d first heard the noise, I sincerely hoped, as I headed in after them…….

Actually, I had been about to suggest we walk down the open shore to get to the so-called “pond”, but Michael probably knew this, hence the decisive departure. Up ahead, comedy flirted with panic as boys crashed through unseen branches in an effort to keep up with those who actually had flashlights. I kept up the rear at a comfortable distance, though the eeriness of the woods, only fleetingly illuminated by the beam of my flashlight, was undeniable. Darkness would rush in to swallow recently memorized details, almost as if with a purpose. Hard not to feel another presence, and any hope of night vision erased by our use of electric light.

After a fairly short and uneventful wander, we found ourselves in a clearing, though not at the expected pond — no open water. Rather, a lumpy topography of logs covered in grassy reeds, a monochromatic, monotextural landscape almost alien in the raking light of our flashlights. We stopped to ponder what dangers might lurk beneath a surface possibly less consistently solid than it appeared. Ahead we could see the edge of what we remembered as a snowbank overhanging the pond, a continuation of the gravel bar that separated this small body of murky water from the main bay. Beyond that possibly the water itself. And as we started forward again towards the snow, the first apparition flitted into our furtive beams.

A more or less single row of trees grew on the shore of the bay above the snowbank, providing a bit of a windbreak from the westerly winds roaring towards us across Spencer Bay (yet another reason Michael may have chosen the sheltered overland route). And apparently fighting that gale — and merely holding steady — was a flying thing.

Okay, a bird. A swallow, I think. But in the isolating beam of a flashlight against the black night, in the general direction where we were sneaking up on some unimaginable living thing that there lurked, and motionless, yet in full motion, it WAS a pretty spooky sight. The phrase, “What the hell is THAT?!” hissed into the night in several breathless adolescent whispers. In truth, I think the bird was just in the final negotiations of trying to land in a tree against a severe headwind, but it DID make for an interesting sight before it disappeared. To no one’s comfort.

We crunched up on top of the snowbank. All was in silence, The Noise in full abeyance, probably due to our presence. We were certain in both a gut and a brain way that this is from where It was coming, but there was nothing. We had, we supposed, only to wait for its maker to re-establish whatever conditions it required before resuming its unfathomable nocturnal rite.

But silence, where there are humans, must be deliberately made, and The Well-Armed Boys were too spooked to stay quiet for long. Much shuffling, some talking, and plenty of darting of flashlight beams. No way was It going to forget our presence with all this racket. And then Matthew spoke: “Is it just me, or do I see hundreds of eyes in the beam of my flashlight?”

I mentally immediately chalked his interjection up to a combination of paranoia and sadism, deliberately further spooking both his friends and himself. But then I saw what he saw — tiny glintings at the surface of the water. Most of them moving.

Frogs. Perhaps not hundreds, but still, LOTS of frogs. Inwardly I shivered. I’d several times seen what I understood to be heterothermic amphibians in the almost equally cold fall waters and wondered how they managed to move, or even survive, much less thrive. This water was only a degree or two above freezing — we homeothermic mammals gotta get out right fast. I can see the fallacy in my logic, but still I shivered. And below us, the frogs repositioned themselves and waited.

We did get the boys to quiet down and turn off their flashlights. One of them announced that he would stand between me and Michael, and resolutely did. There were barely inches or less between us all, yet still there was a little shuffling — but we were becoming a fairly quiet group. And we waited.

And waited. After awhile, patience wore thin, with no payoff. More shuffling and whispering. But then a croak. A single phrase from the gobbling choral chaos of an hour ago, but we knew we had our source. And it was just frogs.

Matt allowed as how he’d begun to worry about what might be coming to prey on these frogs, and whether we might by mistake or proximity become collateral victims of some unforeseen attack, but I tried to reassure him reasoning that:
a) the likely predators included heron and raccoons, not grizzlies or great whites, and;
b) the frogs probably knew when was a good time to come out and all start yelling at once, “Hey baby baby, here I am, pickmepickmepickmepickmepickme!!!!!”
I was pretty sure we could trust the frogs that all was safe.

And so the group started to break up, push out through the windbreak onto the gravel lakeshore and make our way back to camp the easy way. The mystery had been given a face, and a pretty non-threatening — though still reptilian — one at that. I hung behind as the group moved off towards home. Nervous flashlights darted back my way as if to divine my status or my intentions. But alone, I stayed.

And within mere minutes the whole spooky, amazing chorus fired right back up. It’s as if those little well-chilled froggies knew exactly where we were the whole time, or had telepathic access to our intentions. Once the “home” light was lit up in our limbics, they went confidently back to trying to get laid. And what a racket! Like no sound I’ve ever heard. All of what Michael said, and more, at close range. I was super glad I’d waited. Even a dozen yards down the shore, the wind would’ve vastly reduced the impact.

A few minutes later I sensed as much as saw two shadows approach from the direction of the camp, Michael and Robby finally having decided to double back and see what I was hanging around for. We listened in excited glee, finally truly rewarded for our efforts, and then we too headed back “home”. This time without the use of flashlights, a fragile, elusive rapport with a darkness not so dark our prize.

Ericksons has reopened for the season.