Once the gig is in position a few centimeters from the target, it is never drawn back — only thrust forward, striking preferably just behind the frog's head. My partner's frog-gigging technique is flawless; mine is rusty. I miss a couple of early attempts, but the old muscle memory gradually returns and I contribute to the take as well.
When we return to my partner's house, he announces that there is another pond nearby, full of frogs. He informs me, however, that it is nasty, meaning we will be wading in muck and weeds and maybe some trash, too. We will get that exhilarating, slimy feeling, sure to remind me of the days when I was happy to be a muskrat.
I am ashamed to say I declined. We are only three frogs short of an Illinois nightly limit of eight for each hunter. Besides, it is late, I am old, and maybe this has been a long enough trip down memory lane for one night. There is, of course, tomorrow night.
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