Little did we know when we bought our small house in Maple Valley, Washington that we would experience the frogs each spring.
We knew we were a bit off the beaten path, this was very deliberate. We have about one and one-half acres: mostly wooded, pristine, and beautiful. Across the country street we live on is a working horse farm, there is a smallish pond in the field directly across from us. To the west towards the back of our property a small creek meanders into another pond, this one bigger, perhaps big enough to be a swimming hole.
My wife has always loved frogs; she collects frog stuff, from dish towels to Christmas tree ornaments, its needless to say we have a lot of frog stuff in our home.
Our first spring was amazing, we noticed there were more and more frogs appearing in the yard, on the house, in the trees, little tree frogs were everywhere if you took the time to look. Then one evening a large bull frog started calling, buuurrrriiiipppp, buuurrrriiiipppp, from across the street. He was soon joined by a chorus of low rumbling calls coming from both ponds. We enjoyed them, not knowing they were only the first act.
Within a few nights the calls of the smaller frogs joined in, act two had started. Tens, then hundreds of little voices added their sound to the still night air – ribbit, ribbit. Each night the symphony grew louder, until it reached such a frenzy of sound it was almost too loud to listen too. If you cross the street you can get to within 20 feet of the little pond, the sound is so intense it makes your ears rings, you can almost feel the air buzzing around you.
One night I was out in the yard, probably waiting for the pizza delivery guy to arrive, they often need help finding us; I’ve found waiting by the road with a flashlight in hand helps. A car shot past, the roar of the frogs was replaced with silence, silence so profound it was shocking. More seconds passed, then one little voice appeared, ribbit. His voice was tiny, not like the large bull frogs. Seconds passed, and then I heard ribbit again. I thought he must be the bravest frog of the bunch and imagined the other frogs waiting to hear him again before they found the courage to call out. Ribbit, Ribbit – like a stereo having the volume slowly turned up the sound grew, two voices, five, ten, hundreds. I counted off the seconds in my head; it took fully fifteen seconds before my ears started to ring again. I had been there for the intermission, followed by act three. Act four was waiting, waiting to be discovered.
The pond behind the house is much further away, and much larger. Even with the trees between the pond and the rear deck the chorus from that pond is just as loud, I suspect a larger pond means more voices, more frogs. This sound is not quite as intense, still considering how far away it is I’m impressed by it. The frogs in this pond own act four; their call is constant as it’s not interrupted by passing cars.
Our driveway is directly between the two ponds, and this leads to act five. One evening I was standing in the driveway, doing driveway things. As I moved around I found a spot where you could hear both ponds clearly if you turn such that one ear faces each pond. Hearing the two together is odd, the sound seems out of phase, it almost sets up a rattle in your brain, like two trumpets slightly out of tune blasting in each ear. This is act five, each pond trying to outcall the other.
I’m not sure if it’s the males calling the females or the other way around, still I wonder how, from all the voices I hear what differentiates one voice from the others to a prospective mate. I guess only the frogs know what differentiates a Barry White frog voice from a Pee Wee Herman frog voice.
