Fish, Frogs, and Fireflies

By Robert Montgomery

In Fish, Frogs, and Fireflies: Growing Up with Nature, award-winning outdoors writer Robert Montgomery and 13 friends explore what and how we learn about life from the everyday miracles of nature. Each story celebrates the tangible and intangible blessings we derive from the outdoors
These tales encourage us to sleep in a tent, swim in a lake, blow the fluff off a dandelion, and wish on a falling star. Invest enough time and a butterfly might land on your nose, or a hummingbird on your finger. You might see an eagle soar or a double rainbow splashed across the western sky at dawn.
Read this book to a child! Take it with you on a hike, a fishing excursion, or camping trip. The essays and short stories will inspire you to enjoy the natural world, even if you don’t know a cricket from a cricket frog. They will enlighten you with cautionary tales of thin ice and blazing campfires. They will entertain you with accounts of an alien invasion, white rats run amuck, and an embarrassing trip to the emergency room.
Fish, Frogs, and Fireflies will educate you about nature’s mysteries and miracles, ranging from mermaids and snake spit, to African lions and Ozarks dinosaurs. This book will take you to the stars, the mountains, and a little creek below the tree line at the baseball field. And if you enjoyed the outdoors as a child, they will bring back glorious memories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: NorLights Press
• Release date: Oct 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9780990686217

Book preview

Introduction

"If one really loves nature, one can find beauty everywhere."

—Vincent Van Gogh

"In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks."

—John Muir

You need to get out of the house.

Now!

Remember how much fun you had catching sunfish and chasing frogs at the pond when you were a kid? Remember how enchanted you were by the fireflies in a jar you placed beside your bed as a night light?

That’s why you need to get outside again—out in nature. You’ll find delight in these things now, just as you did as a child. I predict you’ll enjoy them even more, since being an adult is such serious business most of the time.

Too often today, we hide indoors, hunched over computer screens and hypnotized by television. We glide through the world in motor vehicles with the windows up and music playing. We hide from the sun, rain, snow, and fresh air inside climate-controlled buildings. We wear shoes so our feet never touch the earth. We watch National Geographic and films about wildlife, but how many of us still get out there and experience nature for ourselves?

Picture a graph showing how many hours the average person spends outside today, compared to 50 years ago. Now visualize another graph showing how many of us report depression, stress, and anxiety, compared to 50 years ago. When we turn our backs on nature, we lose access to a natural, and free, source of happiness.

If you’re someone who never enjoyed nature as a child, then this is the perfect time to start. I recommend you take one along, so you can see nature through her eyes. Sleep in a tent, swim in a lake, blow the fluff off a dandelion, and wish on a falling star. Invest enough time and a butterfly might land on your nose, or a hummingbird on your finger. You might see an eagle soar or a double rainbow splashed across the western sky at dawn. But such blessings are bestowed only if you go outside.

Whether or not you were a child of nature, I recommend you read this book. Take it with you on a hike, a fishing excursion, or camping trip. The essays and short stories will inspire you to enjoy the natural world, even if you don’t know a cricket from a cricket frog. They will enlighten you with cautionary tales of thin ice and blazing campfires. They will entertain you with accounts of an alien invasion, white rats run amuck, and an embarrassing trip to the emergency room.

They will educate you about many of nature’s mysteries and miracles, ranging from mermaids and snake spit, to African lions and Ozarks dinosaurs. They will take you to the stars, the mountains, and a little creek below the treeline at the baseball field. And if you enjoyed the outdoors as a child, they will bring back many pleasant memories.

I wrote most of the essays and the four short stories. Many of the former sprang from my adventures—and misadventures—as a youth learning about life, and, yes, even death, as I explored woods and waters, flora and fauna. Three of the stories were based on actual events, while the fourth was inspired by tales around the campfire.

Additionally, 13 men and women with unique expertise contributed to this book. These folks care about nature as much as I do, and I’m proud to call them my friends. They include Hobson Bryan, Steve Chaconas, Gene Gilliland, Brenda DeGree, Randy Joe Heavin, Andy McDaniels, Blake Muhlenbruck, Ron Presley, Leonard Sonnenschein, Teeg Stouffer, Sabrina Thompson, Judy Tipton, and Skyler Wiseman. You’ll see their names and biographies with their essays. The essays without bylines are mine.

I hope these tales will inspire you to watch a summer storm, take a hike, enjoy a sunset, study a bug, or swim with the fishes. And don’t forget to take a friend along—preferably someone under the age of eighteen.

~ ~ ~

PART ONE: Toadally True

~ ~ ~

1. Be Careful

You don’t trust me."

If you’ve ever parented a teenager, you’ve heard those words firsthand. What did you say to earn such a dastardly charge?

Probably you said the same thing Mrs. Vineyard said to me those many years ago as I loaded the laundry basket into the backseat of my Ford Falcon: Be careful.

Considering what was inside the basket, she had good reason to sound a warning, as do most parents. But through the filter of teen-age ears, all I heard was that she didn’t trust me.

About 15 minutes later, I started to learn what she really meant.

Because Mrs. Vineyard loved nature, she and her husband owned a large area of land with two lakes about 10 miles from town, where he ran a construction business. They also raised several foster children, as well as their own.

I wasn’t one of their foster kids, but I might as well have been, since I spent so much time at those lakes. At first I was just fishing. But then Mrs. Vineyard offered me a summer job cutting weeds and cleaning boats, and the lakes became my home away from home from Memorial Day to Labor Day for several years.

When I wasn’t working, I stayed out there exploring and taking photos. That’s what I was doing on that fall day when I suddenly acquired the need for Mrs. Vineyard’s laundry basket. If someone told me this happened to him, I might not believe it. But the story I’m about to tell you did occur, and I have an old black and white photo to prove it.

One early autumn day, I visited the lake to take photos. As I pulled off the gravel road and onto the wooded shoreline about a half mile from the Vineyards’ lake house, I saw a hawk on the ground. I grabbed my Kodak Instamatic and eased out of the car as quietly as I could.

I wasn’t quiet enough. The raptor flapped awkwardly skyward, and, as it did, I saw it carried a large snake in its talons. The snake was so big that the bird couldn’t gain altitude. Nor would it give up the reptile.

Or maybe the snake was so entangled in the bird’s feet that it couldn’t let go. Whatever the reason, the hawk plummeted to earth. Only it didn’t alight on solid ground; it plopped into the reeds along the marshy shoreline. As it hit the water the bird managed to spread its wings, which kept it afloat. Several times it tried vainly to free itself, beating those long, dark wings against the water.

I thought the bird would be able to release the snake and take off. But as I stood on shore and the now-exhausted bird sat in the water, I realized it wasn’t going to free itself, no matter what.

And I was to blame. I had to do something or the hawk almost certainly would die. But what? I needed to pull it out of those reeds, of course. I snapped a couple of photos of the bird, put the camera back in the car, and took off my flannel shirt. I waded through the murky water toward the hawk. It watched me with fierce eyes as I maneuvered around behind it.

Spreading my shirt like a blanket, I used it to enfold the outspread wings and press them against the hawk’s sides. As I lifted the big bird, weeds fell off its feet, but no snake. Sloshing toward shore, I pushed against the bird’s sides, fearing it would panic and hurt me with its hooked beak or sharp talons.

But it did not, and we both reached shore safely. Now what? The logical action would have been to set the bird free. But I was a teen-ager. Once the hawk was no longer in imminent danger, I chose the illogical. I would take raptor home with me—just to make sure it was all right.

At least that’s what I told Mrs. Vineyard after I walked the half-mile back to her house, holding the bird firmly in front of me. Not once did it struggle to escape, even when Mrs. Vineyard flew out the screen door, slamming it behind her. Looks like you’ve got a handful there, she said with a smile. What happened?

She didn’t try to talk me out of my plan, and, in fact, I think she suggested I use the laundry basket to take the hawk home. We placed a board on a table and the upside down basket on top of it. Then, as Mrs. Vineyard raised the edge of the plastic basket, I eased the bird underneath. Finally, we used rope to secure the board to the rim, and I walked back to get my car.

Be careful, she said, when I returned and placed the basket in the back seat. I resisted the urge to say, You don’t trust me, which is what I would have told my mother. Mrs. Vineyard was a kind woman who’d been good to me. I silently forgave her for suggesting she didn’t trust me.

I will, I said.

And I was. I really was. The road home was filled with hills and curves, and I drove more carefully than usual. Still, on a 45-degree turn, the basket slid, tipped . . . and suddenly a hawk was flapping around in the backseat of my Ford Falcon. I had to get off the road—and fast. Miraculously, a safe shoulder beckoned. Keeping my head low, I shifted the car into park, squeezed out the driver’s door, and slammed it behind me.

Crouched on my haunches, I leaned back against the car and regained my breath, as I listened to hawk thrashing. If it moved from the back seat to the front, I realized, I might never get it back inside the basket.

Of course, the obvious course of action would have been to open a door and allow the bird to fly out. That never occurred to me. I still focused on getting it home. And as I peeked in the back window to see the hawk finally settling down, I still hadn’t considered the significance of Mrs. Vineyard’s parting words. That would come later.

Honestly, I don’t remember how I managed to get that big bird back into the laundry basket. But I did.

Finally at home, I spoke softly as I carried it into the garage. I had no idea what I was doing or what I would do next. But talking gently seemed a good thing to do.

Looking through the encyclopedias that night, I learned my captive was a red-tailed hawk, also known as a chicken hawk. Because they’re such capable hunters, the book said red-tailed hawks are often used for falconry. And I discovered I should wear gauntlets when handling the bird. I also learned about the leather straps, or jesses, a falconer puts on the legs of his hunter to maintain control and the hood he uses to keep it calm.

The following morning, I wore old leather work gloves, as I slowly lifted the edge of the basket and tied a leather cord around the hawk’s leg. Also, I continued the previous day’s strategy of speaking softly. In hindsight, I realize how naïve and possibly even foolish I was. With a hooked beak, sharp, yellow claws, and wingspread of four feet or more, the red-tailed hawk is a potentially lethal adversary in close quarters.

But the bird was docile and cooperative. Its fierce eyes seemed more a reflection of what it was—a predatory bird—than its attitude toward me. It turned its head and listened as I whispered to it, set it on a perch I had built, and secured the cord.

By the second day, the hawk was eating raw meat from my hand. Soon, it would climb onto my leather glove and sit there nobly as I walked about the backyard. It also allowed me to stroke its breast with a bare finger.

In that quiet time for both of us, a couple of things finally occurred to me. One was what Mrs. Vineyard and parents everywhere mean when they say be careful. No matter how well prepared you think you are, the unexpected can happen, and, when it does, events can snowball out of your control, no matter how smart, strong, or capable you think you are. The warning isn’t about a lack of trust; it’s about concern for a loved one going into an unpredictable world. If an angry hawk thrashing around in the back seat doesn’t qualify as evidence that the unexpected happens, I don’t know what does.

The second was that the bird was meant to be free, and, the longer I kept it prisoner, the more difficulty it would have surviving on its own.

Early on a Saturday morning, I carried the hawk out of the garage and set it on a picnic table. I untied the cord, stroked the bird’s breast, and, one final time, spoke softly to it.

The raptor walked to the far end of the table and then back again, as if it didn’t know it could fly away. It stood in front of me and turned its head, as if waiting for me to say something more.

Finally, I picked it up with both hands and tossed it into the air. Awkward at first, the hawk finally gained its bearings and circled, before landing in the tree directly above the table. It hopped down several branches, until it sat a few feet away from me.

As the rising sun warmed the yard, we looked at one another, and I fought back tears. They embarrassed me, as did my behavior.

I had rescued a wild animal and then imprisoned it, but now I had set it free. So, what was it waiting for? Why didn’t it fly away?

Finally, I knew why. Goodbye, I said, and, as if on cue, the bird spread its wings and flapped skyward.

Be careful, I added, as it circled twice and was gone.

~ ~ ~

2. One Good Toad Story

Frogs have achieved their greatest fame courtesy of a Mark Twain short story about a celebrated jumper in Calaveras County, California. Following an embarrassing performance in a 1972 horror movie with Ray Milland, they made an admirable comeback in E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, when Elliot set them free in the classroom. And let’s not forget the 1981 video game inspired by the amphibians.

In general, though, frogs are more likely to be found on menus than in the headlines. They’re more interested in flies than fan mail.

And even for kids, they aren’t easy to catch. Having been outmaneuvered by too many bullfrogs to count, I am the voice of experience. Yes, I managed to capture a few leopard and cricket frogs when the fishing was slow. Holding onto them, however, was something else. Except for nightcrawlers, no other creatures are so difficult for little hands to contain.

And I’ll never forget the tree frog I found on the back of the door of the men’s bathroom at a recreational area. It likely was a gray tree frog, which can change colors, but I remember it being as white as the door.

As an adult, hearing the first chorus of peepers in late February or early March is my favorite harbinger of spring. While fishing around the world, I’ve seen unusual specimens, including red/blue and yellow/black poison dart frogs in the rainforests of Costa Rica. Unlike bullfrogs, they are small, slow-moving, and easy to catch, probably because they’re protected from predators by toxins secreted through their vibrant skin.

I have no good frog stories to tell you. Toads, however, are another matter. And, yes, toads really are another matter, although they’re