My best friend, Pat, must have owned several automatic weapons by the time we were 12 or 13 years old. For some reason (my mom), I didn’t even own a BB gun. Lucky for me, another good buddy named Jack had just acquired his second pellet rifle, and I was invited on a hunting trip.
It was yet another carefree summer day and what better way to enjoy it as a kid than picking off unsuspecting birds? We headed down Ellsworth hill toward the river. We would stop and practice our aim on any cans or bottles that crossed our paths. Soon, we were on the railroad tracks headed east. We’d place pennies on the rails and try to find their flattened remnants after the train went past, all the while finding targets for our pellets. Sometimes, we even shot at new cars as they whizzed past on the train. There was many a disgruntled auto dealer when those new 1966s arrived peppered with pellet holes.
We both expressed surprise as we approached a little train bridge. As we closely surveyed the area — the trestle wasn’t very long and spanned a nicely sized pond — we saw frogs! They were flipping, flopping and jumping everywhere. Soon, our inner hunters took control. We plopped our butts down in the middle of the bridge and picked off bullfrogs, one after another, completely swept away by the sheer thrill. We were like cowboys shooting buffalo through train windows.
“What are you boys doing?” a gruff voice startled us.
Looking up in unison, we gazed upon a tall, bearded man in official ranger attire. He had the hat, the patches, the badge: They all spelled authority.
Jack, thinking fast, was the first to speak: “We were just shooting cans.”
I lamely followed: “Yeah, just shooting cans.”
The ranger didn’t have to say anything as we all looked at the dead, floating frogs and blood-streaked water. But, of course, he had a lot to say. We happened to be sitting right across the old Evergreen Highway from a state fish hatchery and, come to find out, we were well within its boundaries. He was not a happy ranger, to say the least.
As he marched us to his office, we were lectured on the dangers of sitting on train trestles and trespassing on government property — and our total lack of empathy for nature’s gifts.
He confiscated our weapons and informed us that the only way to get them back was to return with our parents. He then requested, rather adamantly, our personal information. This turned out to be the only time I was thinking straight since the ranger had surprised us. I told him in my most honest voice that my name was Pat. I then gave him an appropriate fictional address and phone number. Poor Jack didn’t have such a luxury, especially if he wished to ever see his guns again.
I found out later that Jack returned with his mother for an extremely uncomfortable meeting with the ranger, but eventually got his rifles back. He really didn’t want to talk about it much after that. I don’t remember seeing those guns ever again.
I’ve been reading lately that bullfrogs are a non-native invasive creature that have been eradicating our local frogs to near extinction. Many places have even put a bounty on them. If my buddy Jack and I would have waited 40 years, we might have been hailed as heroes and made a few bucks on the side!
