With mosquitoes swarming my face and neck, I poised myself and held steady for the shot. My target tensed as it grew nervous, ready to jump into the swampy green depths. With a kill zone no more than an inch in diameter there was little room for error. As my arrow released, I heard that familiar sound of wood sliding deeply into mud while my prey bounded safely into its watery lair. “There are easier ways to do this.” I told my kids, “But none are this intense.”

The summer months can be long and painful for a bowhunter who longs to pursue game all fall and winter and chasing bullfrogs can be a fun, off-season challenge. Growing up with a large pond in my backyard left me with childhood memories of hunting frogs with every imaginable method: homemade spears, self-made bows, gigs, BB guns, and even a dart gun. The most challenging and enjoyable being the stick and string. It is how my gears started turning and interests flared for the beauty of archery and everything it entailed; the stalking, the uncomfortable situations, and never knowing the outcome.

This past summer I wanted to bring all those experiences back and share them with my two oldest sons. They were getting to the age where they wanted more independence but still young enough that their attention span quickly waned. In the past I had made some primitive spears and we hunted frogs with traditional gigs, but I felt they needed more challenge, and I did, too. So, I began working on small and medium hickory staves I had saved from a few years back. Something had gotten under the bark and burrowed some holes, but I managed to whittle an effective self-bow for myself and a smaller version for the boys to take turns with.

Weston Donath practices with a self-bow crafted just for the bullfrog hunt.

My boys watched with interest as if they were viewing a National Geographic special rather than their old man in his garage. They asked questions, most that I did not know the answer to. What I didn’t know we looked up in books or online and we learned together. My inexperience as a bowyer was obvious to most, myself included, but if my sons were aware they didn’t let on. They watched as a stave began to form the slightest resemblance of a bow. I did not yet trust my handiwork, but as small curls of wood slowly stripped away, I told myself, “It’s for frogs, not a deer.” Finally, I examined my handiwork and despite my loose credentials as a self-bowyer, it passed inspection.

Looking more like a crude, utilitarian survival tool rather than a thing that held any beauty, I just told myself, “If it can just last a summer of killing frogs.” Both the adult and child size bows resembled each other closely but what they lacked in beauty they made up for in effectiveness. After ordering some strings we waited for the full warmth of summer to bring out those familiar, deep baritone calls that echo from the swampy areas and small farm ponds across northeast Missouri.

Growing over eight inches long and weighing almost one and a half pounds, American bullfrogs are the largest of the North American frogs. That being said, the target demands precise aiming for an effective kill shot. The bullfrog is pound-for-pound the toughest animal I have ever tried to kill. Even a perfect headshot still calls for the shooter to quickly grab the arrow and recover them because they will notoriously continue right on jumping. The old saying about frog legs jumping out of the frying pan rings true and it seems those nerves never quit twitching. Anything less than a perfect hit usually means a getaway for the frog. Luckily for us, in Missouri we are allowed to hunt frogs with an artificial light. At the very least it distracts the target to stand still while the light is focused on them.

With our newly made bows and a few of my odds and ends hunting arrows we started to make our plan for the bullfrog hunting expedition. I had family land with access to a few farm ponds that always hold frogs, but I was going to need plenty of shot opportunities as I anticipated ahead of time that there was going to be a significant amount of missing. I started to ask around and even made a post on Facebook asking for farm pond access. While trying to get permission to hunt whitetails on private farmland around here is futile, we had more than enough landowners offer up their ponds or lakes for access.

I made a map of all the places we had acquired entry and estimated it would be a multiple night affair. No doubt we would be out way past any of our bedtimes, which of course is when a lot of great adventures occur. We planned a weekend when I was off work, and we shot our bows at hay bales every night until then to hone our accuracy.

Finally, that weekend came, and we could not have asked for better frog gigging weather. Hot, muggy, and downright miserable even in the darkness of night we were relieved to get into our first body of water. However, rather than a refreshing cool swimming hole we waded through stagnant warm soups of duckweed and banks full of switchgrass. Our legs and arms were covered in red welted strips where the brush tangled and tripped us. But we were having a blast. I was watching my kids be kids and I knew exactly what they were experiencing. It was a sense of adventure and challenging terrain. We could have been on an African safari hunt for all they cared. They were young boys in their element, and I was elated to watch them transform to young Robin Hoods of the swamp, off to stalk their dinner.

An excited Aiden Donath with the evening’s effort.

The eyes of the first frog we approached glared in the light as we made our way across the pond to him. While I kept the light aimed on the frog my oldest son crept in from the side, lining up directly behind to give himself an angle for the widest possible target. He stretched the bow back and aimed from only about eight feet away. The arrow slid into the mud a foot away from the frog’s head.

The old bullfrog did not budge an inch, still completely oblivious to what was happening behind him. They readied another arrow resting it against the top of their hand, gently pulling back. Again, they let it fly toward the frog and again it thumped into the mud. By this time the frog was onto us, and with one giant bound it swiftly disappeared beneath the duck weed and into the murky water. After a few more attempts with similar results, we decided we had harassed enough frogs at our first pond and decided to move on to the next.

Our second stop was one I was quite familiar with. The lake in my parent’s backyard was kept immaculately mowed and was absent of all brush and weeds. The water was clean and regardless of the lack of cover it was completely loaded with big meaty-legged bullfrogs. Without any brush obscuring our view I gave my kids a turn on the light and tried my hand with my bow. I picked my favorite lucky arrow and pulled back, aiming a mere five feet away. Off it went, striking the back leg of the frog and essentially pinning him to the mud. I quickly moved in and finished him off as my boys stared wide-eyed that we got one. And just like that we were on the board.

As thrilled as I was to get some meat in the bag, I was still very stuck on the boys getting to share that same outcome. I grabbed the light from them, and we found a small finger of water where I stood on the opposite side shining the light on any eyes I could find. When I found a pair of eyes, I would signal them, and they’d sneak on the opposite side. I told them to get as close as they could without spooking our quarry. I watched as my younger son quietly crept up from behind. From my position it appeared as if he could have easily stabbed it with the arrow rather than shoot it from the bow, but nonetheless he pulled it back and let it go.

Nearly half the arrow disappeared into the mud but both boys erupted into celebration. I yelled from across the water, “Grab it, quick!” and they snapped back to reality and grabbed the big bullfrog by his back leg and dropped it into their fish basket. I was just as happy for them as once a frog goes into the water it is nearly impossible to track down in the dark. When they had it secured in that old basket I carried as a young kid I swelled with pride completely aware of the sense of accomplishment that resulted in that moment. It was the same feeling I had experienced so many years ago.

Frog legs and wild blackberries served on a grape leaf plate.

We spent several more hours as well as the next night pond hopping and ended the first night with two limits and just three shy of a third. The next night we ended up with three for me and two apiece for the two boys. Sure, we had our misses, but we had quite an adventure stumbling around in the dark and getting knee-deep in some of the swampiest areas imaginable. From cattle ponds to pristine lake properties, we managed to make an adventure pursuing a small game animal most never consider worth the time or effort.

The day after our amazing weekend experience we took our frog legs and opted to do something I had never thought about. By then we were feeling the wilderness itch, so we decided on doing an over-the-fire primal cookout. We coated the legs in olive oil and then added a dash of salt and pepper. We pitched our frog legs on a grate over an open campfire and watched as they started to sizzle. With a grape leaf for a plate and some wild-picked blackberries for a side we ate our frog legs around the campfire, and I think the boys were in paradise. The things you work the hardest for are often the tastiest. Their little sisters ate with us and shared laughs of the escapade we had.

As a father in today’s world, I look for every opportunity to get my kids away from electronics and out into the forest. In school, at home, work, and everywhere else we look there are screens. Maybe I am a bit too nostalgic but there is something special about frog hunting to me. There is adventure even in our backyards and if you haven’t tried bowhunting frogs, maybe it’s time you give it a whirl. Take a kid with you too, they will remember it even when they grow up. I know I did.