The Lake of the Littlest Frog

Frog Lake

There's no camping to be had here. Even on this sweaty Monday evening all sites are occupied.

That's ok. I'm not really feeling the $26 a night.

A steal though, for this million dollar view...

Besides, it's really the day use area that boasts the astounding vista of the lovely volcanic queen of the region. Wy'east, the one and only. Mt. Hood, they call her. Child of the Cascade Range. Emanator of reiki vibrations and sulfuric belches. Home to the Timberline lodge. Playground for the snow sliders and gliders and mad mountaineers, though she gets more and more naked with each passing year.

It's 7pm. Pilot and I are pretty sure the park rangers are in their double wides drinking beer and streaming British baking competitions, so we pass the fee station and park the car and soak in the rich landscape without paying a dime.

We're all about the high crime.

In spite of the serenity of the surroundings, it's loud. Highway 26 shakes and jake brakes the big rigs on the other side of the trees. People shout to each other across the lake. Children scream. Radios blast country music.

A pair of sunglasses rests, forgotten, on the edge of a log. And, here and there, are other remnants of the human story of a lakeside summer.

As well as the lake's own story of summer.

We wander the shore. And suddenly we see them. Them!

The littlest frogs.

They are everywhere.

Careful!

Watch your step!

I don't know their story. I don't know if they will grow. They must freeze in the winter. I picture rock solid littlest frogcycles sequestered in their littlest frog caves.

Right now is their summer, too. They bask in the sand and mud. Disperse like minnows as we walk amongst them.

I imagine whole families of ravens. Early mornings on the shore. Population control breakfast patrol, dining happily on these amphibious friends.

Are they toxic? Some frogs are toxic. If I was little like this, I would be toxic as hell.

On the other side of the lake, by the campground, children are catching them in their hands. They are naming them. Racer. Dasher. Zippy. Thomas.

We are all a part of here. We are not separate. Nature is loud humanity and quiet lake, big mountain, little frog, noisy truck, abandoned shoe, me, you, and that osprey flying overhead with a fish in her talons still dripping from the rippling waters from whence it was pulled.

We stay past sunset.

Frog Lake Day Use area, Government Camp, Oregon.

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