THE FROG KINGS

WELL PAST MIDNIGHT, Tim Reed and Rodney Smith paddle down a skinny stretch of water in northern New York, to a spot where the high-cut riverbank transitions to flood plain. As Smith makes one last quiet push, gliding the yard-sale canoe toward a tangle of lily pads and skunk cabbage, Reed leans over the bow. The wide-set eyes of a big bullfrog glow in the beam of his headlamp, and just as the canoe reaches the jack-lighted frog, Reed strikes.

“Argh!” he yells through a splash of river water. Then he holds up his prize: A meaty bullfrog is mashed between his index and middle fingers, its long legs dangling almost to his elbow. “Gave him the ol’ kung-fu grip!” Reed says. Smith laughs. Reed gives the frog a whack on the gunwale, then drops it into a wire fish basket behind him. The two have been at this for several hours now, and the first of two fish baskets is full—50 or 60 large bullfrogs piled atop each other like a mess of balled socks in a hamper. Smith paddles the canoe to the bank for a quick break. They step out and click off their headlamps.

“It’s pretty with the lights out,” Smith says.

“Just us and the stars,” Reed says.

“And the frogs.”

Green Machines

Reed and Smith have been next-door neighbors for almost 20 years. They spend their summers in small seasonal