Dead Frog

Now that we are deep into summer – almost through it, alas! – I'm in pretty good physical condition, and into some of my longest bike routes.

On a recent August morning I biked about thirty miles. That's pretty good, for me. It took about two and a half hours, including a couple of stops to take pictures.

Like these photos of hot air balloons. Almost every Saturday and Sunday morning in this area, you can count on seeing hot air balloons out over the valley. These particular hot air balloons were some distance away from my location. I was using a not-real-great digital camera, one with mediocre optics, but which fits easily into the rear pocket of my cycling jersey. So the photo at left is not as sharp as I'd like. And it's just a detail.

(On a ride a couple of years ago I passed a large field some balloonists use for a landing place. Access to the field is gained through a gate, which must have been locked that morning. The balloon landed a few hundred yards from the road. A couple of guys held on to its gondola and guided the balloon toward the road. As they reached the gate, a guy still in the gondola let out a fiery blast, and the balloon ascended just enough to clear it. And me with no camera.)

More recently, I've been enchanted with the town of Niwot, which is not too far from where I live. I bike through it on a regular basis. I talked about this a little bit in a Fourth of July blog post.

I don't know what the building in the photo at right is for. It's just off of Main Street in Old Town Niwot. It charms me; it must have been the morning light that gave this scene such appeal. That white building at the extreme left is called Left Hand Grange, whatever that is. You can't really see it, but to its immediate right is a tiny wood structure called the Old Fire House Museum.

From here, I go pedaling happily into the badlands north of Niwot – as I once joked to a friend. Badlands, my rumpus room. This supposed joke makes absolutely no sense, because the area is so nice.

"So nice." Yes, nice. Pleasant. Pastoral.

It was in this vicinity that I met the bullfrog.

I met the bullfrog shortly after he had been severely damaged. He (I'll call it he, but I don't really know) sat there on the side of the road. I whizzed on by, but something struck me as unusual, so I wheeled around and came back to check him out.

That poor thing was hurt bad. I was callous enough to take the photograph at left. I cropped it out, but a dash of frog blood was smeared across the pavement. He was probably in shock. One of his hind legs, you can perhaps see, was bent back around his body, and a bulge of frog guts swelled out of his side.

So he was doomed. Nothing I could do for him. It occurred to me that the humane thing would be to finish him off. But even if there had been a big rock nearby, one large enough to crush him quickly and efficiently, I don't think I could have done it. I don't have that in me. And there was no convenient rock.

Instead, I eased the poor thing to the weeds along the side of the road. As I did, he attempted to move his useless legs. I apologized for leaving him in such a state.

Then I got back on my bike and road away.

A mile or so up the road I came upon this tranquil setting. This is the calm I associate with the badlands north of Niwot.

As I took this photograph I wondered whether the frog was dead yet. Probably not; it had only been a few minutes. But surely, it wouldn't be much longer.