Catching a Frog
Every trip into nature leads to something unexpected. Those magical moments can profoundly influence children -- and adults who are willing to tune in.
Last week, my fourth grader Max shared a personal narrative at school. Students could write about anything; topics ranged from water bottles to hikes, family trips, and writer's block. Max wrote about catching his first frog.
He caught that frog while we were camping at the Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park at the northern edge of California. We pulled into the park just after lunch on a sun-filled late August afternoon. Our campsite was ringed with massive but immature redwoods. As our toddler “helped” us set up camp, my boys headed down the path behind our site to explore. After a few steps the path opened into a panoramic view of the Smith river winding through the redwoods. A gently sloped hill covered with a smattering of rocks and pebbles led down to the water. There was a boulder on the nearside of the river. Maybe 20 feet high, it had smooth sides, but just enough toeholds for two boys who’d been cooped up in the car all morning to have a go. After pitching our tent, I went to look for the boys and found them at the top of the boulder, pleased with summiting but nervous about getting down.
As I walked towards the boys, I noticed a small backwater pool between the boulder and riverbank. I guided the boys down from the boulder and put my feet into the river.
The water was crisp, but not unpleasant, and clear enough to explore the depths. The current was mild, and rocks that stretched towards the surface made great destinations for our short swims into the river. One rock jutted out of the water, and served as a spot to sunbath and rest.
Back on the riverbank, the boys looked for new paths up the boulder and splashed in the backwater pool as I took in the scene. All of sudden, a voice shrieked out, “Mama, come look!” I turned my head to see Max, knee deep in the pool with clasped hands obscuring a broad smile. Slowly, he lifted one hand ever so slightly to reveal his first frog. After letting everyone in the family touch it, he held onto it for a few minutes before releasing it into the water, where his little brother and toddler sister began trying to catch their own first frogs.
Experiences in nature rewire our brains and leave a lasting imprints on children. It’s why the government gives every fourth grader a free pass to the National Parks. Somewhere deep in our human and national psyches, we know that connecting children with the natural world is vital—and that we are failing in this endeavor.
It’s no accident that all of the conservationists I admire forged strong connections with the natural world as children. These experiences ranged from hunting with a parent to raising pheasants, falconry, or 4H. There’s a latent connection with nature in each of us, though our culture has discourages us from finding it.
Screens cannot generate awe like holding a frog can. When our experiences are done with an eye towards how they can be documented for social media, or when the phone in the pocket keeps pulling our attention away from the here and now, something profound is lost.
When you catch your first frog, the joy is in accomplishing a task that took planning and a pinch of guile—and the reward is feeling a small, wet body move in your hands. The external satisfaction comes from letting your companions touch the frog before you let it go, and then setting off to catch another one. If the joy from that experience was measured in “likes”, and the post didn’t excite Max’s friends as they mindlessly scrolled while doing something else, would he still have written about it? Would the memory be as profound?
Kids shouldn’t need to go to the Redwood forest to catch a frog and experience awe in nature. It can happen near home if we let our kids be kids. My wife remembers exploring the woods next to her house as a child. Those woods slowly turned into dirt mounds that the kids would clamber up, until they turned into homes with perfectly manicured lawns in a lovely but lifeless development. A great place to grow up, but one that was removed from nature.
The same was true of the more established suburb I grew up in. I felt a pang of sadness this past week when I walked by the home that replaced the last undeveloped parcel of land in the area thirty years ago. I remember looking for rabbits and squirrels in that corner woodlot back in elementary school.
Wanting to be more intentional about getting our kids in nature, we decided to take a short hike in a park near our house this weekend. Towards the end of our hike, the path was covered by trees that fell during a recent windstorm. After crossing over them, I looked back to see my boys shimming up one of those downed trees, which stretched about 120 feet up a wooded hill with 30 feet of vertical incline. Like on the boulder on the Smith river, my younger son, Gabe, took the lead and made it to the top. Max, who comes by his cautiousness honestly, got half way up before deciding that it was too slick to continue.
Next time Gabe’s asked to write about a personal story, maybe he’ll talk about climbing that downed tree. Maybe next time we go to those woods, they’ll both reach the top of the tree—with their little sister right behind them.