Jessica Johnson aimed a flashlight toward the marshy shoreline, meticulously scanning the shallows. She reached up to part the dangling branches of a willow tree as the canoe crept slowly beneath it. Tranquil cricket song carried across the darkened surface, interrupted occasionally by a deep baritone croak from somewhere nearby. We were trolling the banks of Stansbury Lake, but the moment’s combined elements were more evocative of a lazy float down a Louisiana bayou.

“West, get your net ready,” Johnson eagerly called to my 5-year-old son, who was kneeling behind her. Her flashlight aimed toward a mossy shoal, reflecting off a stationary pair of eyes just above the surface. Weston carefully extended his SpongeBob “jellyfishing” net toward it.

The owner of the eyes, a medium-sized American bullfrog temporarily blinded by the flashlight, floated listlessly, unaware of his role in making a little boy’s day. Weston lowered the net around the unwitting amphibian and Johnson quickly grabbed the netting, sealing it closed. “You got him!”

I’m not sure which of us was more excited. Given my history of misfortune when it comes to catching things, I’m always relieved when somebody I’m with bucks my curse — especially when I plan to write a column about it. Weston has adored “froggies” since he was a baby, and loves them “more than anything in the whole wide world and whole wide space.” Catching his first true frog in the wild was beyond exciting.

Frogs are a passion for Johnson. The petite mother of five usually goes frogging with her 14-year-old son, Forest. “We’ve got a system down,” she explained. “I paddle and he catches them.” At what she calls “the nursery” — one of the rocky areas on the lake’s north shore — Johnson says she and Forest can sometimes net a frog every 30 seconds.

Johnson is no stranger to the aquatic world. Originally from Pennsylvania, her family moved to Utah when her father took a job managing fish hatcheries. For her, settling down to raise her own kids on the lake in Stansbury Park was like coming home. The frogs were an added bonus.

“When we moved here 10 years ago, there weren’t any frogs,” she remembered. Johnson isn’t sure exactly where the lake’s frog population originated, but has heard that they were introduced to the lake by a family that brought them here from California.

To the amazement of many, that first colony of frogs survived the winter and began thriving in the lake. They live near the lake’s banks and under private docks where huge orb-weaver spiders spin their silk. After wintering beneath the mud, they emerge to breed in late spring. The bellowing jug ‘o rum call of territorial males annoys some lakeside residents, who often seek Johnson’s help in relocating the pesky crooners.

“Some people find them annoying,” she told me. “But frankly, they’re music to my ears.”

While the frogs are a non-native, technically invasive species, Johnson is glad they’re here.

“They’re an indicator species. Whatever’s in their environment that’s affecting them will start affecting us next.”

She believes the lake is healthy, as evinced by the fact that the frog population is robust and increases annually.

“The lake’s not dying, but it will if we don’t take care of it.”

Johnson believes a hands-on approach is the best way to teach children about the natural world. To that end, she runs the annual Stansbury Days frog jumping contest, something that Weston had waited for since we missed it last year. He was thrilled last winter when he walked into the community’s volunteer library, also run by Johnson, and found a “froggy buddy.” He immediately invited himself along on a frogging expedition.

“How can you not just love those buggy eyes and that permanent smile?” Johnson asked as we loaded into the canoe at her dock. “They perk me up to no end.”

In fact, she was feeling under the weather when Weston and I had arrived, but she turned down my offer to reschedule, saying, “Frogging’s the best medicine there is.” She was afire the minute we climbed into the canoe.

Johnson perched on the bow with flashlight in hand while I paddled from the stern. Weston knelt in the hull with his net at the ready. The moon’s reflection on the lake’s glass surface and the accompanying cricket-frog duet had me brainstorming ways to justify buying my wife a canoe for our anniversary. I dug my paddle into the dark waters and we paddled toward the north shore.

“We’ll check out the nursery,” said Johnson. “Then I know where a big male is.”

First up was a large female that easily eluded us, probably because I overshot the turnaround and smashed us into the dock where she was hiding. The nursery was a ghost town, but with my clumsy paddling, we weren’t exactly sneaking up on them. If we were going to catch the big one, whom Weston preemptively named “Ted,” I would need to refine my technique by the time we got to his jumping grounds.

Something about Johnson’s instruction to “paddle three cul-de-sac’s down” seemed paradoxical. After catching the frog beneath the willow tree, we rounded the bay toward a large party barge and the source of the resonant baritone calls.

Johnson spotlighted the jumbo male while I steered us parallel to the bank. Weston carefully lowered his net around Ted, but the frog dove beneath it and disappeared into the algae. Weston was disappointed, but the three other frogs in his bucket had him walking off the dock all smiles.

What Ted didn’t count on was Jessica Johnson’s tenacity. And when Weston showed up at the frog jumping contest that weekend, Ted was there to hop for him. I watched Weston release him after the contest. He touched Ted to his cheek and said something I couldn’t hear before letting him go.

“They’re amazing creatures,” I remembered Johnson saying. “And Weston won’t ever forget going frogging.”

She doesn’t know how right she was.

Clint Thomsen is a Stansbury Park resident who grew up climbing mountains, wandering desert paths and exploring Utah’s wilds. He may be contacted via his Web site at www.bonnevillemariner.com.