Barking tree frogs calling through the summer night

The air hangs thick and still over the Bay County wetlands as evening settles into the longest nights of summer. If you are indoors, step outside now. The day's heat radiates up from sandy soil and dark water, carrying with it the first tentative calls that will soon fill the darkness. Close your eyes and listen. The night is about to announce itself.

From cypress heads and pond edges comes a sound like no other frog in Florida. The barking tree frog lives up to its name, producing explosive calls that carry across the landscape like a pack of small dogs arguing in the canopy. Each male stakes out his territory in the shallows, his throat sac ballooning to amplify calls that can be heard half a mile away. These are not the gentle peeps of spring peepers or the steady trill of gray tree frogs. These calls demand attention, each one a sonic claim on breeding space in the warming water.

The males arrive at their territories as darkness deepens, climbing down from their daytime roosts in oak and pine to claim patches of shallow water where females will lay their eggs. Their timing synchronizes across the wetland. One male begins, his bark echoing across the water. Within minutes, dozens of others join in, their calls overlapping and competing until the entire marsh pulses with sound. This is not random noise but strategic communication. Each male must call loud enough and long enough to attract females while defending his small patch of breeding habitat from other males. The explosive quality of each call serves both purposes at once, broadcasting his presence to potential mates while warning competitors to keep their distance.

These frogs have adapted to Florida's summer breeding season in ways that set them apart from their temperate relatives. While northern tree frogs breed in spring, barking tree frogs time their reproduction to the warmest months when insect abundance peaks and water temperatures remain stable through the night. The males can call for hours without stopping, their robust bodies built to sustain the energetic demands of territorial defense. Between calls, they float motionless in the shallows, only their eyes and nostrils above the surface. When a female approaches, the male's barking intensifies, becoming a rapid-fire series of calls that guide her to his chosen spot among the buttonbush stems and cypress knees.

The summer air carries their voices across the wetland, each call rippling outward through the humid darkness. If you are standing near water tonight, you might hear them beginning their chorus as the last light fades. Listen for the explosive bark that starts low and climbs, followed by silence, then another bark from somewhere else entirely. The sound builds through the night until the entire landscape seems to pulse with their territorial claims, a summer symphony written in the language of reproduction and survival.