Frogs love it wet. They want the world to be wet, all the time. (They themselves are wet.)
Next to the house at Camp Salmen is a low area full of trees, brush and brambles. It was apparently a clay pit, several acres in size, where material was mined for bricks way back when. It holds rain-water now and is prime frog habitat. At dusk on a warm, muggy evening, particularly if it rained that afternoon, the pit gives rise to a thundering chorus of happy frogs. Thousands of voices chirp, croak and sing in every pitch and cadence. They join together and are remarkably loud. If it happens to rain again the frogs get even happier, wetter and louder. “Bring it on!” they roar, “Get wet, dammit!”
If you step onto the back porch looking over the pit you would have to raise your voice if wanted to have a conversation. You wouldn’t have to worry about interrupting the frogs because they couldn’t hear you over the noise. Go inside in the air conditioning and close the steel door and the sound reverberates through the walls.
This carries on through night. By dawn most of the frogs have presumably found who or what ever it was they were looking for and only an ardent handful are hoarsely croaking. Finally, two or three, then one lone voice, then silence as the sun comes up and the frogs are satisfied.