It’s October and I am sorting out logs in the woodpile—sawing them into lengths to split for the wood stove. You have to be careful. The woodpile serves as a habitat for various critters. Potentially most dangerous are suzume bachi—the Asian giant hornet (Vespa mandarinia), the largest hornet in the world. They build their nests where it’s dry, and woodpiles are ideal candidates. In Japanese, suzume is the word for sparrow, and hachi is the generic word for bees, wasps, and hornets, elided to bachi for euphony. The name is fitting. In flight, out of the corner of your eye, they are easily mistaken for small birds.
Other common tenants in the woodpile are snakes. Almost always these are the non-venomous rat snakes: aodaisho (Elaphe climacophora) and shimahebi (Elaphe quadrivirgata). Aodaisho means “green general,” and shimahebi means “striped snake.” Farmers love these because they hunt rodents.
Today, hornets and snakes are absent, but between gaps in the rocks, I spot something large moving slowly in the shadows. It’s a toad—the Japanese common toad (Bufo japonicus)—perhaps the largest I’ve ever seen.
In Japanese, the word for toad is hikigaeru (蟇蛙), but somehow I picked up an older pronunciation — gamagaeru. I used to think this was because the Japanese word for cattail is gama (蒲), and I could easily recall The Wind in the Willows from my childhood and picture the toad relaxing among the cattails by the riverbank. But no—Japanese often tricks with homophones, and this gama (蟇) actually means “toad.” So gamagaeru is literally “toad frog.” Kaeru is the word for frog, and once again the first syllable is voiced for euphony.
There are other words for frogs and toads. Perhaps Bashō’s most famous haiku features a frog, but this time it is pronounced kawazu (蛙). Another word for toad is kusogaeru—literally “shit frog.” I wonder how he obtained such an unattractive moniker.
This particular gamagaeru is impressively fat—round as a small melon and clearly well-fed. The woodpile provides a steady buffet: crickets, carpenter ants, and other insects that thrive in the cool, moist crevices between logs. It’s fattening up for hibernation, preparing to sleep through the long, frozen months ahead—a toad’s quiet, instinctive response to the turning of the season.
The toad sits motionless for a long time, its warty skin blending perfectly with the damp earth. Only the slow, deliberate rise and fall of its body betrays life within. When it finally moves, it does so with surprising grace—each hop measured and silent. Despite its ungainly appearance, there’s an air of quiet dignity about it, as if this humble toad were the true custodian of the woodpile.
I leave it there, undisturbed. Come winter, it will likely burrow into the soil beneath the logs to hibernate, waiting for spring rains and the return of insects. The woodpile may look like a stack of firewood to me, but to the gamagaeru—and to so many others—it’s home.
In Japanese folklore, the frogs and toads are considered bringers of good fortune and safe return. Travelers once carried small toad charms, believing that kaeru (蛙)—“frog”—is a homonym for kaeru (帰る), “to return.” To meet a toad, especially one this large and content, might be nature’s quiet blessing: a reminder that every creature, even the warty and overlooked, has its own story and place in the landscape.
As I finish stacking the last of the logs, I feel the same quiet pull toward rest and preparation. The toad settles into the woodpile, I into the house—both of us answering autumn’s call to slow down, to endure, and, in time, to return.