Finally, at the last drop—a three-foot waterfall into Soggy Bottom—the frogs bailed out, fearing the splash would break their bones.
You see, Grundel didn’t hop. He sludged . He didn’t sing. He burped . And every spring, when the seasonal rains swelled the waterways, the forest’s sleek frogs and newts would host the “Grand Torrential Race,” a reckless dive down the flash flood from Cracked Boulder to Soggy Bottom.
Grundel blinked slowly. “The torrent belongs to those who know they can’t be washed away. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a very slow, very satisfying mud bath.” toad torrent
This year, though, the race was different. A rumor slithered through the cattails: the prize was a single, perfect, jewel-like fly—a Glitterwing , whose taste could make a toad forget his own name. Grundel, who had never forgotten a single fly in his life, felt a deep, gurgling hunger.
“How?” whispered a bedraggled frog.
Around the first bend (Whirlpool Gorge), the frogs screamed as they spun into a dizzying circle. Grundel simply walked through the bottom current, using his back legs to push off boulders like a squat, determined submarine.
Through the second hazard (Needle’s Eye—a narrow slot between two fallen logs), the sleek racers got stuck, their pads folding like wet paper. Grundel, with a mighty oof , wedged himself through, his loose skin squishing into the gap and popping out the other side. Finally, at the last drop—a three-foot waterfall into
The frogs laughed. The newts held their tiny sides. “You’ll sink!” they cried.