Amphibiana - Goddess of the Frog. Or toad. Whatever.

*** continued from previous post ***

Mom is now wandering around the grounds, lost in a euphoric trance celebrating the natural splendor of thousands of tiny frogs. Or toads. Whatever. There is a twinkle in her eye. A faraway look that comes from deep concentration. I know that look, and it scares the Bee-Jeebus out of me. She's thinking that we need to find someplace to buy a couple of tons of bugs to feed these little darlings.

I must get her out of here. Time is short. I've lost her to the squirrels. I've become second banana to the birds. I'll be damned if these froggy-toads are going to replace me in her heart. I turn to talk to her and she's gone. She's all over the place. How can she move so fast? One minute she's down by the lake's edge. Next I see her over by a concrete curb that separates the parking area from the grass, squealing with delight. It's quite obvious. She's been possessed by Amphibiana - Goddess of the Frog. Or toad. Whatever.

"Aren't these the cutest things you've ever seen?"

I must admit, although not aloud, and not to her, that while not the cutest thing I've ever seen, they are certainly right up there on the scale of adorablility.

"They are amazing", I agree. But you know sweetie, it's getting late. We've got about 300 miles to go. Probably should be heading back on the road."

Thoroughly enchanted, Mom feigns deafness.

Another car comes into the rest area. Vegan folk-singer-latte-sipper girl makes a run to get the car to stop but too late - another hippity of toads has met it's fate. Don't look at me that way, a 'hippity of toads' is an actual term describing a grouping of toads. Or frogs. Whatever. It's like a 'herd of elephants', or a 'murder of crows', or a 'retch of Republicans'.

What . . . you doubt me? Look it up on Wikipedia.

Wait . . . give me a minute . . . . . . . . and done.

It's on Wikipedia now so you know it's real.


*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

A Love of all Things Croaky

*** continued from previous post ***

Mom kneels down next to the girl and motions me over with a frantic wave of her hand. "Hey! David! Look at this!"

I look to where the two kneeling women are pointing, and realize that it's not magical hopping gravel at all, but a tiny, tiny little frog. Or Toad. Whatever. These things at their biggest are about the size of a dime, and literally ALL OVER THE FRICKIN' PLACE! Really!

How could I have not seen them before? There must be thousands and thousands of these little buggers! They are all over the road, all over the grass, all over the shore of the lake. It kind of gives me the willies. I mean, just how fat was her boyfriend?

This is not a good development. I would have to tread carefully here. You know how your Mom feels about amphibians. It's a close race between frogs and squirrels and birds and raccoons and stray cats in Mom's bestiary of love. She was enthralled - nay smitten even - and began to take numerous pictures and copious amounts of video of this miracle of nature. I feared, now that Mom was held in a toady-spell, that we may never leave this parking lot.

Regrettably, another car pulls into the rest-stop at this time. I can hear the 'crunch crunch' of tiny lives coming to an abrupt end underneath tires. Now, fully engaged in the National Geographic moment, all I want to do is save the frogs. Or toads. Whatever. Your Mother has infected me with the spirit of nature. I want to wave the car off, but really - there is nothing I can do. It is the balance of natural world. If by balance you mean tiny dime-sized frogs in fierce battle with car tires for their niche in nature. Or toads. Whatever.

The girl, enthusiastically friendly now that Mom and her share a love of all things croaky, explain to us that this is an annual migration. That the frogs, (or Toads - although they look like frogs to me - and I've seen many frogs in my day. I can tell by the color and the eyes and the hoppity-hop-hop motions), come down the hillside across the road, make their way to the lake, and then party like it's 1999 in Toadville. She recounts, in graphic detail, how they had to install a 'Toad Bypass' underneath the road, and into the parking lot because in years past, and I quote, "After a few hours, the road would become very, very slick with dead toads and it was causing many, many horrible accidents."

Yeah. Hitting, what I can only visualize as a 'smear' of toads at speeds just below the sound barrier on a slight corner would be a bit tricky. In fact, it would probably be like hitting an ice-sheet in the middle of a Tokyo Drift. (See, I'm hip...I'm with it.) Oh sure, it would be all laughs for a split second, then WHAM. Who wants that in their Obit? "Henry was driving like a typical Canadian maniac and bought it on Toad Smear Curve."

Wait a minute. On second thought . . . that would be an AWESOME Obit!


*** the journey continues Monday ***

Some Enchanted Evening, You May Meet A Toadie . . .

*** continued from previous post ***


With all my heart and soul I hope to see a toad, just so I can put her at ease. Validate her reality, if you know what I mean. But nada. Zip. The big EL Zero on the toad front.

Yet obviously, the girl is sensing something. In a rush of metal activity I ponder many things: Are invisible Canadian Toads poisonous? Is this what the border guard was trying to warn us about? Is the girl insane? On some really, really good drugs?

Or is she the victim of some enchantment. Maybe she and her boyfriend were just sitting there, enjoying the view of the lake and the mountains, when an evil Witch pulled up in an old beat-up Chevy Nova with rust spots and a "Kill the Vegans" bumper sticker, flipped them off (presumably because they looked like they might be Vegans, or know Vegans, or just have a fondness for vegetables), and turned said boyfriend into a swarm of invisible Toads? It happens you know. Random curses like this occur far more frequently than anyone cares to mention. The Gummit just doesn't like to admit it because really, what are you gonnajavascript:void(0) do to protect yourself against something like that?

Maybe the girl is simply mistaken. Maybe later her boyfriend will show up, after a leisurely stroll around the lake and she will beat him within an inch of his life for making her worry. It's the feminine way.

"They're so tiny," the girl says to Mom, and kneels down on the pavement to point at what I think is a piece of gravel, but turns out to be a hopping piece of gravel that motates quite quickly towards the water several feet away. Funny behavior for gravel, I think, but hell - this IS Canada. Stranger things have happened. As evidenced by the girl having her boyfriend turned into an invisible swarm of toads by an evil, vegan-hating witch not more than an hour before our arrival.

Mom kneels down next to the girl and motions me over with a frantic wave of her hand. "Hey! David! Look at this!"


*** the journey continues tomorrow. Unless I get a better offer. ***

The Ever Elusive Canadian Hawk-Toad

*** continued from previous post ***


Mom and I walk down to the edge of the lake and the girl, with some alarm in her voice, yells, "Watch out for the toads!"

Mom and I look at each other, scan the parking area, and then look at each other again. I see no toads. Mom sees no toads. There ain't no stinkin' toads around here.

"They're all over the place!", the girl remarks with more than a bit of agitation as she makes a broad sweeping gesture of the parking area, the lake, and the grass beyond, "I don't want any more to die."

Now that's a curious statement, I think to myself. I look again for toads. I even look in the trees. Maybe this is the nesting place of the elusive Canadian Hawk-Toad that I have read so much about in journals of lesser credibility. But no, nary a Hawk-Toad to be seen. However, I have my wits about me, and decide that a gentle approach to this delusional female is the correct response rather than, "WTF are you talking about?".

"Well of course not," I answer gently, ever so gently, and begin to back away slowly, ever so slowly. "Who would?" Still, I see nothing. Nary a toad, nor toad like thing anywhere. Mom looks at me questioningly. I shrug my shoulders, and nod towards the bike intimating it may be time to depart, stage left.

"I don't know what to do, it just makes me so sad.", the girl says.

"And who can blame you?", I say, in what I hope are non-judgmental tones as I tug at Mom's arm, smiling but careful not to show too many teeth in case she interpreters my smile as an act of aggression and strangles me right there in front of God and everybody with her Ipod cord while the last words I hear on this earth are Dave Mathew's singing, 'Everybody asks me how she’s doing, Has she really lost her mind? I said, I couldn’t tell you I’ve lost mine.'

And as we both know, that just ain't right. That's not a warrior's death.

Now believe me, and all kidding aside, (I KNOW there are no Hawk-Toads. That's just a slogan to sell T-Shirts to the tourists), I'm still looking for the toads. I want to believe her. This girl is VERY concerned - very genuine in her dismay, but despite my best efforts I'm seeing nothing. With all my heart and soul I hope to see a toad, just so I can put her at ease. Validate her reality, if you know what I mean. But nada. Zip. The big EL Zero on the toad front.


*** the journey continues tomorrow. Commenters will be eaten. ***

The Ballad of Toad-Splat Curve

*** continued from previous post ***

Where was I?

Oh! The rest stop!

Okay, so we come to the rest stop beside this absolutely GORGEOUS blue-sparkled lake nestled at the base of a particularly spectacular mountain. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, at least I think they are. Canadians like to drive fast. I mean FAST. No, even faster than that! So I can't really hear too much other than an occasional sonic-boom as yet another SUV blows by.

There are two driving speeds in Canada: One; so slow you want to tear your face off, and two; so fast you want to tear their face off. It's like the 'Fast and the Furious' without the 'Furious'. More like the 'Fast and Extremely Cordial'. But I'm from "THE STATES", so, I'm a rebel - an 'Merican. I go any damn speed I want. I shift out of Warp 3, slow, make the turn, and glide down the gently sloping parking lot to the edge of the lake, do a quick "swoosh" of a u-turn, and then point the bike uphill for an easy egress.

There is one other car here, with a young woman that casts furtive and concerned glances in our direction, but relaxes as we de-gear and she hears us talk to each other in loving tones. It would have been great fun if Mom would have jumped off the bike, ripped off her helmet, and back-handed me as she screamed, "Why you stop the bike bitch? Did I TELL you to stop the bike?". But alas, she does not, so we are immediately cast as 'the-cute-older-couple-on-the-motorcycle-that-are-obviously-in-love-and-having-a-great-time-and-will-probably-not-stab-me-in-the-heart'.

I know, it's a curse, but someone has to bear the burden of giving the world hope - might as well be us. The point being, I watched her visibly relax. A little. Although, somehow I had a feeling this girl was in a constant state of flummox.

She is in her twenties. Are all women in Canada in a perpetual state of mid-20s? Probably. Although, on second glance this young lady might have been a bit older. Not more than 35 anyway. Slender, but not with the 'I-just-ate-a-sandwich-and-I'll-be-full-for-a-week-unless-I-throw up' kind of look, but rather a 'I'm-very-active-and-I-like-to-hike-and-listen-to-Dave Mathews-on-my-Ipod-and-I've-had-lattes-named-after-me-in-the-coffee-shop-where-I-play-my-guitar-on-Saturday-afternoons-so-I'm-more-hip-than-you-are' look. More than likely a Vegan. She doesn't have the look of meat about her, if you know what I mean.

Mom and I walk down to the edge of the lake and the girl, with some alarm in her voice, yells, "Watch out for the toads!"



*** the journey continues tomorrow. Those who comment will be eaten. ***