But Grundel didn’t choose a lily pad or a twig raft. He waddled to the edge of the torrent, took a deep breath that made his throat pouch billow like a thundercloud, and simply… stepped in.
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. But Grundel didn’t choose a lily pad or a twig raft
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. “The torrent belongs to those who know they
He didn’t float. He plodded —along the bottom of the torrent.
Grundel didn’t hesitate. He tucked his head, let gravity take him, and landed in the deep pool below with a sound like a dropped boulder. KER-PLOONK. The wave he created washed the remaining racers onto the muddy bank.
“Too slow, Grundel!” the green frogs would taunt, zipping past on lily-pad sleds. “Too fat to fly!”