ALL WHO WANDER

Sitting. And thinking. I was just sitting . . . and thinking . . . when the croak of true love sounded among the bulrushes. Roused from my reverie, I tried to home in on the bullfrog's call booming through the bulrushes in the languid lake in Papago Park. Could it be a Colorado River toad? At this moment, a great, slurping splash deflected my search for the bullfrog, which immediately fell silent-likewise awaiting the source of the din. Turning, I watched a young fellow stagger along the shoreline, moving with the delicacy of a drunken wildebeest. He stumbled to a halt at the marshy shore of the lake, caked with mud below the waist. He swayed and turned with exaggerated care to examine me. "Hey, dude," he said, through an off-kilter smile. "Hey," I said, noting the small silver skull dangling around his neck and his black T-shirt sporting two skeletons. "Seen any toads?" he asked. "Pardon?" I asked. "Toads. You know. Like, big toads." I thought instantly of Mason Williams, that quintessential '60s poet of inordinately silly verse. Unaccountably, a stanza leapt to mind, two decades after I last read it: Look at Them Toad Suckers, Ain't they snappy? Suckin' them bog-frogs Sure makes 'em happy. "Nope. No toads," I answered. "I thought I heard one here."

"Oh, that," I said, gesturing vaguely with my bird book. "That was a bullfinch." "A what?" "A bullfinch. Big one." He stared at me through narrowed eyes, trying to decide whether I might be mocking him. The effort appeared painful, so he abandoned the thought and returned to surveying the bulrushes. I watched quietly, confident I'd encountered a recreational toad sucker. No doubt, he sought a Colorado River toad, a marvel of biology that can burrow some 2 feet into the mud after a monsoon and spend years waiting out droughts. The toads shrivel to a wilted memory of themselves, like mummified pharaohs. The drumming of just enough rain at just the right time summons them from their tombs. Struggling upward to emerge into the rain-blessed world, they swell as their thirsty skin absorbs the moisture. Crooning passionately, they rush to find mates, then festoon every available pool of water with frog eggs. The pollywogs hatch in record time and tear through the miracle of metamorphosis from wiggler to frog in summer pools that last mere days. One other remarkable quality of the Colorado River toads has lately attracted the attention of the counter-culture-the chemistry of self-defense. These toads can grow to 7 inches, which makes them nearly 2 pounds of toothless, shell-less, croaking juiciness in a world oversupplied with raccoons, coyotes, bobcats, dogs and other toothy critters. The toad's defensive system involves glands that produce bufotenine, a squirt of which can cause paralysis and even death in animals. This defense system has served the croakers well for millions of years. Until lately. Turns out, this toad's poison mimics a hallucinogen if dried, crystallized and smoked with a pipe. Of course, you can overdose and get very sick. Mercifully, no known deaths attributable to toad-sucking have trickled into medical literature-although some dogs have paid the ultimate price for experimentation. Arizona forbids the collection of toads without a fishing license, and outlaws the possession of more than 10 even with a license. I suspected my new acquaintance lacked the requisite license. Then again, it appeared more likely that he would drown himself than surprise a toad in his current condition. He studied me blearily and added, "Holler if you see any." He managed a lopsided but heartfelt smile and blundered back into the reeds. I sat contentedly until the sound of his splashing faded. The shadows lengthened, the rippled waters reflected the clouds overhead and the light deepened into psychedelic hues. From among the rushes came the haunting call of an unidentified bird. At just that moment, the bullfrog resumed his song.

How about Them Toad Suckers Ain't they clods? Sittin' there suckin' Them green toady-frogs. Suckin' them hop-toads, Suckin' them chunkers, Suckin' them leapy-types, Suckin' them plunkers.