In 2010 I was fortunate to accompany herpetologist Dr. Renee Catullo on a trip through Australia’s Top End collecting little brown frogs. Here are some of my field notes along with photography. While my photography has vastly improved, I’m not sure I’ve felt so inspired to write since that trip. I hope this series of vignettes communicate some of the flavour and excitement of the wet season in Australia’s monsoon tropics.
3 February 2010
Birds, wind, insects, all still, all silent. An atmosphere of exhaustion settles in as the temperature draws near 40. Wanda Inn roadhouse sits baking between red clay and the azure expanse of the outback sky. This would be home for the night, and we’d best get some sleep before tonight’s activities.
Littoria caerulea find respite from day’s dry heat by hanging out in the toilets.
The area hadn’t seen rain for a while but on dusk the moodily flashing cumulus clouds in the distance promised a change in the weather. Soon after dark we find ourselves in frogless country, standing on the roof of the Landcruiser captivated by the lightshow of distant electrical storms. As time passes the breeze blows harder, and we drive closer to its origin. Soon we are buffeted by a stiff cool wind, petrichor fills the air, fat drops of rain spatter and we are surrounded on all sides by the intermittent discharge of three kinds of lighting. Coruscating bolts crack somewhere between us and the horizon, leaving their jagged after-image in negative on our retinas, snaking fingers of electrical tracery race bifurcating and branching in the clouds overhead, and distant bolts diffused through cloud and rain suddenly bathe the land in white, turning puddles into mirrors for the silver sky before plunging us back into darkness. The weather is completely in character for the Northern Territory: at once utterly romantic and dangerously thrilling.
We stop periodically to stand on the car and take pictures of the gathering storm (still no frogs calling) but when a blinding bolt cracks too close for comfort we quickly curtail our roof-standing. Discouraged by the lack of frogs, the talk turns to gin and tonic at our next stop, but when we get there, rather than a refreshing drink, the distinctive chip of the Stonemason toadlet greets us and the frogging is on.
And so the wind blows, fat drops spatter our skin as we stride through waist high grass and negotiate ankle-twisting holes, boot-sucking puddles, and mud that cakes to the mud that’s caked on the mud caked on our boots. We wiggle between the slick ground and barbed wire fences while the sky flashes chaotically, rumbling and booming, and we stalk around pools thronging with the disorientating din of burrowing frogs, occasionally glimpsing the wide eyes of the other when the land in an instant becomes awash in the white of a nearby burst of lighting. This was trench-warfare frogging.