For reasons that I won't bore you with (lung morphology, low metabolic rate), the Slender Tree Frog (Litoria adelaidensis) is able to hold its breath for a REALLY long time.
You'll never see one, unless you know where to look; they are too well camouflaged. But you can easily hear them because they call incessantly when all is at peace midst their winter wet water hole. It's actually an obnoxious sound: a loud, grating 'grrrk'.
When alarmed, they dive from their elevated platform like a missile into the water, where they will stay submerged for quite some time until the threat has passed.
Really? Are we done yet lads?
Hampy sat atop the ridge quite reserved, looking down into the cesspit of mud and noise below. He seemed to me like a Dressage rider, mounted on a snow white Andalusian pony that had just arrived at some backwater rodeo. At that point, I was certain he was asking himself one question "Errr......why am I here?"
This is NOT O.K. Corral.
In the stink and mud below a posse of rough-neck cowboys were hustling wild brumbies. One by one they cut the slop, found traction and launched over the far ridge. Disappearing into the distance, they left behind only dust and smoke. And Hampy.
In WHES, it don't matter how ya git up; ya' just gotta git up!
Hampy sat alone, very alone: contemplating his options.
So long did he sit there that an eerie silence descended over the bog hole.
So long did he sit there the submerged frogs re-surfaced, convinced all was peaceful once again.
If at first you don't succeed.....you don't have a choice: try again.
And then he went.
He did not make it the first time. Nor did he make it the second time.
At no point did I ever think Hampy was going to give up. But I knew that he would have to dig deep and find the heart of stallion to give it one more crack. So much time had passed the frogs had become so relaxed they recommenced their mating calls!
No less than 50 phone cameras were pointed squarely at Hampy when, finally, he 'man from snowy rivered it' down the drop off, through the foot deep puss and slop and straight up and out the other side. Third time was a charm!
I tilt my hat Hampy! Respect!
The WHES crowd love to see the hard racers racing.
The WHES crowd love to see the hard racers winning.
But, more than that, the WHES crowd love to see the battles forged out on the track; amongst the obstacles that seem to cause so much carnage to the bikes but barely make a dent in the spirit of the riders.
THIS IS WHES!