We happened to visit this area right in the middle of the annual toadlet frenzy, when zillions of toad tadpoles were turning into tiny little hoppers. The ground was crawling with little toadlets; you had to wait several seconds before putting each foot all the way down to avoid stomping them.

This is a pure, refined example of toadiness at its best.

This is just a tiny metamorph; a few days earlier it was a tadpole.

My friend Fred Harer, his wife Angie, his mom Lipa, and I went out for a night drive starting up at Kennedy Meadows in the Eastern Sierra and ending up down near Pearsonville in the Mojave desert. The only herps on the road at night up in the mountains were a good number of these lovely toads. (Not too much going on down in the desert either, but Fred did end up finding two baby sidewinders.