The Pond by Dave Laird Written because I know of such a place Copyright 2001 It was a nondescript place in Stevens County, tucked far back off a back country road that insolently weaves its way through a number of small hillocks interspersed with sporadic dense groves of fir trees. If you were driving down that road, no doubt lost and frantically trying to find your way back to the interstate highway, you would never see the insignificant little foot path that leads down into a stand of trees off to the right. Unless you were really alert, your eyes nervously scanning either side of the road for anything that resembled civilization as you know it to be, you probably wouldn't even notice the pair of Olympia beer cans that were sitting upright in the center of the dirt path, precisely six inches apart from one another. Such precision does not easily nor normally occur in nature, but because you would have missed seeing them in the shadows of a late afternoon summer's day, you would never guess that behind those trees, further down a steep well-worn dirt path, past the bull rushes that grows out of a industrious bit of swamp just past the trees, there is a jewel of a lake. It is nestled against the worn shoulders of an old hill that, over the decades, has eroded from a sturdy rip-rap wall of sandstone and gravel into a mound of sandy, tan-colored nothingness. The Pond is one of the best-kept secrets in our community. You'll never hear anyone overtly say, "Oh, I went over to The Pond the other day and went fishing," because the only fish in the pond are fat, lazy carp who swim in idle circles speculating on bugs that land on the waters' surface. As anyone who has ever tried freshwater carp, they are hardly fit for human consumption, especially considering the profuse variety of trout, bass and other more edible fare that can be caught in of the areas more-accessible lakes and streams. There seems to be an unwritten rule, as well, that even the most avid, half-crazed hunters in our community, males who, fortified with male hormones tinged with gunpowder residue, would shoot their grandmother if she had a set of antlers to hang over the fireplace, would shoot a deer at The Pond. However, rather than suggest that there is some kind of altruistic truce in existence, an unspoken agreement between the deer, the old coot who lives there and generations of hunters packing high-powered rifles, given the number of other locations where deer can be shot and easily loaded into the back of faded, four wheel drive vehicles, that The Pond remains overlooked due to the steep climb back on the foot path weaving through the swamp and up the hill. Even hunters firmly wrapped up in blood lust and testosterone, it seems, think twice before undertaking such a venture. The old man who owns the property beneath and around The Pond is a genial enough old goat, the sort of waggish man who favors living in isolation, wearing a leather hat and sporting an out-of-control full growth of beard streaked with grey. Sometimes, if you are sitting in the glade overlooking The Pond and have a good pair of binoculars, you'll catch a glimpse of him sitting outside his cabin atop the crest of the southern-most hill in one of the hand-made wooden lawn chairs that sit out in front of the cabin, or puttering around the side of the house by his ample wood pile. Since it's a good two mile walk around The Pond to get to his cabin, his isolation remains undisturbed for the most part, it seems. Unlike the screaming jay birds that frequently, raucously shriek vituperation and condemnation at you from atop a nearby tree for disturbing their space, the old man seems to have an affinity for The Pond and its occasional visitors, one which doesn't infringe upon your right to be there. On those rare occasions when you, curiously glance his direction armed with good field glasses, be advised he is known for sitting on a hot summer's afternoon in one of his beloved lawn chairs periodically scratching or adjusting his privates while reading a copy of Reader's Digest Condensed books that he buys for a nickel a copy at the used book store in town. Rumor has it the old coot doesn't have a telephone, nor even a television set, and is seldom seen in town. His sole vices, if he has any, is that when he was much younger, he stretched a thick triple-ought electrical cable from his isolated cabin, down the back side of the hill on the other side of the lake, to a nearby road and thus got electricity, and with it, running water from a nearby spring that untended, had bubbled up out of the ground for eons. Still, if you're sitting by The Pond in the fading light of an evening, listening to the night birds beginning their conversations, you might notice that he usually lights his entire house with a single 60 watt light bulb in an old-fashioned hurricane lamp that sits in front of the window. No grey-green yard light that automatically comes on at twilight, no faded yellow bug light on the front porch or even an electronic bug zapper ubiquitously snapping and sizzling in the darkness for this old man. After all, he has The Pond in his back yard, and lives at peace with it, and it with him. Spend a night beside The Pond beneath one of the trees, and you might even notice the old man goes to bed shortly after the sun sets, as some say nature intended it to be. If you build a fire to keep warm on a chilly night, so long as you use the common sense that God gave the common bullfrog, many of whom live along The Pond's edge, so long as you don't get carried away with your pyrotechnical skills by creating a huge bonfire of monumental proportions, the chances are good the old coot will even ignore your presence at what is, after all, his pond. Those few unfortunates, over the years, that made the mistake of building huge roaring fires or attempting to drown themselves and their pains in all-night howling beer brawls, more often than not, were met by this bewhiskered, garrulous elderly gentleman bearing a huge scattergun in the crook of one arm. "Gethehellout," is all he usually says, under these circumstances, saying it as one word that is both a sentence and an unquestionable command. He backs his words with that ugly double-barrel mother of a shotgun loaded with one barrel double-ought buckshot, and the other barrel bird shot mixed with rock salt. You can bitch to the Sheriff's Department if you want, but little good it will do. He owns the land, he owns The Pond and he determines whether or not you'll be welcome there in the future. If you feel frisky enough to really challenge him, you are urged to remember if the bird shot and rock salt doesn't demonstrate a form of enlightenment you can understand, the double-ought buckshot will. However, if you come quietly, and depart as softly as you arrived, if you can ignore the sight far across The Pond of the old coot adjusting his braces, covering up his union suit as he exits the outdoor privy, the silence, if not the tranquility of The Pond is there to be shared. Some say in the indeterminate future, perhaps the Winnebago motor homes with their color TV sets and Ugly Americans who ask for everything, yet give nothing back, will someday dominate this place when the old man is gone. However, for now, The Pond remains pretty much as it was when civilization first settled this part of the area, save for the occasional wood smoke that lays gently back against the hills when there's an evening chill in the air or when snow covers the hills and the frozen pond as far as eyes can see. Don't ask me how to get there. I've never been there before.