Ponds

by Jon Leibowitz

I’m sitting at the shore. My legs are propped up on a fallen lichen-covered hemlock, my back against a tree. Nothing is under me but a blanket of moss. I can’t name them all yet, but the ones I know, the sugar maples, hemlocks, and the white ash, are apparent all around me. Boulders and helpless drowned trees line the shore across from where I sit, their reflections almost more vivid in the motionless water than their true counterparts. At one point in my life I would have been intimidated to sit here, alone in the woods miles from anyone, but this, everything here, it has become my home. It makes me wonder: is it so odd that I prefer the croaks of bullfrogs and the buzzes of bumblebees to people’s chatter and the noise of cars whizzing by? As far as I’m concerned, there isn’t another place I’d rather be than right here, sitting among the bunch berries and lady slippers. 

The ponds are just a short hike from the road. The walk here is a pleasant stroll through typical Vermont woods: gorgeous. If you’re lucky, you’ll find some flowers that escaped the picking or trampling of disrespectful people. For a large portion of the hike you’re crisscrossing a quaint brook, and if you look carefully you may spot the brilliantly colorful brook trout. The real treat is, of course, at the end of the hike. The last stretch is a short but strenuous uphill climb, and just as your legs start burning past repair, you see a clearing ahead. You keep walking, following the light that has been absent while under the canopy of hardwoods, and suddenly you find yourself chest high in vibrant green ferns. As you let your eyes lead you, they leave the peaceful forest behind and spot an enormous cliff face, and below it, a huge open meadow void of trees. In the middle of that meadow lies a small puddle, nothing more.

Emerging from the chest-high ferns, I look around and take in the meadow. The ground is soft, almost invitingly so, so I take off my sandals and place them aside. I begin exploring. In every direction are grasses, tall ones, short ones, sharp ones, and soft ones. My studies of the landscapes and local biota haven’t included grasses, so the names elude me. And although nameless, my satisfaction received from their texture rubbing against my exposed legs isn’t of any lesser value. Around the meadow stands thick forest branching out endlessly in every direction except right in front of me, where the trees are pressed up against the cliffs. Here, the division between different species of trees that occurs at varying elevations, soil types, and shadiness is clear. Around me, down here, are gorgeous hardwoods, and above me on the cliff stand proudly the softwoods baking in the blinding sun. All the better, though. I prefer the hardwoods anyway.

The scene gets the better of me and I begin to think about the implications of our modern world on little spots like this meadow. Surely this isn’t so wild of a place, I'm no more than an hour or so from the road. The entire state of Vermont was 90% deforested just a century ago. This forest is so young! The wolf no longer hunts here, and I’d be lucky to spot one of the 4,000 bears that both live in and are once again hunted in Vermont. Why do I get these feelings of belonging and understanding when I’m here? I sit down on the cool floor and wonder how many people in our age have ever sat in a meadow? Do my friends back in the cities know the joy of pressing their fingers into the cool spongy ground and feeling that history in the dampness, in the layers of sediment? Do they understand the thrill of knowing that, not too long ago, the rock I'm sitting on was submerged in a pond created not by a human, but entirely by the beaver, the most industrial animal in the world that isn't us?  Do most people still know the delight that one can feel stumbling upon a wild raspberry bush and stopping for an afternoon snack in the woods?
  
The unfortunate truth is that the answers are most probably no. There is a lot to be said for that and for this disconnect that modern society has with the land. That brings up some questions, though. What is the land? Or wilderness? How do they relate to modernity? As I write this in my journal a helicopter flies overhead, and instantly that sense of withdrawal, of solitude, of freedom from the world, is gone. Everything is interrupted as the chopper flies from one end of the sky to the other. Once it has gone, though, nature doesn't hesitate to bring me back in. Just as quick as the helicopter disappeared, an owl hoots in the woods behind me, the sun gently sets behind the cliff, and the footsteps of some animal become audible just enough to grace me with its presence.