Fencerows: “The Lost Pond”
By John Luthens
I first discovered the lost pond after a fruitless, day-long, bush-whacking safari up a spring-fed trout stream that fed a bigger, Lake Superior river in the wilds of Douglas and Bayfield counties. I was fishless and unsteady on my feet when I stumbled out of the tributary brush and eyed the headwaters.
The rise of brook trout dimpled a glassy surface. Birch trees, white pines and beaver cuttings wound tight around its edges to form an impenetrable barrier. The surrounding growth mirrored into crystal water. If it hadn’t been for the circles of rising trout, it would have been difficult to tell where the pond ended and the forest began.
The trout concentrated away from the overhang of the stream outlet and into the center of the lost pond. I stepped to the shallows, preparing to wade out and unfurl a cast to reach the feeding frenzy. I was sweating from my journey. My heart was racing. It was a classic scene that plays out in the wildest dreams of every trout fisherman. This dream nearly died right there.
Mirrored reflections upon a northern Wisconsin spring pond.
I was instantly up to my waist in cranberry-bog silt that had no bottom. The more I struggled, the deeper I sank. I finally managed the shore by unbuckling my waders and splashing through the muck on my belly. I rescued my waders by digging them out with a spruce log. Brothers and sisters, the Panama Canal was a simple excavation in comparison.
Twenty miles as the crow flies from the vastness of Lake Superior, but it may as well have been twenty-thousand. It was struggle enough to reach the lost pond. Shadows lengthened into the gloom along the thick edges. I knew it would be long after dark before I stumbled out. It was impossible to fish.
It nagged me for several, long seasons. I scoured old maps of sandy back roads. I shot the freeway north, seven hours from my home in Grafton on religious pilgrimages, only to drive down logging trails where the brush sandpapered my truck paint into wild patterns. I resolved to find an easier route into the pond than crawling through acres of alder-choked stream bottom.
I squirreled my way within a half-mile or so. A back-packing trail angled near the pond from an old fire lane. It saved me a ton of time, offering me ample opportunity for exploration. I haunted the edges, balancing on hummocks of marsh grass that were spongy as a diving board. I crawled like a snake beneath cedar-tree shadows. Wildlife cracked in the brush. I saw plenty of deer. The bigger crashes I only smelled. A bear has a distinct, musky odor. So did the seat of my pants on more than one occasion.
Besides saving me a ton of time, my new-found access also cost me a ton of money. I fell off a log while trying to balance out to the pond and ripped a pair of waders on an aspen stump that was gnawed to a shiny point by a beaver. The water was clear and shallow enough to require long casts with ultra-fine leaders that cost more than spun gold, and the surrounding cedars and pines sucked my fly boxes dry. I lost a landing net to the pick pocketing talons of the brush, and it became a constant battle to explain to my wife why the truck always looked like it had been in a demolition derby when I got home.
Trout continued to rise in the center of the lost pond and I continued my struggles to reach them. I debated hauling in a canoe or kayak, but many deadfalls blocked the way. The cross-country portage would be a killer, but it seemed my only option. I was on to something. Just not in the way I imagined.
It was early this summer when fortune came down like a ray of sun slashing through the pines and chain-sawed the final pond barriers into pulp wood. The majority shareholder of our family finally gave the go-ahead to purchase a paddle board. She thought it a bit pricey, but the kids were excited, talking nonstop about the lakes we could take it to.
I hefted its weight, carrying it beneath one arm up and down the sporting-goods aisle. I quickly became more excited than the kids and I didn’t care what the thing cost. Being a fly fisherman, I only understand the concept of money within a very narrow window. I realized immediately that a paddleboard would slide like a greased pig right out of that window, down a tree-choked trail, and onto the water of the lost pond.
On my maiden voyage, I took the overland journey in one shot: Paddleboard, pack, and fly rod. I left my shoes and other unnecessary gear in a pile on the pond bank. I pocketed a handful of small floaters, and shoved for the far shore. For the first time in my life, I went fly fishing for back-country brook trout in shorts and bare feet.
The lost pond finally gives up its secrets to a paddleboard fisherman.
The submerged ruins of a beaver dam lay directly over white patches of sand where the spring water rose in the center. Ample cover and a constant upwelling of icy water; there were hundreds of brook trout darting over the logs and the sand. As I floated over, the bottom was literally alive with movement. I anchored in the muck with my legs dangling over the side of the board, giving myself ample room for a back-cast. As the evening rise began, I played out line. For the first time since I’d discovered it, I dropped a gentle fly right in the center of the lost pond. And then…
Climbers scale mountains to test themselves against the rigors of nature. I’m a trout fisherman. No mountains, only a piece of water buried in the tangled reaches of northern Wisconsin. The common ground between the two lies in the fact that getting there is far more exhilarating than finally standing at the summit or floating over the water. Still, a mountain peak rarely disappoints. Neither did the lost pond.
John Luthens is a freelance writer from Grafton, Wisconsin. His first novel, Taconite Creek, is available on Amazon or at www.cablepublishing.com or by contacting the author at Luthens@hotmail.com