![]() The mud came up to mid-calf on my waders. The trail, which is a public trail, was gouged out by the tires to a depth of two and three feet. A six wheel drive, monster tired tractor and a flat bed trailer. Yesterday, when I turned the corner on the rocky trail, I was confronted by my nightmare. ![]() At the Stone Bridge and the old logging dam. I have found fish above and below the pond while I waded the river, beneath the trees. And to my right, where the current is slow and the bottom is shallow, close to the bank, where insects fall from the reeds. And over there, ahead of the lily pads, there is a deep hole. Right there, ahead of that rock, in the run, where the river enters the pond. And I know where the Blue Heron will drop his long legs when he comes gliding in for his feed of perch. And when I hear the call of the Osprey I know exactly which tree and even which branch he will be sitting on. It is where a beaver crossed my line and where I have watched ducks raise their families. It is where I was teaching my children to flyfish and where they'd take large buckets and harvest frog spawn for their fish tank. One dark evening a firefly danced me home. I keep my eyes on the trail so as not to tread on an old toad who lives in the moss amongst the roots of a maple. I continue past the cutting and enter a canopy of maples, spruce, and pine, weaving my way between the rocks. The old timer that sold the stumpage on that lot once declared, at a public meeting, that it brought tears to his eyes when he first saw what the loggers had done to his land. I pass Dolly's Pond on my right and an old clearcut on my left. ![]() A dirt road follows the river for a very short distance and then narrows to a rocky trail. To get to the Mill Pond I leave the main road at a point where the river enters the sea. I go to give my thanks to the river, and to the fish, for keeping me sane. Broadcast on CBC national radio October 8 1998Įvery year, on the very last evening of trout season, I go to the Mill Pond.
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