Pennsylvania Angler & Boater - January/February 2013 - 38

The Gray at the Bottom of the Pond
by Ron Kuhn
The red and rust colored Farmall moved slowly down the lane pushing the fresh snow ahead and to the side of the dirt road. Smoke bellowed from the farmhouse chimney as the visitors made their way up the driveway. The farmer slid off the machine to greet Ethan and his father Jack. “After some fish today?” asked the farmer. “Hoping to catch some panfish, if it’s still ok to fish on your pond,” the older angler questioningly stated. “Absolutely, you know you don’t have to ask,” the farmer said as he headed towards the barn for the morning milking. The two anglers trudged through the snow down the hill, behind the old bank barn to the edge of the woods. The farm pond lay covered with ice and snow at the bottom of the hollow. Local legend had it that at the bottom of the old pond lay a stolen confederate army wagon that the locals sent down the hill from the barn where it sunk with black powder and supplies. Every time Ethan’s line became snagged, he couldn’t help but think of the wagon resting on the bottom with dozens of hooks hanging from its sides. In early May, Ethan and his dad hunted morel mushrooms in the woods, east of the pond. Fried bluegills and mushrooms didn’t last long on the dinner table at their home. The frozen ground wouldn’t produce morels for this trip, but the two hoped for some bluegills on the table that evening. The Carter tackle shop was busy tying flies for the upcoming fishing season, but mealworms and ice fishing rigs were the most popular during the months of January and February. Ethan enjoyed the time away from the tackle shop where he and his dad labored through most of the fall working on new baits and tackle. The relaxing silence on the pond, with an occasional animal noise from the barn, made it difficult for Jack to stay alert as he sat bundled in his insulated coveralls. A blue jay flew across the pond from the woods as the sky turned from a sunny morning into a cloudy afternoon with the temperatures dropping noticeably. With enough fish to fry for that evening’s meal and some for the farmer and his wife, Jack and Ethan headed up the hill towards the farmhouse. “Any luck boys?” the farmer asked as he opened to the old door. Jack held the screen door open as he showed the bucket of fish. “Let them in!” came a shout from the kitchen where an older woman stood at the sink. The farmer sat at the kitchen table, which was made from chestnut trees cut on the farm several generations ago. Ethan listened to stories about the Civil War wagon and giant catfish that were caught in the pond. As many wintery evenings before, Jack and Ethan found themselves eating dinner with the farmer and his wife before heading home on snow covered back roads.
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Pennsylvania Angler & Boater • January/February 2013

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Pennsylvania Angler & Boater - January/February 2013

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