Peeper's Pond

Elizabeth K. Haller
Graduate teaching assistant and Graduate student
English Language and Literature program
Central Michigan University, Mount Pleasant, Michigan
E-mail: ekhaller@hotmail.com

The heavy whooshing of the air conditioner does nothing to subdue the hard, crunching sound of my tires against the narrow dirt road. The length of a long, thick branch settled atop two smaller branches jetting about two feet out of the ground is the only defining parameter of the space allotted for vehicle parking. As I check the rearview mirror in a habitual, precautionary manner prior to pulling into a parking spot, I notice a billowy beige cloud trailing behind my car. Upon stepping out of the car, I am struck by two things: the beauty of my surroundings and the dry smell of the dirt cloud filling my nostrils. Except for the space just beyond the parking branch--wherein lies a small open field of grass with three trail markers, placed in a seemingly indiscriminant manner around its borders--large trees with plentiful green leaves encompass the scope of my sight. The trail markers are small, wooden poles with the names of their respective trails etched into them and color-coded for ease of reading and identification. The words 'Peeper's Pond' are etched in red on the marker to my left. Without hesitation, I decide to venture forward on this trail simply based on the humorous pleasure it gives me to say its name aloud. However, I quickly learn that the Peeper's Pond trail at the local nature center offers more than the pleasure of its name. While the sights and sounds of the trail provide the opportunity to witness portions of the environment not available to those living in the city, what makes a visit to Peeper's Pond highly enjoyable is ultimately the wonder of the view and the intriguing fear of what remains unseen.

A large Maple forms a natural archway over the entrance to the trail, as I pass from the penetrating heat of the sun into the cool, protective shade of the bountiful trees aligning the path. A mixture of soft, dark earth and woodchips makes for a pleasant cushy feeling beneath my hiking boot-clad feet. Aside from the trees, underbrush and a cornucopia of sounds surround me. To my left I hear a rustling; a small toad comes into view, hoping along the trail at my feet. Letting him pass freely before me I move on and come to a crossroads. A slight veer to the right maintains the Peeper's Pond trail, while straight ahead or a sharp turn to the left puts me on the way to the River Trail. With no river or pond as yet in sight, I stay faithful to Peeper's path. Before I continue onward, another toad crosses my path. I think to myself, "The Nature Center should invest in a 'Slow: Toad Crossing' sign." Anyone not looking may find the sole of their shoe making close contact with the small green creatures. While stopped, I notice a deep, guttural, not-so-far-off sound; however, it's not just one sound -- it's volumes of the same guttural tone. I realize it must be a chorus of toads occupying Peeper's Pond. I then open my ears to my surroundings and hear the calling of the birds filling the trees--some calls fluctuate between two notes in a melodic trill, while some use sharper tones and cover what seems every octave within seconds. The call of the birds and the guttural toads mix together to form a strange symphony of sound. The slight wind brushing against the tall Aspens forms a sound similar to tree limbs cracking all around me. It is at this point that I realize just how far away I am from the sounds of the city--the wheels on the pavement, horns of impatient drivers, and booming stereos of passing cars. I look up--curious as to whether the sound I hear is indeed cracking branches--and wonder if I shouldn't be on the lookout for falling debris. I surmise the area to be relatively safe and walk maybe a slight bit faster along the trail.

I meet someone coming up the trail in the opposite direction. It is a woman--perhaps in her early fifties--wearing a wide-brimmed straw sun hat, a red shirt with the visual essence of having been lived in, beige slacks with worn knees, and boots similar to my own. She carries a tripod in one hand and a heavy looking large camera with a long lens in the other. We exchange niceties, and she tells me there are wild turkeys in the underbrush just ahead. Sensing the obvious look of terror on my face, she says, "Don't worry, they try not to bother with people." I thank her, and we separate--her on her way home and me on my way to the Pond and, for all I know, certain doom.

I go up a slightly steep incline, and before me lies the purpose of my journey--Peeper's Pond. Covered with lily pads and what I can only term pond goo--a thick pea-green film--it's an intriguing sight. Atop the incline, I stop for a deep breath. The air is crisp; gone are the smells of exhaust and freshly cut grass that would normally encompass the air on a walk in the city. The rustling of my feet on the path must have excited some toads, because a great splashing sound came from the pond. As I looked in its direction, I saw ripples left behind where three toads had jumped in the water. To the left of the ripples I see a family of turtles sunning themselves on a large length of rock jetting out of the water. The rock is covered with the aforementioned goo--relatively camouflaging it from an overlooking eye. I think to myself, "How often in my everyday life will I get the opportunity to watch wild turtles?" I know it wouldn't be often, so I decide to make the most of my trek into nature. I have never actually seen a turtle in its natural habitat before--that is unless one can count behind glass at the pet store as a turtle's natural habitat. The turtles pay no attention to me, so I watch them for awhile. Horizontal yellow stripes distinguish themselves among the olive green coloring of the turtles' heads and feet. Complimenting the color of their skin, the shell of each turtle is olive green as well, and covered with deep yellow specks. Due to its relatively small size in comparison with the other turtles on the rock, the one I assume to be the mother slowly turns her head as her eyes follow the movement of her three baby turtles slowly scuttling about on the rock. The largest turtle on the rock--yet whose shell is merely the length and width of a saucer--sits perfectly still and seems oblivious to any movement surrounding him; I assume this turtle to be the father. While watching turtles can be quite captivating in an "I-like-to-watch-paint-dry" kind of way, I decide to move on and see what else Peeper's Pond has to offer.

I make my way down an incline to a not-so-stable looking dock across the pond. Because it is basically flush with the water, it is obviously intended for visitors to walk on this dock and get a closer look at the pond. The minute I step off land I regret my decision. The dock is completely unstable and wobbles underfoot. An image races through my head of me floating adrift on the dock as it dislodges and quickly floats to the middle of the pond. With no one around to rescue me I must either face the pond goo, jump in, and slowly trudge my way to land, or stay on the dock until someone finds me--which could take minutes or days. Considering my sudden realization that I failed to apply anti-bug spray prior to my venture into the wilderness, the wait would surely find me eaten alive by mosquitoes and various pond flyables. Either option is incredibly unappealing. I shake my head back to reality and see that the dock has not dislodged. I realize I am waving my arms like wings to stabilize myself, and I somehow manage to turn around, gathering enough courage to risk jumping off the dock and back to land. Once I'm sure I might make it in one leap, I hold my breath and go. Back on terra firma, I scurry up the hill, resume my position on the trail, and survey the area quickly--yet nonchalantly--to make sure no one witnessed what must have looked like my attempt at flight. I surmise I have been spared any public embarrassment and continue onwards.

I hadn't walked a few inches when I heard a close rustling in the hip-length grass. The rustling was unlike that made by the toads--it made a much larger sound. Whereas the toad's rustling caused a brief, soft sound in the underbrush, this new rustling caused a prolonged whooshing of the grass. Along with the whooshing sound came a slight, muffled, deep screech. I listened for another screech, and it came quickly. Not knowing what could possibly be making this sound, I recalled the mention of wild turkeys. I also recalled the statement that turkeys didn't bother much with people. However, the rustling was getting closer and closer, and I decided that if the sound was indeed caused by a turkey I did not want to be around to see its emergence. The screech that was once muffled was now clear and appeared to be to my immediate left. I jolt and turn completely around. Running down the path leading back to my car, I feel my heart pounding heavily in my chest. A mixture of earth and woodchips fly from my heels with every step and hit my calves with a slight stinging sensation. I hoped I wouldn't step on a toad, because I didn't concern myself with looking down. I came quickly to the crossroads, veered slightly to the left, sprinted the last stretch through the arched Maple and came to a sudden halt just outside the trail's entryway as a family of four approaches me on their way to experience the wonders of the Peeper's Pond trail. With the utmost feigned tact, I walk calmly through the family's presence; once they pass through the Maple entryway, I resume my frantic flight.

Still fearful of the wild turkey I was sure would hunt me down, I returned to my car, started the engine, and quickly pulled away from the parking branch. Upon completion of a swift 180-degree turn to leave the wonders of the wild, I took another habitual glance through the rearview mirror. Through the billowy brown cloud of dust I make out only the slightest outline of the large trees--still resonating their welcome. The small wooden posts-- signifiers of new adventures at every turn--are barely visible. As the trees and posts quickly fade in size with the speed of my departure, I realize the wonder of nature far outweighs my fear of what may be found rustling in the grass. However, as I accelerate through the exit, I surmise I shall wait until a deep frost before returning to experience the wonders of nature.

Academic Exchange Extra invites reader responses to any writings in this issue--especially articles advancing the scholarly debate of issues raised.

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