Fern Glen Essays
A Time To Ponder
by Judy Sullivan

The road to the Fern Glen is unplowed from November to March, but that doesn't impede the lover of winter. One who fancies himself a 21st century Natty Bumpo can track the movements of human kind through the snow. (Sorry, no Nancy Drew. A gleaming new two-door coupe couldn't drive more than a few feet without becoming wedged in a snowbank.) Trace the deep, corrugated tread of winter boots, follow the long gliding grooves of cross country skis or read the story in the snow of one who communed with nature while relieving his bladder.

From spring through sweltering summer, the pond in the Glen enticed visitors. When living things therein lie, even the most humble puddle casts this same inexplicable lure. Children in the IES summer ecology camp, employees striding by on lunchtime constitutionals and camera laden tourists all paused en route to their important destinations to exclaim over the tiny lives in this small body of water.

As the last autumn leaves withered and fell, walking became more duty than delight. Interest plummeted along with the mercury. We warmed to sedentary pleasures of home and hearth. Yet, the few hardy souls that did venture out of doors during last week's subzero cold were treated to a rare sight. Snow covered the vestiges of summer in undulating humps, as if a wintry dog had skidded across a white carpet. Icicle fingers dipped into the subdued ripples of the creek. Hemlock boughs hung heavy with rime...and there, amidst all of the trappings of winter, the Fern Glen pond was an oasis of spring...or springs. Open water, without a trace of ice, created a mist to vie the Scottish moors. A sauna of steam drifted above its unruffled surface. The effect was haunting, mysterious. One could faintly hear the call of Heathcliff for his Catherine, or the baying of the Baskerville hound.

In the waning months of last year, a torrent of rain made ponds aspire to lakes and rills to rivers. Water surged in swamp and sump. As the rain subsided, it sank into the soil and began to move, as is the way with water. Where frost could penetrate, the ground froze. However, beneath that line the water flowed. Eluding the grip of winter, it flows still. As it makes its unhurried way downslope to the creek, we mark its progress. Its relatively torrid temperature of 55° F warms the pond, of which some evaporates. Winter's frigid air holds less moisture, and as the warm vapor rises it condenses into a visible cloud. In poetic essence, it takes its breath away, as it does ours.

Questions, comments, or other feedback to Judy Sullivan.