The skies over Wall’s Pond were unusually gray this afternoon. I tend to visit on the kind of day when photographers come to take pictures for the admissions prospectus. The wind gusted to nearly 10 mph and, though the air was a balmy 55 degrees, the wind made it feel, if not even that much colder, markedly more bleak. But a poor day for Williams admissions means a great day for Clark admissions and the entire parking lot was full with cars, motor coaches, and school buses. I picked my way through them to the relative tranquility of the pond and found myself, aside from four mallards that cruised across the surface, the only visitor at the site.
I first took quick stock of the foliage. The big sugar maple by the entrance had but a few leaves left on its low branches. In a week nearly all the ash and beech along the western cow fence had lost whatever remained of their foliage. The only color left along that strip of woods came from four now-conspicuous sugar maples, each of which still had the bulk of its leaves. The signature bright yellow color now caught my eye and I began my rounds along the western edge, deciding to make my general notes first, if only to stave off the inevitable gustatory investigation I was to make on this visit.
As I rounded the northwestern corner of the pond, I noticed a small flock of nine Canada geese standing in the eastern meadow. I became anxious to examine them in closer quarters and approached quietly and slowly, treading lightly around the flooded shoreline. When I was about 20 yards away, and could make out the strips of white and black on their bodies, one goose made a loud honk and flapped mightily into the wind. The rest followed immediately and I jogged over to where they were just as the last goose leapt into flight. They took off into the southeast breeze, flying low over the museum. I watched as they turned east and flew off over Spring Street, until they disappeared altogether.
Once the geese were gone I decided it was high time to get a better taste of Wall’s Pond; literally. Not quite knowing where to start, I knelt down and pulled up a pinch of grass and, like the cows, started chewing away. Not so bad at first, I thought. Bland, with a very slight bitterness. But clean tasting and smelling. Ultimately unenjoyable, though, and sure enough I spat it out (the grass actually turned my saliva a nice shade of Kelly green) after about half a minute. I decided I was not of the constitution to eat goldenrod or mugwort, my allergies being bad enough already, so I turned next to a benign looking sedge in the bordering vegetation and popped a blade in mouth. Similarly tasteless, the sedge was a lot easier to chew. Only for a few moments, though, and I promptly spat the sedge out, too.
I made my way around the pond, sampling various small shrubs with non-poisonous-looking leaves, all to the same conclusion: “people food” is better. In a last ditch attempt to enjoy this enterprise, I pulled down a twig and needle cluster of white pine at the south end of the pond. I tried a few needles, finding not much flavor at all and then stuck the ripped end of the branch in my mouth to try and get some sap. At first I was subtly pleased by a crisp, piney flavor, vaguely sweet and quite refreshing. Within thirty seconds or so, though, the branch became intolerably bitter. I tore the twig from my mouth and rushed to the water’s edge. Braving the risk of giardia (we’ll know in a week or so if this was smart), I dipped my hands into the pond and drank. The pondwater nullified the bitterness from the pine and I remarked to myself how clear and tasty is was. A little dirty, to be sure, but it hit the spot. Cleansed, I walked back to my car. I had, by this time, garnered a few odd stares from passing Clark patrons and wanted nothing more than to sink my teeth into the Subway sandwich I had left waiting on the passenger seat and wipe clear with Frank’s Red Hot pepper sauce all that nature had had to offer.