The Pond and the Backwaters

[Audit: Biological Interest]

Upper Pond shoreline — Looking toward the northwestern shore of the Upper Pond, feeling the cool autumn air.

In October 2023, the silence of the backwaters was shared. I was joined by a close colleague, Dr. Cole, for a weekend of R&R. We weren't there to conduct a survey; we were there to fish.

But the taxonomist’s eye doesn’t turn off just because the rod is in hand. As we paddled the upper pond and backwaters, we found ourselves looking past the surface tension and into the 'biological interest' being credited back to the watershed.

The Green Debt

Freshwater sponges on timber — Indicator species: Freshwater sponges (likely Spongilla lacustris) encrusting submerged timber. Their vibrant green hue—a result of symbiotic algae—and presence in these headwaters are definitive benchmarks of high water clarity and stable pH levels.

While paddling the backwaters, we found the shoreline encrusted with freshwater sponges. These are not mere "growths"; they are the most sensitive witnesses we have.

The Spongilla lacustris—vibrant, green, and demanding—clung to the submerged timber in colonies that served as a definitive benchmark. Their color, a symbiotic gift from the algae within, requires a clarity that the "anaerobic carpet of silt" from the 1940s once forbade.

Seeing them clinging to the fallen wood—the very material my great-grandfather once subdued with snubbing ropes—is a quiet confirmation. The sponges don't offer metaphors; they simply exist where the water is finally honest enough to sustain them. The recovery is outpacing the memory of the extraction.

Fever in the Shallows

Native Brook Trout spawning colors — A native Brook Trout (Salvelinus fontinalis) exhibiting intensified spawning colors. Their continued presence here is a vibrant testimony to the cold, well-oxygenated refuge provided by the Little Salmon River Watershed.

A native Brook Trout pulled one from the backwaters—a physical verification of the account. They are here, holding in the shadows of the bank and moving through a system that has begun its own slow recovery. We can already envision the coming season when the water cools and their flanks intensify into a frantic, spawning red, finally utilizing the natural gravels this reach has held since the ice retreated.

They are the biological heartbeat of this refuge. If the slag glass I found as a child was a "frozen scar," these trout are the new skin. Their presence is a vibrant testimony to the cold, well-oxygenated refuge provided by the watershed, a stubborn pulse that refuses to be silenced by the history of the flayed land.

The Cedar Sentinel

Cedar lean-to base — The view from the 'stern' of our base of operations. The lean-to itself is built of local cedar—a material nod to the great tracts of old-growth that once defined this watershed before they were harvested for the Malone sawmills at the turn of the last century.

Our base of operations, a lean-to of local cedar, stands as a material nod to the old-growth tracts that once fed the Malone sawmills.

Sitting in the stern of the boat, I felt the history of the timber at my back—tamed and squared into a shelter—while my eyes were on the timber beneath the surface, being reclaimed by the sponges. This weekend wasn't about data points. It was about the child’s feverish anticipation of a rising trout or a hidden sponge colony.

Whether it is the microscopic silicate structure of a sponge or the lightning strike of a native brookie, the watershed is no longer a ledger of extraction. It is a living laboratory of resilience, and I am here in this late, deliberate season of my life, recording the scrawl of a world that is finally healing itself.

Next: The Drowned Line →

Disclaimer: Information in Field Scrawl is for informational and educational purposes only. Observations reflect personal experience and are not intended as professional management plans or ecological mandates.