Zoro's Field: My Life in the Appalachian Woods

Johnson's Pond

JOHNSON S POND A lake is the landscape's most beautiful and expressive feature. It is earth's eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature. HENRY DAVID THOREAU "The Ponds," Walden met Walt Johnson many years before I moved into the cabin he had once inhabited next to Zero's field. I was going to school in Greenville, South Carolina, and had borrowed a friend's car and driven up into the Greenville watershed to try to locate an enormous bridge I had been told had been built over the Green River, sansroad, somewhere in the vicinity of the town of Saluda. I had taken Old Macedonia Road, missed the bridge, lost my way, and found myself in the dirt yard of an old mountain house that sat on the edge of a small,jade-colored lake. No sooner had I driven up into the yard than an old man emerged from the quaint board-and-batten house. This was WaltJohnson, who, in his late sixties, was living alone in hisfamily home-place. After asking directions to the "big bridge between two mountains in the middle of nowhere" (the Peter Guice Memorial Bridge on 1-26 between Saluda and Flat Rock), I was invited into the house and introduced to hisbloodhound, who answered to the name of Mac.After Ihad drunk a glassof springwater and answered a lot of questions as to who I was, where Iwas from, and what my intentions were, Walt took me back outside, where webegan to walk around the eastern perimeter of the lake. Immediately I was struck by the quiet calm and serene beauty of the place. At the time, I had not, as yet, been to Thoreau's Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts. But as I walked around the perimeter of this pristine green body of water reflecting the color of the pines, with Walt chattering and giggling at his own jokes, I thought to myself: "Walden Pond! A cabin sitting on the edge of a perfect pond surrounded by nothing but nature—this iswhat Thoreau's haven away from the world must look like." And it was at that moment 29 I that the oldJohnson home-place and its body of quiet water became my Walden Pond. During the three years I remained in Greenville following that serendipitous day,I guess I spent more time with Walt and Mac on Johnson's Pond than I did at school. My studies seemed almost insignificant in comparison with what I was learning in the woods and on the pond not far from the Green River. It turned out that Walt was an unlikely mentor, but despite his puckish nature, he was a teacher nonetheless. I learned about pond life and small watershed ecosystems in ways that I could never have learned in introductory biology courses at school, asWalt,Mac,and I searched the underbrush and the grass around the pond for duck eggs, which would, with grits, make up our morning meals. For dinner we often had catfish I'd caught on a long bamboo pole baited with worms. Walt would laugh as I cut my fingers on the fins while trying to skin the catfish with a pair of pliers. In this and other work around the place, I became something of a willing servant to Walt's whims. I think he enjoyed watching my awkward attempts to masterbasic life skills long held by the mountain people of this region, and he would often tease me mercilessly when I made a fool of myself, time and time again, trying to do the simplest of chores. But it wasn't long before I could catch and fry up a large catfish that was at least edible and seemed good enough to satiate our appetites, excluding Mac,of course, who had no taste forfish. Looking back on these first daysatJohnson's Pond, I can appreciate Walt for the characterhe was. Iremember that at some point early on, I brought a lovely blond girl, whom Iwas dating at the time, with me on one of my quickgetawaysto Saluda. No sooner had we driven into the yard than Walt had us inside the house, offering us a meal of corn bread, boiled potatoes, and black-eyedpeas.Ashe dished up the plates for our late-afternoon supper, he turned to me with a twinkle in his eye and asked me whether I'd ever eaten "red okra." I hadn't and told...