The Ghost of Bodwel Pond

They say the strangest things can trigger a memory in a man. I’m not “old” by most standards, but I’m old enough that my beard has gone entirely white, and sometimes my mind drifts faster than I’d like to admit. Today, it was just a simple glance out the window while driving. I noticed a small, nondescript pond by the roadside, and suddenly, the steering wheel in my hands vanished.

I wasn’t a grown man in a car anymore. I was thirteen years old, standing on the muddy banks of Bodwel Pond, though back then, we only ever called it “The Muckhole”.

The Muckhole was a temperamental little body of water. It had no inlet or outlet, so it lived and died by the mercy of the rain. In a dry New England summer, the waterline would retreat, exposing the dark, silty ribs of the shore. It was never clean enough to swim in the name “Muckhole” wasn’t exactly a marketing ploy, but for a group of boys with nothing but time, it was our kingdom.

From April to October, as the frost retreated and then eventually crept back, we were regulars. When the water was low, we’d hunt the big bullfrogs that sunned themselves on the half-sunken logs under the trees. Everyone had their favorite spot. Some liked the stretch right off the road because it had the most shore, but the “pro” spot was in the back, tucked under the shade of a massive tree. You could drop your fishing line, sit in the cool grass, and lose an entire day to the rhythm of the water.

But as the seasons turned and the New England February air turned sharp enough to cut, the Muckhole transformed.

The frogs went silent, and the “Pond Ice Hockey Championship” began. We’d wait with agonizing patience for an adult to walk the ice and declare it thick enough to hold us. Once we got the green light, the real work started. We probably spent more time shoveling snow to create a rink than we actually spent playing, but we didn’t care.

If you’ve never experienced a New England February, you haven’t truly known cold. I can still feel the sensation of shoving my feet into stiff, frozen leather skates while sitting in a snowbank. It was brutal, but the moment you hit the ice, the pain vanished. We played “sun-up to dusk,” multiple games going at once, scoring goals between two piles of snow that served as our posts.

The best part, though, wasn’t the winning goal or an end-to-end rush. It was the walk home. We’d trudge through the twilight, exhausted and frozen, but we didn’t feel the cold. We were too busy reviewing every play, bragging about our saves, and laughing with our buddies.

The pond I drove by today isn’t the Muckhole, but for a split second, I could almost smell the mud and feel the bite of the winter wind on my face.

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