It was the kind of fall day that sits just outside the open window, taunting you with crisp air and cool sunshine. The wind-whipped corner of a curtain beckons, whispering, “Step away from the keyboard and live a little, moron!”

I pushed back from my writing desk, fetched my rod and tackle from the pole barn, and high-tailed it over to the pond, where the floating dock awaited.

The water was high for this time of year, thanks to a recent storm that had dumped several inches of rain on St. Peters Church Road in just a few hours. The culverts had done their job: funneling the torrential run-off to the waiting pond; recharging the water with invigorating oxygen; and delivering a flotilla of flood-borne insects.

It was late morning; the pond was still muddy from the storm; the water was cool from the lengthening nights; the fish would be in the early stages of their annual winter slow-down. In other words, the catch was sure to be lousy.

Nevertheless, there was a spring in my step as I arranged my gear on the dock. The adamantine sky told me that the fishing would be splendid, even if all I caught were twigs and weeds.

I started by fishing for bluegill near the dock with bait — breadballs, to be exact, as close to a sure thing as there is for our pond. Whether it was the variety of bread — seeded rye, all we had in the house — or the low visibility, the bluegill just weren’t interested.

I experimented with different depths and casts, presenting those breadballs with the understated professionalism of a waiter in a four-star restaurant.

Nothing.

I took a break from fishing to study the shoreline, which was alive with woodpeckers, squirrels, and sunning turtles, who seemed to have gotten the same memo about enjoying the day. There was movement at the edge of my peripheral vision, but by the time I refocussed my attention, the animal was gone. All that remained was a tree stump.

Still, there was something suspicious about that stump. I kept an eye on it, even as I switched to an artificial lure, a small white rubber grub with wiggling tendrils. White, for high visibility; grub for a likely snack to fall from above; wiggly tendrils for the promise — from a bluegill’s point of view — of fantastic mouth-feel and sheer deliciousness.

I went back to work with the new lure, lashing the water with picture-perfect casts.

Nothing.

Still, I couldn’t complain. The woods around me echoed with the petty squabbles of the animal kingdom. The sun beamed; the breezes cooled. Everything was in perfect balance.

Then the tree stump moved. It happened suddenly: the smallest shift to the left, and then, once again, stillness. If I hadn’t been looking right at it, I would never have noticed.

That’s when I knew I was dealing with a green heron.

We see more than our fair share of great blue herons on St. Peters Church Road, thanks to the pond and nearby Shermans Creek. But there’s a special place in our hearts for the pair of green herons who take up residence with us each summer.

They like to hang out in the tiny pond by the pole barn, where the frogs are plentiful and the wading is easy. We’ll look out the bathroom window and see the male or female knee-deep in the water, stalking.

I wouldn’t call them “green,” exactly, despite the name. Maybe there’s a tinge of green at the edge of their wings and on their caps, but the predominant colors are reddish brown, gray, and white.

In other words, the palette of a pond-side stump.

I kept an eye on the heron as I worked the white grub along the shore.

And then, on the umpteenth cast, a bungled job that landed in the branches of a sassafras tree, and from there, dropped down to the leaf-strewn muck at water’s edge …

A strike!

The young smallmouth leaped as it fought, bouncing across the water like a skipping stone. I reeled him in, trying to act cool in case the heron was watching. He was a healthy little guy, ten inches from lip to tail, and maybe fourteen ounces. After I pulled out the hook, I held him up for a moment for the heron’s inspection.

“Ha!” I said as I released him. Olshan, one; heron, zero.

The heron didn’t seem impressed, but the next time I looked over, he’d shifted a few feet.

After half an hour or so, there was another bungled cast; another explosive strike; and another baby bass. This one was smaller. Maybe four ounces, soaking wet.

Nevertheless, I held that one up, too. “Ha!” I said. Olshan, two; heron, zero.

The heron tip-toed for a few feet, then turned back into a stump.

My back was getting sore; work was calling me back to the house. I tore up the rest of the slice of rye and scattered it on the water as an offering to the sleepy bluegill. Maybe they’d eventually acquire a taste for rye.

“You have no idea what I’m doing, do you?” I asked the heron. (Yes, I talk to birds when I’m alone.)

That evening, as I thought about the two anglers on the pond — man and bird — I marveled at our differences. Man: a flailing fish-releaser, user of tools and bookish knowledge, waster of precious energy in the pursuit of amusement. Bird: a silent stalker, user of stealth and instinct, ruthlessly efficient executioner, supremely accomplished hunter.

Of course, like all romantic comparisons of man and beast, this one turned out to be somewhat exaggerated. Turns out that green herons are among the rarest of birds — in fact, the rarest of all animals — in that they sometimes use tools when they hunt. It’s not unusual to see a green heron scattering leaf litter on the water — or, for that matter, bits of stale bread — to attract fish, which they then spear and swallow.

So the green heron would have perfectly understood why I was scattering rye bread.

The only thing that might have puzzled him was why I didn’t eat my catch.

Let’s see: wasteful flailing; refusal to eat the spoils of the hunt.

He probably thought it was some crazy new diet.

This column was published in the Perry Co Times on 04 October 2012

For more information, please contact Mr. Olshan at writing@matthewolshan.com