Day 34: One of the main attractions in Eatonville's Smallwood Park is a man-made pond approximately half an acre in size. This tiny pothole of water is stocked annually and is designated "Fishing for juveniles only." The wording makes me laugh. I've always wondered what type of bait is required to catch a ten-year old. In any event, the little pond usually gets fished out in the few weeks following Opening Day, but when the human anglers disappear, the real experts move in. Heron doesn't care if he catches a fine rainbow or a scrawny frog as long as it satisfies his hunger. I don't think this bird was having much luck, or perhaps he knew something I didn't. He certainly didn't want to give up his spot on the bank as I edged my way closer. His attention was on something, to be sure. I clicked my tongue and made squeaking noises to entice him to look up, but only succeeded when I quacked like a duck. He gave me a disdainful glare and returned to his task, only flying away when I got within about twenty feet.
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