A March day in 2013: A freak storm had dumped a foot of snow on our mountain. Two days later, the strong spring sun transformed the snow into sparkling creeks and glistening pools. As I walked down into the creek valley behind our house, I heard an eerie racket, like thousands of clackers playing a wild symphony. I looked toward the small and serene pond that Bob had made in a bend of the creek. The water was rolling and frothing, embroiled in a mini-tempest. I took three steps closer and then, as if an invisible hand had abruptly dropped a veil over the scene, all was still. The pond returned to its looking glass state and was profoundly quiet. Nothing moved except the occasional water skimmer. No sound but a distant chattering squirrel. Then I glimpsed a small brown back just under the water surface. Then another. I slowly backed away.