It
wasn't long into my first assignment as a wildlife officer in western North
Carolina that I realized that the government and its officials weren't held in high esteem. This was in 1985 - long before the anti-government gained momentum on a national scale. Many still
talked of “the government taking our land” to form the Great Smoky Mountain
National Park (while some land was taken through eminent domain, many were also
compensated for
their land). The Trail of Tears wasn't some distant event from history - the Tsali access area kept history current. And the US Forest Service was widely criticized
for everything from cutting too many trees, not cutting enough trees, to
locking up roads to inhibit access to “our land” (it was pointed out more than
once that the “US” in the Forest Service name also spelled "us" – "that means
the land is ours").
Sandwiched
in with the park service and forest service, game wardens didn’t stand a
chance. Our sergeant warned us away from
any socializing with anyone that hunted or fished. “They will screw you over,” he warned. Since everyone in the county seemed to hunt and fish that
pretty much eliminated the prospect of finding a friend.
But,
that first fall I found one family that was different. They spoke in support of wildlife management
and understood the benefits of successional forests. I saw them often on the lake and up and down
the trout streams. They worked with the
fishing club to establish brush piles for fish on the lake. They were one of the few parties of bear
hunters that didn’t go silent when we drove up.
Even the ole sarge admitted they were pretty good guys.
I
had worked nearly a year when I saw the dad of this group and one of his grown
sons out on the lake. It was late spring
and the smallmouth bass were turned on – everyone was catching them. I was working from boat to boat when I spied my
friends. I had seen their licenses and
safety equipment before, so I just pulled alongside to say hello.
Nothing
seemed abnormal. They asked if I had
seen many fish and what the other anglers were using to catch fish. After several minutes I asked, “How ‘bout
ya’ll? Are you catching anything?” There
was a moment of silence that was a bit uncomfortable for us all.
The
daddy nodded to the livewell and said, “We’ve caught a few.”
I
opened the lid and quickly assessed there were more than two limits. A quick count aloud confirmed they were four
or five fish over.
I
figured there had to be a really good explanation. Maybe one of the other brothers had been with
them and they had just dropped him off.
Maybe they just lost count. I
couldn’t imagine them intentionally breaking the law. They were my friends – almost to the buddy
stage. I guess the daddy could see the
gears turning as I tried to make sense out of the situation. He finally broke what seemed like a year of
silence.
“I
know it looks bad for us, but we didn’t intend on keeping ‘em.”
I
guess I looked even more puzzled.
“You
know how the fishing is pretty poor on the other side of the lake?”
I
nodded. Everyone knew that.
“Well,
we are stocking these fish over there.”
As
I write it now that explanation seems utterly ridiculous. But at the moment, as my mind reeled, it sort
of, in a weird way, made sense. They
had, after all, helped with all manners of restoration work to improve fish
habitat. They had given me violation
reports on poachers. They had even made me
feel welcome in a county where there is no red carpet welcoming government
officials. I considered them friends. Surely, I thought, they wouldn’t violate the
law and then lie to me.
“This
looks bad,” I offered more weakly than I liked.
“But, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.” I pulled away uncertain of what just
happened.
A
few weeks later the uncertainty grew into clarity when an officer from the neighboring county called and told me he
had charged the father/son duo. He
caught them pulling off the lake with a livewell of bass that once again
exceeded the creel limit. I guess they
were shooting for genetic diversity in their “stocking.”
That
episode swung me hard in the other direction.
I never really trusted anyone after that incident. Years later that mindset led me to cite a mom out
fishing with her family on Mother’s Day for not having a license – she should
have known better and if she didn’t, well she did after “holding one.” Or the time I thumbed through a Bible while
searching a car, thinking what a perfect place that would be to hide marijuana.
I
recall talking with an administrator who had received a compliant about a boating check about the complexity of a wildlife
officer’s job. I talked him through a routine boat check step by step beginning with the approach – 10 or more things that
were taking place almost simultaneously.
I said, “And all the while, you have to wonder, is this guy going to try
and kill me.” He laughed and said,
“Seriously, how often do you think that.”
I explained that survival dictated that every encounter be viewed that
way because as sure as an officer drops their guard, the worse may happen. Keep your head down literally or figuratively you'll never see it coming.
Maybe it won’t be a life or death encounter.
Maybe the officer will roll up on their friend who feeds the officer a BS
story that the officer believes and leaves him feeling foolish for the rest of his life.
************************************************************************
For
an interesting look at the different types of wildlife officers, I suggest this paper
by Craig J. Forsyth.
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