When my Recorder phone, I picked it up, put it to my right ear and glanced at the clock hanging high on the north wall. Half-past eight, Peter Mallett calling.

The affable Mallett — card-carrying union pipe-fitter, conservation gadfly, Millers River Fishermen’s Association founder, and world-class gabaholic –sounded pleased to hear the, “Sports, Gary Sanderson,” on the other end of the line.

“Hey, Gary, how ya doin’, Peter Mallett here.”

He didn’t need to identify himself. I immediately recognized his raspy, high-energy voice, spiced by that North Quabbin workingman’s twang. Although we’ve never met eye-to-eye, we have built a good telephone relationship over the years and, always eager for column fodder, I could smell it.

“Hey, Peter, what’s new? Stayin’ busy?

“Oh yeah. Workin’ on a braised-bear roast at the gun club now, and we had a helluva spaghetti feed for the MRFA. Everything was homemade, including my own meatballs. It went well. All the money will go to trout stocking.”

“So is it the braised bear you’re callin’ about?”

“Hell no. I don’t need that headache. We’re almost sold out.”

Then it was apparent to me that Mallett wasn’t contacting me about anything pressing, just wanted to shoot the breeze. And, oh my, can Peter Mallett talk when he cranks up that jaw of his.

Our chat began, as usual, with his MRFA, approaching 200 members now, always raising money for Millers trout stocking, his passion. He’s burning brush on the land he cleared for a private hatchery behind his rural New Salem home. Imagine that. His own backyard hatchery, built solely to improve other anglers’ recreation on the Millers River he worships. It’ll soon hold fish. Many fish. No strings attached. Pure altruism. That’s Peter.

Out of the blue, our conversation moved to hornpout, bottom-feeding pond fish more commonly known as bullheads, something I had never before heard Mallett mention. It’s a good-eating fish that many old-timers seek in their summer travels. The problem is, according to Mallett, “hornies” are getting scarce and no one except Mallett seems to understand why. To him, it’s a matter of simple logic.

“All these guys filling up five-gallon pails ought to think about it a minute,” he said. “When they’re cleaning a bucketful of those fish to eat, how many have eggs in them? Therein lies the problem. You can’t take the eggs out of the pond and expect there to be fish. It’s not rocket science.”

Before the hornpout topic took off, I gently nudged our conversation North to Warwick, where an enraged Mallett had complained last summer about what he perceived to be irresponsible logging around Clubhouse Pond and Mount Grace. After publishing his one-source tirade, I received an irate call from the forester who oversaw the projects and called my piece “irresponsible,” among other things. I defended myself, responding, “I didn’t say you raped the forest, Peter Mallett did. Maybe you should take it up with him.” A civil discussion ensued, ending in a friendly tone.

Well, a couple of months later, at a Historic Deerfield Tavern Night, I got talking to Beth the tavern wench (just kidding), who happens to live in Warwick. She described the mess loggers left behind as “disgusting” and said she and her neighbors agreed with everything Mallett said in print.

“We like Peter Mallett in Warwick,” she said. “He’s a folk hero.”

Mallett seemed pleased, not surprised, to hear he had a Warwick fan club.

“Yeah, I knew those people were angry. After your article ran they put up a big sign that read ‘Mt. DisGrace,’ and I made sure a picture of it found its way into the Athol Daily News. That was beautiful. Got the message across loud and clear.”

From there our meandering dialogue found its way to a familiar subject, that of local cougar sightings.

“Loved that article you wrote last week about the Deerfield mountain lion sighting,” he said, before spewing uncomplimentary, if not disrespectful, accusations about state wildlife officials. He then passed along a rumor about the photo someone took of a big cat lying in a Royalston tree and shared a personal big-cat experience from many years ago in Quabbin country. Then, it was on to the beaver issue that’s festering along the outside edge of his big toenail. Rural Bay Staters are getting mighty tired of the flood damage being caused by those shiny black critters multiplying like flies on a manure pile since trapping was outlawed 11 years ago. Mallett wanted to chime in.

“Did I ever tell you about that beaver meeting we had at the gun club with a speaker from the state?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Well, I stirred ’em up’ when I stood and asked the speaker if it would be OK to build a beaver pen behind the club so that we could live-trap ’em and store ’em there. Then, when we gathered enough to fill up a trailer-truck, I told him I’d rent the truck out of my own pocket and deliver the beavers straight to Boston Common, where everyone loves ’em.

“The speaker didn’t think I was funny, and I think there were some at the club who agreed. But hey, it’s like I told ’em, ‘Those poor beavers know they’re loved in Boston and they’ve been tryin’ to get there on their own. The problem is there’s too many roads to cross and they’re gettin’ run over.’ I just want to help ’em get where they want to be, where they’re loved.”

How can you not love it? Pure Peter Mallett. Tears of laughter flowing in the isles.

A rabble-rouser with a sense of humor.

The man inspired a belly-laugh at my desk months later. I only wish I had been there.

Pure Peter. Classic.