As MassWildlife’s Western District stocking crews deposit netfuls of large, fresh and frisky trout along the upper Deerfield River this week, diehards are still ice-fishing at secluded upland ponds nearby. Well, at least I think there’s still enough ice left up there.

“I hope so,” growled my buddy Killer, still a hard-charger at 72, when I called Wednesday morning to double check. “I’m getting ready as we speak. The boys will be here at 11 with a couple dozen shiners.”

Even back a couple of weeks ago I was surprised to learn the ice was still safe at a place not that far from home which my dad affectionately calls the boondocks. There was good reason for my skepticism. On a March 4 trip to Bridgewater State University for a Northeastern Anthropological Association conference, a man could have taken his motor boat or canoe for a spin on any of the lakes and ponds we passed on Route 2 east of Orange/Athol. Yes indeed, open water in central and eastern Massachusetts and 16 inches of ice still covering western Franklin County ponds … a month later. Maybe that’s why they call it God’s country, huh?

Anyway, this week’s fishing tale goes back to midweek last, when the Ole Killer called to chat as he so often does after 3 p.m. He had a good yarn to spin that day, having just returned from a well-known pond not far from the southern Vermont border. He, his geriatric friend and the Killer’s 20-something grandson were there ice-fishing for perch and largemouth bass, which had been hitting pretty good after a long, dormant winter. Just the previous week, the trio had pulled a nice 19-inch bass and a tasty 12-inch yellow perch through the ice. That and many pickerel, which Killer and crew aren’t fond of, even though he does savor the liver and roe, which he calls health food. Leave it up to the Killer to make use even of undesirables.

“What good are they, otherwise?” reasons the Killer. “I open them up and they’re full of small perch. Plus they eat our shiners, which aren’t cheap. When we catch them, the legal ones don’t go back into the pond.”

Which reminded him of another matter troubling him about this pond located not far from one of the old line of French and Indian War forts positioned as guard posts along Massachusetts’ northern border from Northfield to eastern New York State. Yep, after a spontaneous, informative pond-side conversation with a ranger, the Killer was all stirred up about trout-stocking at the pond.

“I spoke to him, nice guy, for quite a while and he told me they stock the pond with brook trout,” he said. “The problem is that the pond is shallow and warm, never gets deeper than 10 or 12 feet, and the trout can’t make it through the summer. That’s why I’ve never caught a trout ice-fishing. Not one in decades. Why the hell would they stock trout in a pond that can’t support them?”

Hmmmm? Good point, Killer. But let’s not go there now. Back to the tale at hand. Why stir up the fellas?

Anyway, back the hilltown tale, it seems that last week, after boring holes with a power auger and setting up, the boys were answering their tip-ups’ flags and pulling many a pickerel through the ice, the legal ones of which were lying around on the ice for future attention. When Killer for no particular reason looked up into the sky, he noticed a speck of a soaring bird of prey high, high above. Shielding his eyes from a blinding sun in a bright blue sky to get a better look through cool, midday mountain air, he could clearly see a white tail and head.

“Hey boys,” he yelled, pointing up, “look at that bald eagle circling way up there. I bethca he can see our pickerel.”

He soon realized that the eagle was slowly descending closer and closer to the playing field, and he focused on the decent. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before the majestic bird had dropped to a height not far above the treetops overreaching the shoreline, eventually landing in a big pine tree across the way. Apparently, this bird knew the drill in the Berkshires and was more than willing to wait for tasty leftovers after the boys’ departed.

Well, a gnarly old poker player and trapper, to boot, Ole Killer can indeed be a patient man, but not in this case, especially with young legs in the party. Curious, he decided it was time for action, so he called out to his grandson:

“Hey, Kid (he calls most everyone Kid, even family), “why don’t you pick up a few of those pickerel and walk out a hundred yards or more toward that eagle? When you get out there far enough, throw the fish as far as you can and we’ll see what happens.”

The kid saluted and marched to the friendly order, picking up a few pickerel and lugging them out to the middle of the pond through deep, heavy, slushy snow, to a spot far away from his fishing buddies. There he threw the fish, one at a time, out toward the alert eagle, which stood its ground on a sturdy limb t’other side of the pond. Mission accomplished, the “kid” walked back to where he started, watching and waiting.

“I can’t believe I didn’t bring my cell phone that day,” said the old Killer. “I always bring it with me but didn’t that day. It has a camera that often comes in handy. Although far away, I know I could have gotten something if I had my camera.”

Oh well, camera or no camera, what unfolded was a spectacle to behold. The big, beautiful, opportunistic eagle stood tall, cocked its head, stretched its wings and took flight, gliding gracefully down toward its free, waiter-furnished meal. Killer’s maneuver had worked to perfection.

“It was amazing to watch,” he recalled. “That bird never landed. It just glided, reached down with its legs and picked one of those pickerel up with its talons in one fell swoop. It might have scraped the ice a little, not much, before flying back to a tree, landing and eating it. The bird repeated the process two more times, staying just out of harm’s way too eat as we kept an eye on it and our tips.”

That spectacle, combined with pickerel livers and roe and fresh filet of bass and perch had made Killer’s day, and he was proud of a good deed done for a bird that symbolizes American freedom.

“I do hope we didn’t do anything illegal,” ever-careful Killer wondered aloud.

No, no, very doubtful. After all, I’ve known and hunted with Ole Killer for many years, and often make time to effusively praise his solemn commitment to following game laws to the letter.

Yes sir, the man’s as clean as the mountain air he so often breathes, the spring oozing from that high, shaded, mossy ledge on the cold north face of the ridge.

One never knows when a topic tossed into the city square for public discussion will attract interest and spur feedback like last week’s subject — beech trees — did.

Who knows why? It just did.

Among the folks of both genders chiming in were a card-carrying historian/archaeologist, a couple of foresters — one a photographer and poet on the side — a fiery conservation activist, and a couple of longtime hilltown readers, both natives who grew up around and explored woods containing big old beech trees and distinctive, elephant-skinned beech groves suitable for framed display on canvas.

The first comment came from historian/archaeologist friend Peter A. Thomas, who was at the time putting the finishing touches on his late 98-year-old father’s tasteful memorial service I attended Saturday at the closed congregational church of my South Deerfield ancestors. Addressing what I had written about my association of beech trees with upland landscapes, he said he too thought of  beeches as  uplands trees because he  often encountered them brightening high, lonely Vermont ridges during his days as head of the archaeology department at the University of Vermont.  However, he said, late Yale forest ecologist  Tom Siccama — who earned a doctorate from UVM in 1967 and taught in Yale’s prestigious School of Forestry & Environmental Studies for 40 years — had, during extensive deed research of ancient Green Mountain State parcels, discovered many beech trees noted as markers in lowland boundary descriptions. So, beeches are not upland trees in the historical narrative.

Although I could not find the specific report Thomas referred to, likely Siccama’s UVM dissertation, I was able to pull up more than enough online Siccama references to beech trees to accept my friend’s recollection as  fact. Not only that, but the online journey gave me a handle on the postglacial distribution and abundance of beech trees in the Northeastern archaeological record. Beeches first appear in the North American pollen records  24,000 years ago in the Southeast before creeping north all the way to the Great Lakes and Quebec as early as 7,000 years ago. By 1800, beech trees were as ubiquitous and common in the Northeastern forests as they are today.

The local ubiquity of beech trees is clear when reading email commentary by female readers Muriel Antes of Conway and Johanna Pratt of Ashfield, both of whom grew up around and held special reverence for them as youths. Antes, who grew up in Heath, remembers the woods of her farm “blessed with” beech groves, where she annually gathered tasty beechnuts.

“Any nuts that weren’t eaten on my way to the kitchen were incorporated by my mother into cakes and cookies,” she wrote.

As for Pratt, who cited three special beech trees in woods she deer-hunts and identified the beech as one of her “beloved trees,” she wrote that a salient memory takes her back to a chair-lift ride with her dad many years ago on an unnamed New Hampshire ski resort.

“It seems like 100 years ago that he pointed out a tall beech tree as we glided by and said, ‘See that bear tree?’” she wrote. “There were clear bear-claw hieroglyphics right up the side of that big beech tree. The scars displayed a crescent pattern where the bear had climbed the tree to harvest beechnuts, the front-paw marks distinct from the rear paws. Since then, I always search for bear-claw marks on beeches when hunting.”

Look for such sign she and others should, because bear-claw marks on beeches are as common as the smooth gray-barked trees they find their way to. Why? Well, I haven’t researched it but would guess it’s because beechnut meat soon dries into a tiny seed after falling to the ground, so it behooves bears to climb trees to forage this nut when the ripe smell fills the forest air. A friend speculated that perhaps the bear scratches are territorial like deer scrapes on the ground during rutting season. While I wouldn’t dismiss that possibility, it seems more likely that it’s the fruit that draws bears to beeches.

Before Pratt signed off, she shared one last interesting tidbit on beeches.

“Speaking of hunting,” she wrote, “I sometimes amuse myself on stand by biting the small, furled bud from a beech sapling. I like chewing them.”

So, I guess that habit plus Antes’ previous mention of beechnut-enhanced cookies and cakes answers the question of yet another random, unfamiliar Springfield correspondent, Ms. Maure Briggs-Carrington, who reached out with the question, “Are beechnuts edible for humans.” Yes, indeed, Maure. Just ask Antes and Pratt. Plus, anthropological records will tell you beechnuts were among the nuts gathered annually by Native American’s, joining white-oak acorns, chestnuts, butternuts, walnuts, hickories and hazel nuts.

The first forester to reach out was South Deerfield’s Michael Mauri, who sent a tiny book with a long, narrow, color photograph of a high Williamsburg beech grove folded in half to make a front and back cover. Inside  was this little poem. I do hope I’m not violating copyright laws:

black bear
the one who—is like us, the one who—
bends small trees in the forest

Accompanying the little booklet was a short note to say we had met once in the Montague Book Mill parking lot, where we looked at the topo map of a favorite ridge of mine named Walnut, where, incidentally, there are beech and hickories as well, not to mention an amazing balanced rock and ancient sacred landscape. He didn’t know the glacial erratic. Maybe someday we’ll take a hike and ponder the possibilities. Perhaps we’ll even hike a bit farther south along the spine to a seven-trunked shagbark hickory tree, the likes of which I have never seen anywhere else. I’m sure a poem could be written about this high, lonesome anomaly, which could even be a non-conformist in the mold of  Perez Bardwell, the 18th century hardscrabble rebel who lived below.

The other forester who came this way did so indirectly, through a local political gadfly with a deadly stinger.  This source called last week, then emailed me a recent state Department of Conservation and Recreation-proposal laying out a logging project targeted for the 280-acre Garnet Hill section of Peru State Forest. The initiative is aimed at ridding the plot of red pine scale and beech bark disease by aggressive logging and subsequent controlled forest-regeneration projects, including “chemical control of beech … to ensure other desirable native species can emerge after the harvest.”

Although it’s too late to delve into this complicated issue this week, it’s never too early to share the critical assessment of Michael J. Kellett, executive director of “Restore: The North Woods.”  Founded in 1992 and headquartered in Hallowell, Maine, with a Massachusetts office in Concord, this conservation group’s goal is “to go beyond endless damage control to begin restoring the health of entire landscapes.”

Kellett has reviewed the proposed Peru State Forest logging plan and gives it a disgusted thumbs-down.

“What a disgrace,” he writes. “… This is a plan aimed solely at cutting down as many big trees as possible before they lose their commercial value.

“The so-called forest insect and disease threats are vastly overblown. They will kill some trees, but that is something that happens in all natural forests. Logging will do nothing to mitigate or stop insects and disease, and it will probably make them worse.

“… Nothing short of a full ban on logging will save these state forest lands from liquidation.”

Touche!

Obviously, policy wonks will come forward attempting to destroy this man’s credibility by calling him a tree-hugging kook or worse. But a wise observer doesn’t dismiss such criticism out of hand. No. A sage listens and probes and researches and learns, and maybe, just maybe, discovers that what has been said is legit, not wild, radical-extremist blabber.

Stay tuned. What’s happening in Peru is lurking in a state forest near you. They call it forest-management policy.

I have for many decades been fascinated by beech trees and beech stands — from the mature, elephant-skinned sentries standing tall and broad, to their understory infants immediately below, to the empty, thorny husks and the small, three-sided nuts they contain for posterity — all interesting and, when you probe the depths, perplexing in many ways.

I can’t say for sure where or when I encountered my first beech tree, so distinctive and regal. The reason for this uncertainty is that I had probably passed many during childhood woodland wanderings without knowing what they were or what role they served in the ecosystem. Did I first learn to recognize these aristocratic, nut-bearing hardwoods while cutting transit-assisted line with a machete to run traverse as a teenaged member of land-surveying crews? Or was it scouting during my early days of deer and turkey hunting? Truthfully, I cannot recall, but probably both woodland activities ultimately contributed to my ability to identify these trees, which stand out no matter where you find them.

Although I generally associate beech stands with high, hardwood ridges, where deer and bears and turkeys and squirrels and jays and you name it enthusiastically forage their fall nuts, these trees also flourish in the lowlands. I pass such tall, stately, lowland beeches daily, randomly spaced atop an escarpment overlooking a bottomland Green River-side meadow, with many infant trees below in the understory. Mixed with oaks, black cherries, poplars, soft maples, sycamores, and hickories, the mast producers attract a wide array of critters during the fruiting season and beyond.

I have in the past five years learned to value beech as an excellent heating fuel. More and more of it is showing up in the cordwood mix due to a bark-blemishing disease that’s taking its toll on beeches across the Northeast. And while I hate the thought of harvesting perfectly healthy beech trees for firewood, it isn’t necessary these days. Instead they’re culling diseased trees from the forest, hoping to protect healthy specimens from disease. Whether this strategy works remains to be seen. But, oh, how sad it would be to watch beech trees go the way of the American chestnut and American elm, both formerly prolific in these parts, now gone.

Beech trees and beechnuts are not a new subject for this column. I have in the past discussed the overwhelming likelihood that beech nuts picked off the forest floor will be hollow when cracking open and inspecting them out of curiosity. I have personally probed many November beechnuts through massive upland beech groves for nearly two generations and, despite an understory overwhelmed with infant beech trees of various short heights, I routinely find not a one with meat in it. Upon delving into this mystery a little deeper, reading, observing, exposing the quandary to the light of public feedback, I have come to the conclusion that the hollow nuts are not barren. No, what appears to happen is that, once dropped by wind- or rainstorms, the yellowish-white fruit inside the thin brown shell soon shrivels to a tiny, dark-brown seed tucked neatly and inconspicuously into the base. At first glance, the interior appears to be empty, a hollow, barren tomb. But, in fact, these nuts are not empty. Upon close inspection, the tiny seed is indeed visible. That, I’d say, is what produces all the infant trees you see, even though I was once told by a forester that some of the immature stock sprouts off the roots of adults. So, that too may indeed be the case.

Recent reading of German author/forester Peter Wohlleban’s best-selling “The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How They Communicate” has provided me new insight into beech and many other trees of the forest. To get anything out of this groundbreaking New York Times bestseller, published in German in 2015 and a year later in English, one must put aside that all too familiar Christian lens.

“What?” demand devout Christian readers. “Trees feeling and communicating? Do you need your head examined?”

Well, no, actually there’s no need for a shrink. To grasp such non-Western Civilization concepts, one must clear dogmatic fog and view the world with an open mind, one that leaves room for fresh new paths to discovery and truth. The first time I read about trees communicating to fend off disease or insects, survive dangerous drought, and propagate where it ain’t easy was in botanist Robin Wall Kimmerer’s “Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teaching of Plants.” It’s well worth reading if you want a different twist on how nature works in a cooperative plant community. The piece that introduced me to tree communication through intermingled root systems, wind and pheromones was titled “The Council of Pecans,” presented as a “Braiding Sweetgrass” excerpt in the literary “Orion” magazine, the standard bearer of contemporary environmental writing. Then, by chance, I caught mention of Wohlleben, found his book online, knew it was of the same deep-ecology school as Kimmerer’s, and promptly purchased it.

There is much to learn from Wohlleben, but here and now let’s focus on the topic at hand: that is beech trees, for which he has affinity and explores in depth. Most interesting from my perspective is his discussion of how to age beech-grove infants shaded in the understory by vast adult crowns that quite intentionally inhibit growth of their young. Sources such as “The Sibley Guide to Trees” and many others will tell you beech trees grow slowly, so the wood is not commercially important. But that description in no way prepares the reader for Wohlleben’s discovery that the infant saplings of the grove ranging from three to seven feet tall are — brace yourself — 80 years old.

Wow! Who would have ever guessed it? I have seen many such little beeches in my rambles and have always assumed them to be in the 5- to 10-year-old class. Not so, according to Wohlleben, who’s diligently observed and studied beech trees for many years and ages them by counting tiny modules on their branches. He says these understory juveniles live in the forest as coddled children protected by their mothers for many years. When the moment arrives, due to a lightning strike, tornado or some other event that fells large trees, these children and are ready, willing and able to flourish, having been protected and nurtured in summer adult shade for decades. Given a clear, newfound path to direct rays of hot sunlight, these arrested-development kids are ready to take off, their growth accelerating dramatically to fill the gaping hole carved into the forest’s canopy.

When I walk my dogs daily past a few clusters of these immature beech trees, their dry, light brown leaves still intact, I must admit to holding new reverence for a tree I have always favored. Who would have guessed that these head-high saplings are older than me, and I’m no spring chicken?

Ah, for the wonders of nature, not to mention the refreshing, holistic perspective of deep ecologists, still unfortunately viewed by mainstream commentators as “radicals” or, better yet, “tree-huggers.”  Well, we all know the saying that starts “Sticks and stones will break my bones,” which fits this scenario snugly. The fact is that neither pejorative would insult me personally. I’d just consider the source and invite   the razor-sharp harpoon as platinum praise.

Maybe that deer I wrote about last week — relying on eyewitness Tom Ricardi’s report of watching it run for its life from a large bobcat toward the South River just upstream from Conway’s Burkeville Covered Bridge – didn’t escape after all.

Ricardi opined that had he not pulled his vehicle over to observe the chase, the bobcat would have eventually overtaken and killed the exhausted deer, tongue hanging from its mouth. Instead, the cat, unnerved by Ricardi, sat down for a moment, turned around and ran back into the pine grove from which it had come.

Nonetheless, that deer may not have been long for this world, according to neighbor Ed Mann. While out on his evening walk last week with yellow Lab, Boomer, Mann discovered a deer carcass along the river bank just upstream from the covered bridge. He speculated it may have been the same deer, given the location and timing, but wasn’t sure what had delivered the fatal blow. A deep coating of fresh snow had covered the tracks of the culprit(s).

“That cat could have prevailed at the end of the day,” he wrote. “Or, of course, it could have been taken down by coyotes, which have been passing up and down the river this past winter.”

Years ago, domestic dogs would have been the primary suspects, but that has changed dramatically with the enactment and enforcement of leash laws. So, yes, it was probably either opportunistic coyotes preying on a weakened deer they came across quite by chance, or that wily bobcat doubled back to finish the job.

Deer are often taken by predators on ice, where their hooves leave them helplessly splayed for the kill. It doesn’t happen by accident. Coyotes and wolves work in unison to force deer toward ice, where they know they have an advantage. Bobcats? Well, that I cannot say. But, when you think of it, why not? Before Ricardi’s tale, I didn’t know a bobcat would chase down a deer, only that they would occasionally ambush from above and pounce down upon an unsuspecting young whitetail or take fawns from their birthing nests.

This is the time of year when deer are at their weakest and thus most vulnerable to predators, which are tuned into their struggles. In the end, it all comes down to opportunism and that basic law of nature we all know well: That is, the strong survive and the weak perish.

*****
Another Conway resident, Gail Connelly, chimed in to report an indelible sighting. She thought maybe someone else has seen the animal she saw “several years ago at the end of March on Hoosac Road.”

Ms. Connelly has lived in Conway for 32 years, during which she has often walked her golden retriever “on logging trails and in fields — running into deer, fawns, raccoons, porcupines, moose, bobcats and numerous black bear.”

Her most memorable wildlife sighting was that of a wildcat she believes, judging from its profile, was a Canada lynx.

“I had my Golden retriever in the car when a huge animal ran in front of me,” she wrote. “I slammed on the brakes, and when I got out of the car, the cat had jumped a small ravine and was running across a field. When it got to the edge of the woods it stopped, turned around to look at me, then slowly walked into the woods. My golden is over 90 pounds. This cat was taller than him, long furry legs, his paws were thick with fur, very padded. I’d be curious to know if anyone else has seen one in our area.”

The problem with such sightings and comparisons to dogs is that looks can be deceiving, especially from afar. I once had a similar deer-stand sighting of a “bobcat” walking gracefully along a stonewall some 50 yards away and was convinced it was too tall for a bobcat, judging it taller than my male springer spaniel at that time, Ringo. Now, that cat may or may not have been taller than Ringo, who stood about 19 inches at the shoulder, but it sure did appear taller from where I sat.

When I studied the Canada lynx photo I ran with this column last week, taken by Jim Shortell in Alaska, it occurred to me that the animal appeared taller and leggier than my current male springer, Chubby, who’s taller than Ringo was. Then it dawned on me that, because of the lynx’s leaner torso it may not, in fact, have been taller, just appeared so. It’s difficult to make such a call from a distance.

Which is not to say that Ms. Connelly did not see a Canada lynx that day. She may well have, and people in these parts may see more lynx in the future. It seems that a southern expansion of this northern species is underway.

Who’s to say that this animal wasn’t here when William Pynchon first stepped foot on this valley and is now on the comeback trail, similar to moose and … dare I say, cougars?

*****
One final touch of sage hilltown wisdom on the bobcat/Canada Lynx discussion, this one arriving out of the blue at the 11th hour of 4:24 p.m. Wednesday from old friend Roger “Heze” Ward. It may answer the question we ended the previous segment (above) with.

“Growing up in the hills of Buckland, a couple things come to mind about the presence of bobcat and lynx,” he wrote. “The lynx was the bigger of the of the two, sometimes hitting the scales at better the 60 pounds, whereas bobcats were generally in the 30-pound class. One difference that never failed in the ability to tell the two apart was the size of the feet. Lynx feet were huge compared to the bobcat. Your picture in last week’s paper proves that out.”

He then offered this enticing little tidbit that’s well worth sharing:

“I don’t know if you ever head the story about this ungodly noise we would hear at night. The old timers it said was a bobcat and said it sounded like a baby crying. I heard it many times and never could figure out what it sounded like. I always wondered if was some kind of mating ritual. I don’t remember anyone ever saying they saw the bobcats first hand making this noise. It always seemed to be deep in the woods, and really didn’t sound like domestic cats.”

Hmmmmm?

So there. Maybe lynx are not a new phenomenon to Franklin County.

It’s noontime Tuesday, gray and wet, home snow-removal chores in the rearview, televised Patriots parade underway in Boston.

I’m walking the dogs in steady rain that’s softening the shallow coating of fresh, white, sticky snow. The precipitation had changed from snow to sleet to rain as I whisked clean the snow-blower blades and carriage after yard cleanup.

I’m watching Lily and Chubby romp through the Christmas trees on a floodplain meadow, rain audibly dripping from naked hardwoods, the dogs’ joie de vivre palpable as my mind drifts off as it usually does while walking. I’m thinking back to something I heard Bill Belichick say from ESPN’s on-field, postgame broadcast podium after his Pats’ dramatic, 34-28 overtime win over the Falcons in Super Bowl LI. Talking about his team’s record comeback from a 25-point  deficit, he told retiring sportscaster Chris “Boomer” Berman that Bill Parcells — a former coach under whom he worked and from whom he’d learned much about winning — was fond of usung a boxing metaphor when describing what it takes to be a great champion. He believed that the mark of a true champion is the ability to get up off the canvas and win.

“I think we did that tonight,” beamed Belichick. And who could argue?

Mulling that Belichick quote as I walked the southern perimeter of my daily ramble, dogs chasing scent in and out of the wooded wetland border, my thoughts brought me to Muhammad Ali, the greatest boxing champion of my lifetime. I was trying to compare the Pats’ remarkable Super Bowl rally to one of Ali’s epic wins, and for some reason started with the “Thrilla in Manila” against Joe Frazier. But, no, thinking it over, I knew that fight for the ages hadn’t mirrored what occurred Sunday night at NFG Stadium in Houston. The reason was that at the start of that memorable 1975 fight, it appeared that Ali would make quick work of Smokin’ Joe, peppering his face like he was working an Everlast speed bag in the gym. But a determined Frazier somehow absorbed the punishment and responded by bearing in on Ali and hurting him on the inside until, after Round 11 of a scheduled 15, it looked like Frazier may just beat “The Greatest.”

Not so fast. In Round 12, Ali dug deep, found his second wind and started battering Frazier. By Round 14, Smokin’ Joe could no longer see through badly swollen eyes. Concerned trainer Eddie Futch threw in the towel. Proud, fierce Joe Frazier could not answer the Round 15 bell. Ali had won by TKO. Afterwards, Frazier said, “Lordy, Lordy,” he had hit Ali with shots that could have shaken  the walls of a city yet could not beat him.

The Pats’ historic Super Bowl victory Sunday night really didn’t have that ebb and flow, those changes of momentum. Down 21-3 at the half due to two costly turnovers, New England was getting dominated by Atlanta on the scoreboard. Then, after the Falcons tacked on another score to make it 28-3 with 8:31 remaining in the third quarter, die-hard Pats fans knew a comeback was unlikely indeed, even for an all-time-great QB/coach tandem like Tom Brady and  Belichick.

Which brought me to another Ali fight occurring a year before the “Thrilla.” We’re talking about 1974’s “Rumble in the Jungle” versus a seemingly unbeatable and heavily favored heavyweight champion named George Foreman, a younger, stronger man who packed a mighty wallop. So, what was Ali’s strategy in this fight that few thought he could win, and many feared could end his career, if not his life? He came out by decisively winning the first round with dazzling combinations to Foreman’s face, then shocked the world by leaning back against the ropes, protecting his chin and allowing the powerful champion to whale away at his midsection in a ring tactic dubbed “rope-a-dope,” designed to “punch out” the opponent. Trainer Angelo Dundee pleaded with Ali to get off the ropes while loyal fans wondered what was wrong with “The Greatest.” Was he losing his freakin’ mind? He was going to get killed laying on the ropes in front of such a powerful brute.

After six rounds of his best impression of a heavy bag, Ali sprang off the ropes in the eighth round and dropped Foreman to the canvas with a well-placed combination of punches to the face. Foreman went down, could not get to his feet before the count of 10 and Ali, hands raised above his head,  had a stunning knockout to regain the world heavyweight crown.

That Ali fight was the one that most resembled Sunday’s stunning Patriots comeback in Houston. No, the Falcons did not come into the contest as prohibitive favorites, and they were not recognized as the big bully on the block, either. But with a 25-point lead and 20 minutes remaining, the underdog  sure had taken on a superior demeanor.

Then, like Ali in Zaire, the Pats came off the ropes to score the final 31 points and win their fifth Super Bowl of the Brady-Belichick era. Some called it a miracle. Others blamed it on Falcons coaching ineptitude.

Longtime WFAN-New York, AM-660 sports-talk host Joe Benigno had it right Monday morning when he proclaimed that only one team could have pulled off that historic comeback, then labeled Super Bowl LI as the win that will forever define these New England Patriots’ greatness. Though not a popular view on that station or in that city, where callers and hosts alike prefer to insult the Patriots as cheaters, suffering Jets-fan Benigno had taken a fair view, giving justifiable credit and admiration where due.

It takes a man to tell it like it is in that hostile Big Apple market, and, on the other hand, an arrogant loudmouth like Mike Francesa to claim that the Falcons coaching staff handed the win to the Pats on a silver platter.

It’ll be interesting to see what Francesa’s excuse is next year.
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The preliminary all-season 2016 deer harvest released last week by MassWildlife is 12,233. This includes record archery (4,661) and primitive-firearm (2,484) harvests and an average shotgun harvest of 4,907, including 58 kills during the special, controlled, four-day Blue Hills Reservation hunt. An additional 53 deer were taken by special permit during the annual Quabbin hunt, and 128 additional deer were taken during the annual pre-archery youth hunt.

Backboned by the archery and blackpowder records, the total harvest was in near-record territory, following a sub-par 2015 harvest. Last year’s low harvest was likely due to unseasonably warm weather, lack of snow and an abundance of wild food, which meant that deer could be virtually anywhere and did not have to move much when hunters were in the woods. The increased 2016 harvest was likely related to the previous year’s low harvest and low winter mortality, plus this year’s excellent hunting conditions.

The all-season preliminary totals in Zones 10 (2,313), 11 (2,715) and 9 (1,115) comprised a bit more than half the statewide harvest. Meanwhile, local Zones 4 North (531), 4 South (299), 2 (479), 5 (542) and 6 (126) combined produced a mere 16 percent of the statewide harvest. My, how times have changed since I was a kid.

The final harvest figures and analysis will be released in May or June.