May
08
2013

Flower Power

by Gary Sanderson

It’s that hopeful time of year when things are happening and, no, I haven’t given up on Bull Head Pond. In fact, I have exciting new discoveries about that forgotten spot, now in a different location, just a stone’s throw from the 20th century pond called Bull Head that I reluctantly accepted as the one last week. But, please, let’s give it a rest. Other seasonal fare on my plate, including salmon mischief.

To start with, my front yard is unusually colorful this week, adorned in various shades of red cast by ornamental trees along the southern perimeter. Rarely do they simultaneously glow like this year. Even the fading yellow forsythia is still hanging in there, perhaps due to lack of rain. Although that was expected to change overnight, the bush as I now see it is still bright yellow, though with a much greener underbody than a week ago. There it sits, like a tabletop bouquet beneath outstretched limbs of a mellow magenta apple and one of the large, deep-red Japanese-maple twins. Three ornamental cherries lined toward the west corner add a soft, seductive pink, while the shedding saucer magnolia of a similar hue way around the eastern side is visible across a panoramic view, just a small splash of delicate red quince blossoms dabbed in between. Spring bloom is always inspiring, cool, comfortable air flowing through the windows front to back, bulkhead wide open to allow damp winter spirits an escape route up the quiet stone stairs, leaving behind devilish remnants to ricochet about and stir introspection like bubbles emerging from a foamy root-beer float disrupted by a kid blowing down a straw.

Although dry thus far, it has been an otherwise textbook spring, the fiddleheads now long gone, replaced by tall ostrich ferns that seem to grow a foot in a few days once the tight clumps of tasty morsels clinging to the ground sprout and leap to the sun. With that savory treat in the rearview, asparagus is in, necessitating many trips back to old stomping grounds dominated by the Sugarloafs, north and south, which always bring cozy karma. Although I no longer live there, it’s not far and’ll always be branded deep into my soul. I could really feel the homey vibes at a Sunday-night farm wedding I attended in an old friend’s tented Hillside Road backyard, bordered on the north by Jackson Road and the headwater marsh from which infamous Bloody Brook springs atop the Long Hill plain known before my day as Turnip Yard.

I don’t want to meander off the rails but why is it that I suspect it’ll be a good year for fruit and berries? I have no fancy degrees in anything related to the subject but thus far it just seems like the kind of spring that will bring bountiful fruit, that’s all. If so, it promises to be a good year for the pesticide-free raspberries and blueberries along my western border. Then again, maybe not. Who knows? A lot can happen between now and then. Hasn’t that been obvious of late, when there seems to be no limit to weather weirdness.

Hopping back to the present, word has it that some fellas are having a tough time of it turkey hunting for boss gobblers that “henned-up” a week before the season. I knew from casual observation that this phenomenon had occurred, because I had on my way to work seen a boisterous longbeard showing off nightly for five or six lovely ladies in “POSTED” corn stubble. My friend tried to kill that gobbler a few mornings last week and departed muttering to himself, and me on the phone, before moving on. His biggest obstacle was restriction from the forbidden abutting property, where the birds are roosting and gallivanting daily. He was close enough to get old Tom-Tom all jacked up — the big bird gobbling his fool head off and moving in my buddy’s direction before digging his long, stubborn spurs in and “hanging up” along a bushy fence row. From there, the big bird demanded that my buddy come to him, no matter how love-sick his plaintive yelps sounded. Oh well, they say patience is a virtue. If my pal sticks in there and doesn’t get frustrated or impulsive, he may yet catch that big boss tom at a weak moment fueled by hormonal imbalance. I’d say the odds are against him, though, given the territorial disadvantage facing him. The dynamic is simple to understand. Suppose you were playing the role of gluttonous Arabian sheikh settled into a comfortable honeymoon suite for the weekend with a young, attractive harem of five serving oh-so faithfully. Would you, savoring this amorous arrangement, answer an old girlfriend’s telephone call, a mistress’s rap on the door? My friend’s guttural chuckle suggested the answer.

Which reminds me: another friend wanted me to know that his father told him to tell “Old Bull Head” that his shad bush is blooming. I knew, had actually seen the flowers in my travels. But I didn’t need that harbinger to announce the arrival of migratory shad and salmon. Daily email reports have kept me informed. Through Tuesday, the daily anadromous-fish report I receive said 79,000 shad and 12 salmon had passed Holyoke, where the water temperature read 61.7 Fahrenheit, edging on optimal.

With the spawning runs building to a peak, go figure, it leads me straight into a risqué subject some may find alluring. You’ve probably heard or read by now that the aggressive, half-century, federal and state Connecticut River Atlantic Salmon-Restoration Program came to an abrupt halt last year. Yes sir, it seems that the program’s most devoted true-believers could no longer justify the expense during hard times fueled by unfunded wars and diabolical Wall Street schemes, so they just up and pulled the freakin’ plug. That doesn’t mean salmon will immediately stop migrating. Not yet, anyway. Now, following decades of coordinated efforts to capture salmon and medicate them to prime health with chemicals before overseeing controlled spawning (artificial mixing of milt and eggs) and ubiquitous stocking of hatchery-reared progeny in tributaries up and down the valley, fisheries officials must sit back and see what transpires.

As expected, the salmon run hasn’t just halted because crews are no longer traveling back and forth to fish passageways to transport captured returnees to Sunderland’s Cronin Salmon Station. To the contrary, salmon are indeed still migrating upriver, and 12 thus far are swimming above Holyoke. Think about that for a minute. Wouldn’t it be interesting if these aristocratic fish of the North Atlantic keep coming for years to come and, in fact, ultimately start returning in greater numbers than when well-meaning scientists insisted upon human intervention and micro-management — capturing, carting, medicating and “artificially” spawning wild fish in a controlled Christian manner that may not have been wise. That’s not to suggest that the current “au-naturel” method will turn out to be a better route to the original restoration goal of creating a viable sport fishery. All I’m saying is that I would laugh out loud if it turns out that way. And I can’t say I’ve never opined right here, based solely on good old-fashioned common sense, that maybe those fish they were imprisoning would be better off left alone to spawn in natural settings. Yes, I had the audacity to speculate that perhaps wild fish would do better spawning in the Sawmill or South or Bear, the Deerfield or Millers rivers than confined at Cronin Station in boring, sterile, cement tanks, raceways and indoor pools.

It’s true that Atlantic salmon will most likely soon than later stop migrating up our Connecticut River basin now that the funding has vanished, marking the end of an altruistic, half-century experiment that has been fading off into the sunset for decades. Then again, maybe, just maybe, there’ll be a miracle of sorts and the salmon will keep coming, with numbers gradually increasing to an levels approaching what the scientific community desired way back when but could not deliver.

Yes, wouldn’t that development be hilarious indeed, not to mention totally understandable to those who worship freedom and liberty and autonomy in its purest forms, minus the red, white and blue nonsense?

All I can say is that as the preachers and politicians weep, I’ll be laughing hysterically if those taxpayer-funded Connecticut River-strain salmon start running like gangbusters after gaining creative freedom for the most private of matters.

What a hoot that would be, huh? Proving one more time that missionary-style ain’t for everyone.

posted in Columns, Salmon, Shad | No Comments

May
01
2013

The Legend Grows

by Gary Sanderson

The tulip magnolia is back, and so is that “solitary Indian” camped at the edge of town.

First, the magnolia, though, which literally weathered the storm and is now in full bloom, just around the corner from the umbrella table and chairs we put out front for a change, hidden between the main block and budding mock-orange bushes bordering a terrace of large, flat, fitted, porch-floor stones lugged some 200 years ago by a team of Charlemont oxen. Ah, spring, Life is good.

That beautiful old magnolia is inspiring. Gracing the gabled east side of my home facing Green River Road, that tree really set my wheels spinning this morning. Looking out at it, thinking, I realized the lessons even plants can teach if you listen. Radically “pruned” by Mother Nature during that weird late-October 2011 storm which leveled so many of its kind, I really wasn’t sure how that proud ornamental tree, bruised and battered by wet, heavy snow, would fare. But I thought it would be OK and soothed my wife’s worse fears with a sanguine prognosis. I assured her, though uncertain myself, that magnolias are resilient, it would soon to be back in its full spring splendor.

Then more weirdness paid a visit last spring. There it was, late February, the sapping season under way early, and judging from the temperatures, you would’ve thought it was Memorial Day. Like a narcissistic seductress, the thermometer deceived even the trees into early blossoms. Then frosts did a number on many local fruit orchards. My magnolia wasn’t spared, its partially opened flowers quickly stunned, frozen and rotting to a putrid, sewage-treatment brown before falling prematurely to the ground.

Hmmm? Two disasters in four months? Too much to endure? Unlikely.

I can now report that the magnolia’s just fine, thank you, will in a year or two be bigger, broader, stronger and more beautifully proportioned than ever. It just needs to fill in a bit, another reminder that nature has a way of overcoming hardship, sprouting improvement from devastation, a lesson that can at times be compared even to interpersonal relationships. Once the broken branches and rotten flowers are swept up, carted off and disposed of, fresh air can circulate through the healing limbs, and when the cold, blustery north winds blow, they scatter any remaining ill will asunder to fall upon new victims. The strong survive, the weak perish. And here I sit, my sunny magnolia beaming at approaching travelers; a survivor, no fear, its lusty pink flowers alluring indeed, attracting who knows, or cares, what.

But enough of whatever Far Eastern or Native American “ism” it is that’s infiltrated my space, transported by a gentle breeze flowing through the south window, stirring me into introspective diversion on this stimulating morning in the most optimistic of seasons. Time to revisit the enduring topic of Greenfield’s last Indian, said to have lived centuries ago in a wigwam by Bull Head Pond, the location of which I believe I now know. I am no longer stuck on that old dried-up pond along the western edge of the Lower Meadows, the one pinpointed by esteemed Greenfield historian Mary P. Wells Smith. No, I think my suspicions were wrong. I believe Bull Head Pond was indeed that shallow, muddy body of water that sat between the Green River’s west bank and the intersection of Woodard Road and Colrain Street, roughly at the site of today’s Davenport Trucking.

Yes, I could be wrong. Remember, I’m not a Greenfield guy, even though I was born here and did spend my first year in that stuffy, little, upstairs, Elm Street apartment not far from the Bull Head itself. Yeah, that’s right, not far from old Bull Head. Hey, my young mother — a Wauwatosa, Wis., transplant who graduated from Greenfield High before going away to college — may have even wheeled me right past that shallow mud hole on pleasant spring days that spiked fever. It wouldn’t surprise me. If so, I suppose that pond’s imprinted in my consciousness, clinging like a brown bat to the upper right corner of a dark closet in my soul. Maybe that’s what pulled me into this search. That and a basic curiosity that has fueled this bumpy auto-didactic journey called life, one spiced by harmless little mischiefs and narrow escapes along fanciful footpaths carved into the landscape before my Puritan ancestors staked their claims and obliterated indigenous cultures.

Truthfully, I probably should have known enough to avoid this Bull Head Pond adventure. Although it’s true I live in Greenfield and have for 16 years studied my home and its historic neighborhood just up the road from the site of that lost pond, I know I’ll never be from Greenfield. No, I’m anchored in another place not far away, that being the village of South Deerfield by way of Whately and Groton and Boston and Watertown and Hampton, N.H., where my Sanderson progenitor, Boston silversmith Robert of Pine Tree Shilling fame, was an original proprietor. Also listed among the founders on the Watertown Monument, old Bobby boy moved to Boston and became as “proper” a Bostonian as proper could be by appointment to constable, then deacon of the First Church. Then, lo, late in life he took as his third and final wife an educated Quaker lady named Elizabeth Kingsmill, who’s buried next to him in Boston’s Granary Cemetery. That curious Puritan/Quaker marriage is aching for further research and investigation. I find it quite intriguing, maybe even blasphemous to some in his circle, though to me a showy peacock feather in his felt tri-corn. Trust me, I’ll track it down in retirement. It won’t take long. Not once I put my mind to it, find the info in some dark, dusty repository and scour the records. That’s the kind of hunting I prefer these days, gathering another form of sustenance called brain food, harvested by innate curiosity and perseverance.

But back to the Bull Head, with special thanks to three new sources, beginning with old South Deerfield pal Dick Weso, who gave me a ring Friday to clear the air and identify mysterious email source Wrwando as his brother-in-law and childhood friend. Then, after input from Weso, who, like his brother-in-law knew the pond as a Greenfield boy, another source dropped in like a streaking comet from the clear, starlit sky. Checking my email one last time on a pre-midnight whim Saturday, sitting there waiting was a surprise from a Bernardston lady identified only as Leslie in my inbox. Further investigation provided a surname — likely that of her husband but, then again, not necessarily — which could place her ancestors with mine at old Fort No. 4 in Charlestown, N.H., of French & Indian War fame. Next morning, with the impetus of Leslie and Weso’s fresh leads driving me, I pulled out my historic-Greenfield-maps CD and came away disappointed. None of them showed the pond I was looking for. Undaunted, I jumped in the truck to take a spin and study the terrain to get my bearings in vaguely familiar territory. Then, on Tuesday evening, when a first-ever ride down Power Square on the way to work revealed the existence of a previously unknown pond in my world, I reached out to Greenfield native Peter Conway, whose father, Joe, rented a River Street apartment across the river from his home to my late grandmother. I was confident Pete would know about that pond I found and the extended meadows where it sat, which he did.

But hold that thought as we double back briefly to Ms. Leslie’s email. Spurred by my public search for the home of Greenfield’s supposed last Indian, the Bernardston lady had embarked on an Internet search of her own and, sure enough, found a written record that piqued her interest and pulled everything into focus for me. What she discovered was a revealing mention of Bull Head Pond and its “solitary Indian” in David Willard’s “History of Greenfield,” an early source (1838) I happen to own, have read but did not revisit during my recent research.

Duh?

Truthfully, I didn’t go to Willard because I knew the book wasn’t indexed. And even if I had skimmed through the “Contents” pages up front, I would have found no hint of Bull Head Pond or its last Indian. But they are there, both mentioned in Willard’s profile of 18th century Greenfield lawyer William Coleman and the stately downtown mansion-house he built circa 1796. That home, which came to be known as the Hollister House (now McCarthy’s Funeral Home), overlooks Bank Row in the front and, from the rear, looks out west over narrow Green River meadows far below, following River Street. Willard, whose family lived in the neighborhood, knew the view well and described it like this:

“The very fertile and beautiful meadows west of these buildings was, within memory, covered with many lofty walnuts, sprinkled over the soil like an orchard, excepting the western part, which was covered with alders, among which and near the margin of Bull Head Pond, where is a fine spring of water, once stood the hut or wigwam of a solitary Indian.”

That description by Greenfield’s earliest historian told me that Bull Head Pond could not be the one 90-year-old Mary P. Wells Smith had identified for author friend Lucy Cutler Kellogg, who located it in the western part of the Meadows in her “History of Greenfield, 1900-1929.” The pond she was referring to stands adjacent to Greenfield Community College at the base of Greenfield Mountain and is too far away for inclusion in any description of William Coleman’s home lot. So, the home of Greenfield’s last Indian had to be the one closer to town, yes, the same one senior-citizen Greenfield natives like my buddy Weso remember as Bull Head Pond. “We called the pond east of Woodard Road Bull Head and the one on the other side of the road Cow Head,” recalled Weso, who patrolled that part of Greenfield often before moving to South Deerfield in 1970. “Old man Jackson, who had a house on the other side of the river on Colrain Street, always had a shiner bucket in that little spring that runs through there.”

Weso became the fourth credible Greenfield source to identify Bull Head Pond as the one that sat at the intersection of Colrain Street and Woodard Road before Davenport Trucking filled it in. Conway became my fifth source during an informative Tuesday night telephone chat at work. He said he himself never called it Bull Head Pond, but rather Pickerel Pond because that’s what he caught there. “You know how it is with kids and ponds like that,” he quipped. “We all have our own names for little ponds we fish. I called that one Pickerel Pond, but that’s just me. I have no doubt that’s the Bull Head Pond you’re looking for.”

Conway grew up on a 16-acre downtown-Greenfield farm few people probably even realize exists. The house and its outbuildings are tucked on the other side of the railroad trestle at the base of Main Street, across the river from Dunkin Donuts, and his brushy, fertile, riverside meadow lying between the river and Main Street’s high plateau is the one Willard speaks of when looking west from Coleman’s. Today there are two manmade ponds, Horseshoe and The Donut, in that secluded sanctuary on the edge of downtown, but Conway says both of them were 20th century creations, ruling them out as potential early Bull Head ponds.

At this point, following years of destructive excavation and filling that’s significantly altered the Woodard Road landscape, it’s difficult indeed to reconstruct old Bull Head Pond of last-Indian fame. My guess is that the Bull Head and Cow Head were, before the construction of Woodard Road, one pond stretching from near the Green River bank well out into Interstate 91. All that’s left now is a stagnant little finger of a cattail pond squeezed between a big white farmhouse with and an unattached red barn and the ramp leading to the bridge over Route 91 to Colrain Road and GCC. Well, that and the ghost of Greenfield’s last Indian, that defiant Pocumtuck tribesman who clung to a place called home and refused to leave when friends and family were felling in mass exodus.

Like my side-yard magnolia, that lonely Indian who lurked on the edge of town survives, and his legend grows.

posted in Columns, Genealogy, Indians, Local history | No Comments

Apr
24
2013

Spring Things

by Gary Sanderson

The greening of spring can envelop a man with inspiration — a young manured rye field underfoot stretching out in rich, vibrant green to a faraway budding border of faint pastels, high and low, some reds and browns daubed in, the streams at a swollen mumble, soothing from afar, as birds flitter about the beaver swamp, greener still, nest-building to rapturous mating songs. Thought stirs, nothing serious, just random introspection bouncing about like mayfly ovipositors on a placid lake, as you enjoy a brisk ramble fueled by cool, liberating morning air to expand your lungs, sharpen the senses.

Turkey season opens Monday, and although it’s again unlikely I’ll partake, I wish the fellas nothing but the best. Judging from what I’ve seen in my travels, it should be a good year, flocks of turkeys everywhere all winter and fall, big ones, even one I saw with 12 big toms, rare indeed, five to eight more typical. Let’s just hope this lymphoproliferative disease virus, or LPDV, doesn’t find its way here from the Southeast. If it does, our flocks could take a serious hit. No time for that discussion now, though. The tip just arrived today from a faraway learned friend, and I just don’t have time to chase it with grandson Jordie in town. Google it if your interest’s piqued. When I get a chance, I’ll do some digging and return to the subject if warranted. Promise.

Oh yeah, before I move onto other stuff, including Bullhead Pond, the location of which in the Greenfield Meadows is still bugging me, I ate my first fiddleheads Tuesday and they were delicious. Some things just taste healthy, fiddleheads among them. I stir-fried the tasty morsels hot in a little grapeseed oil with fresh-ground pepper and pink Himalayan salt, topped with a thin layer of Parmesan. Yeeeummy! So get out there, fellas. The pickin’s prime. I was surprised to find some already gone by, yet many clumps to come, a week and more away. Nice!

But back to the mystery location of Bullhead Pond, said by late, revered Greenfield historian Mary P. Wells Smith (1840-1930) — she of “Boy Captive” fame — to be the home of Greenfield’s last Indian, presumably around the turn of the 19th century. Smith’s oral tradition, passed from famed Deerfield Indian fighter Asa Childs to her father, placed the pond by an active spring in the western part of the Meadows. Judging from that description, I thought I had the site nailed after a meandering tour with an abutting landowner I work with. But — whoa! — not so fast. My trusted colleague came up with a little wrinkle over the Easter Weekend, when his oldest uncle stopped by and placed Bullhead Pond near where Davenport Trucking now stands. Then, when his 86-year-old grandmother, a Greenfield native who grew up on Conway Street, jumped into the discussion, she concurred the Bullhead Pond she knew was the same one her oldest son had identified off Colrain Street before it vanished with Interstate 91 construction. But it gets better. A day or two after the column hit the street, an email addressing the subject arrived from a man who did not identify himself but had “wrwando” for an email handle. His observation was that the only Bullhead Pond he knew sat at the site of today’s Davenport’s location. Something else: He spelled it the same way Smith had, Bull Head, which begs the question of whether its name was a reflection of its shape or the hornpout caught there? Hmmmmm? Another mystery to chase.

But back to Mr. Wrwando, which I’m guessing is a nickname for someone with the common Franklin County surname Wandeloski, his email read: “I spent the greater part of my life growing up in the Colrain Street area of Greenfield. The area around the Green River and the Bull Head was our stomping ground when we were growing up. Bull Head Pond was located on the southeast corner of the intersection of Woodard and Colrain roads. There was another pond on the southwest corner which is still there. I can remember as children my Dad taking us to the Bull Head to fish in the summer and to skate in the winter. Unfortunately, there were no restrictions on wetlands that we have today. Davenport began to fill in that pond to expand the area for equipment. The result is what you see there today: no pond and lots of heavy equipment.”

OK. I accept that old pond by Davenport’s being known during the 20th century as Bullhead Pond. However, I still think the site I visited along the western edge of the Lower Meadows is the more likely spot for the last Indian wigwam, because it would have been out of sight, out of mind, not just off the road on the outskirts of downtown. A contributing factor to my conclusion is that the father of the colleague who toured the property with me identified Bullhead Pond at the back of his property, and even spontaneously told of a stone pile there that he and his childhood friends called the Indian grave. That’s important. Yes, this dried-up pond that’s known to few today still carries Indian legend as it did in Mary P. Wells Smith day, a century ago.

I am well aware that a man like me ought to be careful what gets printed about a subject like this, and I am being careful because I don’t want to be responsible for creating inaccurate history, always difficult to erase. That said, I’m still leaning toward the old pond along The Meadow’s western perimeter, now a spring-hole marsh at the base of Greenfield Mountain near GCC’s garage, as the home of Greenfield’s last Indian. I could be otherwise persuaded, but need more evidence to pull me over by Davenport’s, which could in no way be described as sitting in the western part of the meadows no matter how you twisted it. Plus, I have a suspicion Ms. Smith, much older than any of our current sources, knew the pond she spoke of well. Maybe I’m giving her too much respect, but I don’t believe she would have pinpointed that pond for publication in her friend Lucy Cutler Kellogg’s History of Greenfield, 1900-1929 unless she was certain of where that last Indian lived. If the pond she was talking about sat at Davenport’s, wouldn’t she have described it as next to Green River instead of at the western edge of the Meadows?

Then again, maybe she was getting old, or perhaps Ms. Kellogg (1866-1956) was going deaf and heard western when Smith said eastern. Then again, maybe Kellogg knew it was eastern and wrote western by mistake. The possibilities are endless, I suppose.

Trust me, I’ll figure it out.

No sooner did I mention last week that it should be about time for the shad to start running and — Bingo! — the annual spawning run began. Yes, the Barrett Fish Lift at the Holyoke Dam lifted its first fish the day last week’s column hit the street, passed nine additional shad before closing down Saturday due to high water. Although that lift was still closed Wednesday, the West Springfield Project on the Westfield River and the Rainbow Fishway on the Farmington River in Connecticut are still up and running.  The migration will start picking up as the river warms. The water temperature in Holyoke this week is 45.5 Fahrenheit, too cold. The run annually peaks in the 60s and ends at just under 70, when upstream migration stops and spawning rituals start. Ah, spring.

Which reminds me of an email I received this week from a West Springfield shad fisherman named Jim Johnson, who targeted the Enfield (Conn.) Dam as a problem site in the Connecticut Valley fish-passage network.

“The shad will not be able make it up the Connecticut River to Holyoke if something is not done about removing or lowering the height of the old Enfield (Conn.) Dam just south of Route 190,” he wrote. “The only time I have ever observed a satisfactory number of upstream migrants is when the river is near flood stage. Years when the ice-out and spring rains come before the spawn migration, the number of fish caught in the Agawam section of the river is miniscule. Similar problems are experienced with alewives in Rhode Island. If the gates of the old Windsor Locks Canal were to be opened even partially, it would allow some shad to circumvent the dam. This would be an alternative to demolishing this nonfunctional entity that opponents argue would lower the river and destroy recreational use in the 15-mile stretch from Enfield to Holyoke. Another catch 22? Maybe so, but it would help the problem. I know I sound like just another voice crying, ‘Damn the damn dams’,”

No, not really, Jim. I’m no ally of the power companies. But we’ll have to wait and see what transpires after a much-better-than-expected run last year, when for the first time in many decades, a half-million shad passed Holyoke.

Wouldn’t it be nice if that continued?

Yeah, then we could focus on getting them through Turners Falls to their traditional stopping point of Bellows Falls, Vt.

Speaking of fishing, the Western District trucks are still rocking and rolling on highways and byways near you, with scheduled stops this week at the upper Deerfield River and Ashfield Lake, also at Clesson Brook in Ashfield/Buckland, South River in Ashfield/Conway, and Pelham Brook in Charlemont. T’other side of Franklin County, Connecticut Valley District trucks are scheduled for visits at the Millers and Sawmill rivers, Mill River in Deerfield/Whately, Pauchaug, Roaring and Mill brooks in Northfield, Cranberry Pond in Sunderland, Forestry Camp Pond in Warwick, and Puffers Pond in North Amherst.

Before I go, a quick note on the Ashfield Lake stocking: Old friend and half-assed relative Russell Williams called to alert anglers that his Ashfield Rod & Gun Club stocked 10 Tags-N-Trout rainbow trout as part of this week’s supplement. Each tag is redeemable for $20 gift certificates to either Ashfield Neighbors Convenience Store, Ashfield Lake House or Ashfield Hardware Store. The tags can be turned in at the convenience-store hang-out.

posted in Columns, Indians, Local history, Salmon, Shad | No Comments

Apr
18
2013

Streamside Rebuke

by Gary Sanderson

Peter Mallett can be a feisty devil, which comes as no surprise to me after years of entertaining phone conversations.

Yes, affable Pete Mallet — president and founder of the Millers River Fishermen’s Association — is a man of principle, not a bit timid about voicing an opinion on important matters, particularly hunting and fishing, thus, sure, an occasional dust-up. But this man of fiery French-Canadian plasma means well. No question about it. Still, let’s just say he’s not always, uhm, diplomatic. Yeah, that’s it. Diplomatic. Not always so. Thus he’s made enemies here and there. No big deal.

It just so happens that he kicked that temper of his into gear last week on the shores of Orange’s Lake Mattawa, a popular spot for pond anglers and boaters alike, what some may call sedentary anglers … or worse. Well, count Mallet out when it comes to that kind of fishing. He calls himself a fish hunter — that is, one who straps on a pair of hip boats and follows a stream through tangled woods, fields and swamps, hunting trout. Which doesn’t mean he’s never fished Mattawa. Indeed he has, but long, long ago. In fact, he’d venture a guess it’s been 40-some years since he last wet a line there; just not his kinda spot. Of course, that doesn’t stop him from checking it out on a spring whim, which, it seems, unfolded last week, when it didn’t take long for old Pete to get a hair across his ass. Why? Well, it seems he objected to a fella’s catch-and-release routine and wasn’t the least bit hesitant to correct him with a sharp rebuke at the water’s edge.

What brought Mallett to the Mattawa scene was a state stocking truck departing the boat ramp. Figuring he’d check things out, sure enough, a truck-follower was having quite a day for himself, nailing one dazed, disoriented and hungry trout after another and releasing them back into the lake, which seemed perfectly OK until closer inspection. Problem was that the guy was using sharp, lethal, barbed treble hooks and creating a gory crimson mess.

“He was catching beautiful football rainbows, all of them a pound-and-a-half, unhooking them and throwing them back in bleeding like stuck pigs,” recalled Mallett. “After the third or fourth fish, I had had enough, couldn’t take a second more. I went right down to him and said, ‘Why are you throwing those fish back? They aren’t going to live bleeding like that.’

“He just looks at me and says he likes catching trout, not eating them. He’s a catch-and-release man. I told him catch-and-release men don’t use treble hooks unless they remove the barbs. It’s easy to do with needle-nosed pliers. Either that or you buy barbless hooks to re-rig lures with, because barbed treble hooks are killers.”

Yes sir, classic Mallett. When he has something to say, there’s no holding back; just the way it is, like it or not. Some do. Some don’t. But Mallett doesn’t worry.

Which brings us to three consecutive Saturday-morning kids’-stocking events on the Millers River that he wants to publicize. The first dump will occur a week from Saturday, on April 28, at Alan Rich Park in Athol at 11 a.m. The other two will tale place at the same time at different sites on consecutive Saturdays — May 4 at the Orange Wastewater Treatment Plant, and May 11 at the Birch Hill Dam parking lot in South Royalston. Mixed in with loads of mostly one-pound trout will be some $8-a-pound lunker rainbows weighing four pounds and better, all from the Brewster Hatchery in Plymouth, according to Mallett, the oldest trout hatchery in America.

“Yeah, we plan to put out a couple of the ‘big guys’ at all three of the kids’ stockings, just to raise their eyebrows,” laughed Mallett. “You know what they say: ‘Get a kid hooked young and they’ll fish forever.’ I believe in that. That’s why any kids interested in joining us are invited.”

Those big, 4-plus-pound trout will be part of a 200-pound allotment of lunkers the club plans to secretly stock at special Millers River sites this year. “If you want to know where we put them, then you gotta buy a $5 membership,” said Mallett, always the huckster. “People have been very generous. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be able to afford these trout.”

And, as old friend Freddie Bender used to say, “you betcha believe it” Mallett will have something to say if he catches any catch-and-release men hooking his big trout with barbed treble hooks and throwing them back to die slow, grueling deaths. He doesn’t put up with such inappropriate, unacceptable behavior. If you don’t believe it, ask the fella he confronted at Mattawa, the one who got a good taste of the Mallett ire.

Love it, or leave it, because Pete’s going nowhere.

posted in Columns | No Comments

Apr
17
2013

Indian Pond

by Gary Sanderson

Where to start? That’s the problem today facing me. I know where I’m headed, just am not sure how to get there. Hmmmm? Bear with me. Plus, due to a spring freshet of info overflow, I must run a rare outdoors notebook inside.

First, though, I probably ought to begin with what got me started on this week’s topic: the search for Bullhead Pond (written “Bull Head” in the reference I noticed in Lucy Cutler Kellogg’s History of Greenfield, 1900-1929). The small, spring-fed body of water was said by Greenfield historian Mary P. Wells Smith to be the home of Greenfield’s last Indian, presumably during the last decade of the 18th or first decade of the 19th century. This Pocumtuck must have loved his homeland dearly, because he didn’t flee with the rest of his people, who were long gone to Stockbridge, Schaghticoke, the Mohawk Valley or northern Lake Champlain by then. M.P.W. Smith lived in the Greenfield Meadows at today’s Menard Farm, and she obviously knew the pond, at the edge of which the last Indian’s wigwam stood, according to oral tradition that came to her by way of her father, who learned it from famed Deerfield Indian fighter Asa Childs. Ms. Smith located the pond in the “west part of the Meadows … near a fine spring,” which, living in the Meadows myself, gave me a pretty good idea of its placement. Not only that, I knew just who to query. In fact, had to travel no farther than my own Recorder desk.

It’s funny how some things pull together quickly, because it seems to me that on the very night I inquired about the pond and got a bemused look from the young fella I queried, his phone rang and his father was on the other end. Yes! The very man I had asked him to question. I figured his dad, about my age, would have an answer.

“Hey,” my buddy asked, “do you know of a Bullhead Pond.”

“Yeah, it’s out at the back corner by GCC. There was a pile of rocks nearby that we, as kids, called the Indian grave.”

Well, at that point, I thought I had it pegged, just about where, judging from the terrain, I surmised it would have sat. But then, within a week, my colleague’s uncle, his father’s older brother, came to town for Easter and confused matters some. When asked if he knew Bullhead Pond, he said, yes, it was the one where they used to skate over by Davenport’s, before it was chopped into a sliver of its former self by Interstate 91 construction.

That’s possible, but judging from Ms. Smith’s western-Meadows description, it seems more likely that the pond she referred to was the one my colleague’s father had identified. Who knows? Maybe both ponds were called Bullhead at one time or another; or perhaps the name got confused over the years. Then again, maybe the older brother, long removed from the area, just remembered wrong, always possible from a man who moved far away long ago and rarely returns “home.”

Anyway, my friend and I toured his gorgeous, fertile acreage last week and eventually took a look at what is left of the Bullhead Pond his father pinpointed. Maybe someday I’ll go back there with the old man himself to see if that Indian grave is still there. But that’s for another day. On our first visit, we were looking for the pond site and didn’t need to hunt too hard for what I’d describe today as a spring hole. Young Springer Spaniel gun dog Chub-Chub was more than eager to explore that splashy bog, which has been compromised by GCC construction and drainage ditches. Chubby charged right in and soon had a nesting pair of vociferous mallards bursting into angry, circling flight. Jacked up, tail wagging furiously, Chubby and mother Lily popped into the open mowing heading north in determined pursuit. When they dead-ended in the far corner, both of them, frisky, penetrated the low cover of a sumac hump and soon out came a hen woodcock that flushed straight over our heads.

Yeah, I know “animal lovers” will get their hackles up, maybe even fire off critical letters to the editor objecting to our harassment of nesting wetland birds. Sorry, but I don’t buy it any more than I’m buying the Montague poop-scooper hysteria I’ve read about. Tell me, what has changed since I was a kid, anyway, dog poop or the unfortunate folks stepping in it? Those ducks and that woodcock the dogs disturbed the other day will be just fine, thank you. They weren’t bothered by us any more than they are by daily foxes, coyotes, bobcats, mink, otters or raccoons. So what’s the fuss?

But enough of that little diversion; back to Bullhead Pond and the rich, peaceful, bucolic Meadows I call home. Before arriving at what is left of pond in the marsh woods bordering the southwest corner of his hayfield, we had toured the northern perimeter of an abutter’s property, where we saw a flock of about 35 feeding turkeys I was quite familiar with. Yes, I had been watching those birds for a month or more during my daily travels. The morning flock was feeding through secluded corn stubble along a brushy fence-row concealing them from the road of my address. By afternoon, I knew they’d be visible from the road feeding in stubble t’other side the fence-row, but even that is about to change as they enter their spring routine. Soon, I told my friend, they’d be breaking up into smaller groups, with six or eight at Sunken Meadow, six or eight on his property, some on his neighbor’s land, still others scattered along the ridge above. The three or four dominant boss gobblers I’d been watching strut for the ladies would soon have their spring harems assembled before getting abandoned in favor of spring nests and summer broods. Then I’ll be bumping into little families down by the river. By July, there’ll be hens and poults feeding on insects between the brushy Christmas-tree rows. Lily and Chubby will know they’re there and will search them out daily, often flushing them into trees on both sides of the Green River. No, I’m not harassing wildlife. At least that’s not the way I view it; just teaching my little feathered friends to escape canine pursuit.

Well, it didn’t take long for my prediction about winter-flock break-up to bear fruit. Just Monday morning while walking the dogs down the wooded escarpment into a flooded marsh bordering Sunken Meadow, I had just crossed an uprooted blow-down over swollen beaver-pond back-up, when Lily and Chubby-Chub “lit up” and sprinted in opposite directions chasing the same airborne scent. Chubby aggressively splashed through chest-high water, nose shoulder high and full of something enticing, likely the mallards or wood ducks we have flushed daily, I thought. But Lily, no, it was not ducks she was after. I could tell by the way she was running. Whatever it was (maybe a rabbit?), she was running straight, fast and wide, eventually breaking through the wetland into the Christmas trees and sprinting along the perimeter to a few apple trees in the southwest corner of the northern field. There, she stopped, sprinted back toward me, turned the corner at a sumac cluster, and ran right past Chubby to the southwest corner of the southern field, turning right and sprinting straight to the beaver dam. She ran halfway across the tangled sticks and caked mud, retraced her steps into the field, splashed across a narrow, flowing channel and climbed a 12-foot oak knoll. When she reached the spine overlooking the beaver pond, she sprinted west before disappearing over the the south slope facing the hidden pond. That’s when I caught a flash and, yup, a single turkey in flight through tall wetland oaks, Lily pursuing, it ascending and pulling away. The turkey maneuvered with aplomb through the skeletal tree trunks and across the Green River, perching in a tall, mottled, riverside buttonball. Lily chased the bird to the riverbank, located it in the tree across the swollen river and trotted back to me.

I was unable to identify that bird’s sex. Although it may have been a solitary hen searching for a nesting site, my guess is that it was an immature male, or jake,  driven off by boss toms that had tolerated it in the winter flock. Jakes are now outcasts about to embark on a long, difficult yet “educational” process. Soon they’ll be men, but now they must watch from afar as their fathers and uncles strut their stuff for the lovely ladies. If instinct takes over and a jake ventures too close or has the audacity to intercept a pretty lady strolling through the hardwoods, it’ll risk bruised and bloody consequences governed by natural law called pecking order.

Yes, it sure does suck being an adolescent male, regardless of species or spirit. Then, before you can say lickety-split, you’re old and gray, not a freakin’ thing you can do about it.

Just the way it is and will forever be.

posted in Columns, Indians, Local history, The Dogs | No Comments

Apr
10
2013

Clockwork

by Gary Sanderson

It’s Wednesday morning, column day, and nothing seems to be going right, even choosing a topic difficult. One of those days, I suppose. Always dangerous. Never know where a man might wander on a warm spring day.

As for my unexpected issues, well, I imagine you all know the drill. First you go out fiddlehead hunting with dogs, bag and knife in pocket, and find clumps that aren’t ready. Then you get home in front of the computer and go immediately to your email, procrastinating, and, of course, find everything working in slow motion, annoyingly, tediously slow, and think, “Shoot! Why now?”

You close down Outlook Express, go to your anti-virus program, clean out temporary files and whatever else it is that you remove before rebooting and starting anew, hopeful everything will run snappier. This time, expecting an extended rebooting process, I signed in and left the station, moving to an adjacent parlor to kill time flipping through the new Rolling Stone magazine. Then, only a few minutes into the reboot in the next room, door ajar, I hear a disturbing yet familiar “clunk” that’s always alarming when emanating from the computer. I ignore it, sort of, page through RS 1180 a little longer, return to the computer and everything appears OK, much smoother.

I guess this spell of bad karma actually began midday Tuesday, when I foolishly decided to tinker with a country tall clock I had stopped winding two or three years ago, maybe more. I had just learned to live without when it decided for some weird reason to operate just fine, thank you, for 10 or 12 hours before sounding half-hour chimes on the hour and hour on the half, which got to be irritating indeed for anyone who pays attention to detail. At first, I took the time to make adjustments and get it chiming correctly before heading to work, only to come home many hours later and — you guessed it — same problem to greet me during my pre-sleep wind-down. Finally, I got sick of dealing with it, didn’t know who to call to fix it because yet another one of my clock repairmen, Ernie Smith from Williamsburg, up and bought the farm on me. At that point, I just opened the long, narrow case door, stopped the long brass pendulum and taunted the timepiece with, “There, take that! That’ll fix you.”

As for Old Smitty, well, let me briefly digress. I guess the old-time Yankee’s time was up. He was 93, I believe. The last time I saw him was at my place, age 91 if my memory serves me. I had picked him up in ’Burgy for a house call, brought him back to my Greenfield home and pulled out of storage in the shed a three-foot, four-legged stool with a round seat to stand on. Once inside, I placed the stool in front of a Chippendale slant-front desk standing in the taproom beneath the Aaron Willard presentation banjo clock I wanted serviced and, lo and behold, before I could even offer the man assistance, he had stepped up straight as a preacher atop that stool. No lie, the man never swayed an inch, impressive indeed for a fella of his age. Then this man of incredible geriatric agility just went and kicked the bucket on me. Yeah, Ole Smitty was quite the guy, a trouper with one of those devilish gleams in his eye and a wry grin that was even better. I loved it. He had worked for a Northampton jeweler named Gere long before I met him, a great day in my life. But then he was gone, I didn’t know who to call and thus have had two antique clocks sitting idle for many years.

Well, if you can imagine it, quite by surprise, that misfortune changed Saturday night during, of all things, a Bat Mitzvah I hosted for a colleague’s teen daughter. Her name is Emily. I call her Mable. She does fine with it. Then again, what choice does she have with a ornery critter like me? Anyway, her folks spared no expense for their only child, hiring Wholesale Klezmer Band to supply ethnic folk music for rambunctious dancing in the upstairs ballroom. The event drew quite a crowd, including many spring-fevered teens to test the spring-floor. But that’s not all they got into. It seems one of the boys took it upon himself to open the tall clock’s cherry case and nudge the pendulum into motion. I didn’t notice the clock running until everyone had gone, all was silent and I was sitting three feet away in a window-front La-Z-Boy. Then I heard the distinctive tick-tock, strong and true, remarkably in-beat. Every half-hour I’d hear a subtle click meant to engage the chime, which was not sounding, so I figured, “What the hell. Who needs it? I’ll keep it ticking as long as it keeps good time.” It was great to hear that clock beating again, always soothing in quiet spaces.”

Surprisingly, that 200-year-old clock, standing tall, idle and proud in a front parlor for years between a mantle and doorway, still kept great time and, by midday Tuesday, it was clear that it needed no regulation despite interior dust-and-cobweb filth scattered about among the brass works. That’s when — surprise! — this soon-to-be 60-year-old known for getting himself into situations he cannot easily pry himself from, especially when infected with spring euphoria, found trouble moments after finishing “Captors and Captives,” a book about Deerfield’s famous 1704 raid and its aftermath. Unhappy with the rhythmic sound of the tocks, I decided to slide off the goose-neck bonnet to expose the works and see what was happening. I should have known better. My first chore was to bring that hood outside onto the sunny porch, where I blew off a thick layer of dust from the thin, hidden, unfinished top board behind the goose-necks. Then I went to the cellar staircase for a beeswax-soaked polishing rag lying on a disorganized shelf. But, of course, I couldn’t just stop there. Are you kidding? Instead, I immediately started pleading for problems by, on a fanciful spring whim, grabbing a just-in-case oil can off the shelf tucked under the stairs to the left, leading to the second story.  What a fool. Will I ever learn? Or, better still, why must it always be the hard way?

Anyway, after carefully polishing that hood, paying special attention to the dusty undersides of the inlaid, broken-pediment goose-necks, I figured, “What the hell, maybe now that I’ve got the top off, I ought to oil the gears and see if it improves the tock.” And oil those gears I did, all of them, including the chime’s, which — oh yeah — sounded off within 10 minutes at 2 p.m. sharp. Problem was that it chimed 9 times, forcing me to rearrange the hands and run the chimes through the course to set it right and, yeeeup, problems immediately presented. First of all, having neglected the clock for some time, I had forgotten which of the two dangling weights were associated with what mechanisms, discovering to my dismay that I had wound the wrong one when trying to wind the clock. That was apparent when I noticed the one I had wound dropping with each chime. Oh well, so much for my theory that it wasn’t chiming because that weight was at its nadir. No problem, I’d just have to wind the other side, too, and hope for the best. But first I absolutely had to remount the bonnet before it tipped over or I got distracted and backed into it or something.

While winding up the heavy right-side weight hanging inside the dusty case, something didn’t feel right and the weight wasn’t climbing. So I pondered what was going on, stopped winding and, to figure out what was happening, hopped atop that same stool Old Smitty had used that day. I discovered that the braided brass chord had slipped off its wheel and gotten wound tightly around the post attaching it to the face. Not yet feeling totally defeated, I pulled a screwdriver and needle-nosed pliers from my toolbox but soon realized I would need to disassemble the face from the works and called it quits. Already in over my head and not wanting to “open a can of worms,” I stopped, went to my computer, Googled “antique clock repair” “western Mass” and came up with no good leads. Then I pulled a thick stack of business cards from inside the case of a dining-room Eli Terry shelf clock to see what I could find. It seemed to me I had somewhere written the name of a clock repairman my father told me about. No such luck. All I found was a forester who did clock work on the side but was long gone to parts unknown.

Then the search was on. I called my mother, who said she could help me. She had the name of a Florence clock repairman, who, as it turned out, is a tuba-playing musician, was old Ernie Smith’s pal and happened to be teaching his weekly UConn-Storrs music class when I reached his wife Tuesday afternoon. The wife, who teaches with my brother at Frontier Regional School, took my home phone number and assured me her husband would get back to me. When I asked if he made house calls, she laughed and said, “Yeeeeee-ah, if he must.”

So now I’m finally going to get this long-overdue clock project behind me. I’ll have the handyman fix the tall and banjo clocks, then swap the more formal taproom banjo with the plain Seth Thomas of the same style in my study. I’d been meaning to get to this project for some time but had dilly-dallied. The clock man will be here Friday morning at 8:30, quicker than expected.

It never ceases to amaze me the strange way things sometimes happen. Call it the revenge of a hormone-driven teenager horsing around with a clock on a beautiful spring-weekend night enlivened by invigorating music and robust upstairs dancing that eventually shook the frame of an old building made for social gatherings. Honestly, I could feel the old tavern’s mischievous smile and knew from experience precisely what to do. My instinctual response has always been to just buckle my chinstrap, relax and kick in my spurs to a liberating gallop.

It works for me.

posted in Antiques, Columns, Tavern Tidbits | No Comments

Apr
03
2013

Food For Thought

by Gary Sanderson

Kids and customers, a call from a friend and completion of an old novel about a familiar subject, plus matters related to all of the above — that’s what I’m thinking about as I sit here today; Worm Moon waning; brown, brittle leaves, feeble remnants of fall, tumbling, hopping and tumbling again in blustery winter winds sweeping the sunny front yard. In the background, a babbling brook, today crisp and clear, emits its soothing springtime rattle. Spring is here and, though cold, life is good.

Appropriately, friend Killer called to say he’s getting restless for his annual ice-out woodland adventure to a secret pond he must hit just right to catch large squaretails, my favorite, before all the ice vanishes. It’s a short window for success, with punky ice covering most of the pond except at the feeder-stream inflow, where a small patch of open water boils with hungry spring trout eating whatever is swept their way. If you wait till all the ice is gone, forget it, too late. By then the trout are far from shore and inaccessible. But when you hit it right — Bingo! — fat, tasty squaretails with moist orange meat, what I used to call oven-bakers, a foot or better, occasionally even a nice 18- to 22-inch trophy some folks travel far and wide to catch.

I too have such secret waters to visit but can’t say I’m hungry for brookies just now. I’d rather let New England’s only native trout live to see another day unless, of course, I was teaching my grandsons how to enjoy real angling for a fish Indians savored before European invaders arrived and added foreign rainbows and browns to the mix. In that case, I’d bounce out of bed on short sleep to get the kids there before the birds sing. Otherwise, how many must a man catch to prove he’s a fisherman? At least, that’s my way of thinking. I guess the way I see it is you master one game and take up another, which is about how I feel about turkeys and deer. Not that I consider myself a master hunter of either, but I do understand them and have learned how to kill both, so what else must I prove? That I can bag a big one every year no matter the physical price paid? No thanks. Don’t need the ego boost or Facebook fame. I’d rather move on, maybe learn to understand critters new to the same habitat, perhaps moose or cougars, maybe even explore ceremonial landscapes, clues of which most hunters obliviously walk right past.

But wait! Before I venture further, a quick related reminder that the stocking trucks are rolling and will by the end of the week have hit: the upper Deerfield River; lower-Deerfield tributaries in Conway named Bear and South rivers and Poland Brook; Sawmill River in Shutesbury, Leverett and Montague; Lake Mattawa in Orange; and the three Warwick Ponds called Sheomet, Moores and Forestry Camp. Truth be told, it’s getting to the point where publicizing this type of information is a waste of ink when you consider that your average angler can pull it up with a few effortless clicks of an iPhone or BlackBerry at the water’s edge. But that’s a discussion for another day, one worth exploring.

Anyway, the grandkids were in town for Easter and we had a splendid weekend, capped by a tasty ham from a hog their widowed mother’s new man raised. The whole gang was at the old tavern for the first time, and it really is a magical place for a holiday gathering and Easter-egg hunt. Six guests appeared, four of them children: my two grandsons along with the man’s 5-year-old daughter from another marriage and a new 3-month-old half-brother. Before bed Saturday night, older grandson Jordie and I were chatting in the parlor when he, out of the clear moon-lit sky, asked if I’d take him hunting someday? Of course, I told him, if that’s what he wanted. What’s funny is that earlier that same day a carload of Jehovah’s Witnesses had stopped to chat in the driveway, and the driver had in tow (I would guess) his 3-year-old grandson. When I told him I was soon expecting my own Vermont tribe, he asked if I was going to teach them to hunt someday. I said yes, if they wanted to learn. I told of trying to teach my own kids, how they loved accompanying me through tangled fall pheasant coverts, watching the dogs work, the birds flush, me shoot, the dogs retrieve, but never had a stomach for killing, which was cool by me. They did love fishing, though, I told my impromptu visitors, and didn’t like throwing them back one bit, either. That I can understand. What’s fishing to kids without snapping the fishes’ necks, gutting them, putting them on a stringer or into a fern-lined wicker creel, and bringing them home for breakfast, pan-fried in a Griswold skillet with eggs over-easy, home-fries and thick-cut slab bacon? Again, just me, but the way I figure it, never hurts to teach kids where their food comes from, no matter what your vegan pals try to tell you.

Which reminds me of a little walk I took last fall with an interesting weekend guest from Wales, he a college administrator passing through with his wife and two attractive 20-something daughters, their accent seductive indeed. This affable Welshman seemed quite pleased to notice a display of old working decoys on along a high shelf just under the parlor ceiling off the carriage sheds. “Oh, are you a shooter?” he asked with a smile. When I told him yes, it immediately drew us into a discussion that lasted the remainder of his stay. We swapped descriptions of how and what we hunted and, following the first breakfast, he laced up his shin-high boots to accompany me on one of my daily rambles with the dogs through Sunken Meadow. After that, I decided to take a quick country ride through the Fall Town Gore and up into the eastern Colrain and Shelburne uplands, just a peek at the local landscape.

As we walked the western perimeter of Sunken Meadow, I pointed out the distinctive, splayed-V-shaped track of a buck I’ve watched since a suckling. I had just seen that deer a night or two earlier, and what had been a pronghorn the previous year looked like a 6- or 7-pointer in the 140-pound class. When he inquired would I hunt the animal during deer season, I said no, that it didn’t seem fair. After learning to live with each other for three years, that deer and others he travels with knew my truck, my whistle, my dogs and daily routes. I knew their habits as well, where they preferred to cross the river or flee when I got too close. I said I’d rather go to the top of the hill and kill deer I didn’t know. He just nodded his head with a wry grin and said, “Yes, I totally understand, but if you had to kill that deer for food, you could. That’s important, I think. I have often told my wife that I find it comforting to know we could survive if I needed to hunt our food. I guess many people would die today if there were no groceries. It’s sad.”

How true.

Before I go, a quick mention of a book I found last week in the American Political Biography catalog I receive monthly by snail-mail from a — guuuulp — Newtown, Conn., dealer. Yes, there it was, “The Duke of Stockbridge: A Romance of Shays’ Rebellion,” a novel I wasn’t familiar with but could not resist. Although I wouldn’t call myself a Shays’ Rebellion scholar, I have read virtually everything worth reading on the brief insurrection that unfolded right here in the Pioneer Valley. So this book by Chicopee Falls author Edward Bellamy (1850-1898) was a natural for me. An interesting side note that contributed to my interest in the man is that Bellamy, son of a Baptist preacher, married Emma Augustine Sanderson, a lady I intend to learn more about. Give me a little time. I’ll figure it out.

But back to her author husband, a longtime newspaperman whose final stop was the Springfield Union, where he served as an editorial writer and book reviewer. Best known for his 1888 novel “Looking Backward,” Bellamy’s interpretation of Shays’ Rebellion was way ahead of its time, first published in 1879 as a serialized “Berkshire Courier” feature. After Bellamy’s death, cousin Rev. Francis Bellamy put together a rewritten version in 1900. The edition I bought was better, published in cloth hardcover in 1962 by Harvard University’s prestigious Belknap Press, supported by the Waldron Phoenix Belknap Trust, dedicated to “editing and publishing rare, inaccessible or hitherto unpublished source material of interest in connection with the history, literature, art, commerce, customs, and manners or way of life of the Colonial and Federal Periods of the United States.” This John Harvard Library Press edition, overseen by Editor-in-Chief Bernard Bailyn, erased Rev. Bellamy’s “revisions” and published the text as it had appeared in the newspaper.

Harvard historian Samuel Elliot Morison, no liberal by any stretch, identified “The Duke of Stockbridge” as a “great historical novel” that gave “a more accurate account of the causes and events of Shays’ Rebellion than any of the formal histories.” Although it’s no literary masterpiece, I stand in full agreement on its historical value. Bellamy’s “fictional” account reminded me of Upton Sinclair’s “Boston: A Documentary Novel” about Sacco and Vanzetti. To this day, “Boston” is acknowledged as the definitive analysis of the controversial executions, called fiction only because of the “artistic license” Sinclair employed in depicting the socio-political climate that allowed two innocent “anarchists” to be electrocuted “for the greater good.”

Before I go, one final observation from Bellamy’s Shays’ Rebellion novel. I must say I find it interesting that, like George Sheldon’s classic “History of Deerfield,” “The Duke” was first published in weekly installments by a small late 19th century newspaper. I wonder if, in these days of shrinking circulation fueled by reader dissatisfaction with regurgitated news they’ve already seen on TV, maybe local history, analysis and juxtaposition with contemporary issues would sell. Maybe “old news” like that would ignite interest instead of exodus.

It used to sell papers when they were the only news source in town. So why not now, when unique news is so critical to newspaper survival?

posted in Columns, Grandkids | No Comments

Mar
27
2013

Under The Lens

by Gary Sanderson

You built your tower strong and tall,

can’t you see it’s got to fall someday?

Townes Van Zandt

“Tower Song”

 Spring is the time of sprouts and seedlings, buds and leaves, floods and flowers, growth and nest-building — the soggy, saturated season that stirs thoughts I don’t other months entertain.

Honestly, this tiptoe introspection only seems to get worse, or is it better, as I grow older, wiser. I’m not complaining. I welcome imaginative probes, new thoughts sprouting from old, old regenerating from new, no rhyme nor reason, just random thoughts, one piling atop another, some helpful, others not, all tightening a sturdy chestnut frame. I call it processing, what separates you and me from that statuesque whitetail standing and watching your approach from just inside the tree line, or turkeys scattering into the trees with rambunctious, tail-wiggling Lily and Chubby in hot pursuit. Yeah, those creatures can process, too. No doubt about it. But not like we do. The difference is our ability to let the mind scamper off, trying along the way to capture fleeting, zigzagging memories, no fears, no rules or restrictions; just free, uninhibited play, always the best kind, the mind an enticing playground.

So here I sit in just such a liberated state, following a lively ramble with the dogs. After a few days of innkeeping chores I enjoy when serving the right people, I and the four-legged kids snaked our way around familiar hayfield perimeters, down a slippery escarpment point and across a narrow frozen beaver channel I’ll soon have to skirt if I want to stay dry along the riverside plain’s edge. Not today. The ice could still be crossed at one shady spot, which, of course, the dogs went directly to without even thinking. I guess it’s instinct, although they’d swim if they had to, or, then again, maybe if they just felt like it. I just watch and follow. They seem to have a sixth sense for such things, and I respect it. Actually, we help each other. I like to believe they respect my human sixth sense, which I employ for maneuvers they’re not as adept at. We use each other to our own advantages, are loyal friends and companions, no lies or deceit, no lust to distort vision. I’ll probably outlive them both and be sad when they go, always ready to greet anew another. Someday, my pets will outlive me. That’s life. We all come and go, not a thing we can do about it, regardless of chapel attendance.

My thoughts this morning were particularly ephemeral, flittering from one subject to another like a hummingbird dancing from blossom to blossom in a sweet, thorny upland pasture. These graceful cranial gymnastics were sparked by a weekend inn booking, a Friday-night visit to a presentation on a familiar topic, and conversations here and there about Indians, history, discontinued roads, cellar holes, old families and first loves gone bitter and distasteful, the kind you hack up and spit. All talk. Nothing more. And talk is cheap, lies cheaper still. But we all do it, endure and vanish. You win some, lose some, and it often comes down in the end to luck of the draw, roll of the dice, a simple coin flip, some outcomes happy, others brutally sad. The way it is.

I share these inner thoughts because I entertained all of them and many more on my post-breakfast walk with the dogs on a gray March morning; raw, not cold, actually refreshing once my heart got pumping with force enough to show on my open-necked jacket zipper. My mind wandered in and out of that old Asa Sanderson house in West Whately, the woods surrounding it, the reservoirs, the streams, the hidden roadside relics and foggy Indian mist, all of which I know well and probably knew even better before I stumbled upon them in this life. That house, those woods, the waters and others in this place I call home are pulsing through my system. I believe that and am convinced it was as much the lurking kindred spirits as the young seductress who called it home that lured me in. Call me crazy but I do believe deeply rooted diversions usually cannot be attributed to simple coincidence.

At the same time these inner thoughts captivated me, nighttime moon nearing full bloom, my mind kept wandering back to that Susan Morse PowerPoint presentation on New England cougar re-emergence, and how what she said in so many ways mirrored a dynamic I’ve noticed between establishment spokespeople and credentialed, independent researchers relying on identical or at least similar degrees to study the same topics and arrive at different conclusions. I’ve watched this perplexing, at times counter-productive battle unfold between folks folks who routinely receive government grants and competing independent researchers who, because they have unconventional or maybe even unpopular views, are dole-excluded. I remember watching this curious game unfold during a long Atlantic salmon-restoration debate ultimately lost by the authorities, again in what promises to be a long, drawn-out controversy that will also be lost by those spewing government doctrine, and now — imagine that! — here it comes again in what appears to me at least to be veiled yet open warfare between professional and amateur archaeologists working to piece together evidence left behind by the indigenous tribes we displaced from the Pioneer Valley four centuries ago.

To be perfectly honest, it’s hard for me to get my head around this stuff. Disruptive infighting acts only as an obstacle, not a quick, cooperative path to discovery. You’d think all parties would understand this, know that the fastest route to the truth is achieved by combining in a blender diverse ideas and opinions and furiously liquefying it into a frothy serum. But, no, seldom does it happen that way. Not when egos enter the fray and someone has to be in charge. Then headstrong supervisors tend to narrow the focus to theirs, demanding compliance, no time-consuming distractions or devil’s advocacy, please. This rigid my-way-or-the-highway approach is usually a path to flawed conclusions.

Which brings me back to that Morse lecture, hosted by the Shelburne Grange at the First Congregational Church’s Fellowship Hall. The Power-Point presentation drew an overflow community crowd, filling the parking lot and then some. I love to watch small-town gatherings like that, so folksy and old-fashioned. You name it, they were there: from town officials, firemen and police to farmers and merchants and restless toddlers voicing loud objections, even a veteran, out-of-town veterinarian, all but the babies interested to hear what Morse had to say about cougars. Trust me, her conclusions were not what state and federal wildlife officials like to hear. No sir. Not by a long shot. She says wayward, migrating Western cougars have been dispersing through the Northeast for decades and will continue to do so on their comeback trail. Not only that but, if it has not already happened in the highest, steepest, stoniest, most remote places, a reproductive New England population will soon arrive. This the opinion of a Vermonter and card-carrying wildlife biologist with the papers to prove her acumen. Morse has studied cougars and bobcats and lynxes and bears and coyotes and wolves from one end of this continent to the other — north, south, east and west —  and she doesn’t hesitate to say that the big feline predators are wandering back after being pushed out more than 100 years ago. One crucial argument confirms a point you likely have read right here and maybe questioned. We’re talking about the new revelation that there is one and only one North American mountain lion, and it ranges from Ecuador to northern Canada. What is meant by this is that all the 2011 press releases and newspaper stories about “Eastern cougar” reclassification from endangered to extinct was meaningless policy penned by card-carrying doctors of wildlife who cash hefty establishment paychecks. Imagine that: no difference in mitochondrial DNA between the Western cougar, the Florida panther or what came to be known as Eastern cougar. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, government officials. How embarrassing! Yes, the emperor is parading through the courtyard in his new clothes and is buck naked.

Believe me, I know quite well the “official position” on cougar re-emergence after being “warned off” the subject for parts of four decades by state and federal officials I respect and have maintained friendly, respectful relationships with, despite ignoring their pleas to be silent. The reason for my continuing coverage of the unpopular subject has always been simple: most of the people who have reported sightings have been credible — end of freakin’ story. I trusted them and went with their tales in print as establishment officials cried “inappropriate” and “irresponsible.” I ignore them, listened to timid witnesses.

And now here we go down a similar path with the recent archaeological stuff I’ve submerged myself in. I just keep plugging, have read much more, listened to many additional sources, been sternly “warned off” and threatened but can’t ignore it. Far too interesting. The result is that I find myself confused, amused and more determined than ever to unveil the truth. Why accept official findings when you suspect them to be invalid. Sorry, I don’t flee confusion or intimidation. I try to let incendiary topics burn, bringing them into clear focus, and must admit I’m getting there slowly but surely on this subject in my “spare time.” The people who’d most like me quiet must be happy I can’t devote all my time to this story, because it’s fascinating and, trust me, will definitely stir reader-interest.

So, stay tuned and, in the meantime, allow me to leave you with a perplexing little query. That is: Why do you suppose some experts with “nothing to hide” squirm so when clipped to the microscope’s stage?

Don’t overthink. It ain’t rocket science.

posted in Columns | No Comments

Mar
20
2013

Cougar Classrooms

by Gary Sanderson

Hmmmm? Isn’t it interesting, maybe even humorous how topics with furry legs and big teeth linger?

Yes, here I sit — still studying ritualistic landscapes and sacred burial grounds of our ancient indigenous tribes, with a current focus on sites called Wissatinnewag and Peskeomskut, where Northeastern Indians congregated in peace and harmony each spring to harvest migratory fish and renew old acquaintances — and I’ll be damned if a familiar old topic didn’t come charging at me like mid-May shad swimming up the Holyoke tailrace. Maybe it’s a coincidence but, like the Indians, this native son was also driven from the region by 18th- and 19th-century settlers.

I’m talking about cougars, and, no, no, no, not the cradle-robbers trolling for eligible young suitors in Valley Advocate personal ads, either. We’re talking here about four-legged, man-eating wildcats with long, loping tails, sharp claws and teeth. That’s right: big mountain lions that some local folks of sound mind and body believe are back, and not just as wayward travelers occasionally passing through. On what do they base this daring prediction? Very simple: their own two eyes, which some view as solid evidence trumping all other. But don’t count state and federal wildlife officials among the crowd that relies on its senses to draw a conclusion. Uh-uh. You see, the gilt-framed experts in air-conditioned offices still have a thing about “sightings” — that is, witnessing something with the eyes God gave you to process what crosses your path. In fact, these learned officials refuse to accept sightings as anything but misidentifications and fantasia, an opinion that enrages those who risk going out of their way to reach out and report one. Such folks typically find themselves muttering under their breath as they walk away: “What the *$#@ do they think I am, a freakin’ idiot; some Summer of Love survivor experiencing an LSD flashback? What’s wrong with these people? Shouldn’t they take this stuff serious?”

Well, maybe not, but trust me, this popular coffee-shop conversation piece is not fading off into Cautantowwit’s orange southwestern sunset anytime soon. Quite the contrary, it seems to be picking up momentum. And now, with the emergence of “Cougars of the Valley” (COV), a dedicated local investigatory group that chases leads to search for physical evidence, then leaves trail cameras behind to try and capture big cats on film, it’s getting hotter still.

Which brings us to Friday and Saturday nights, when double-barreled PowerPoint cougar presentations will touch down at separate local venues, one right here in Franklin County, the other in the southwestern Hampshire hills, not out of range by any stretch. Both programs promise to provide interesting information gathered by folks of different sexes who have tracked the re-emergence of Northeastern cougars and have plenty to say.

First, right here in our backyard, there’ll be a 7 o’clock Friday gig at Fellowship Hall on 17 Little Mohawk Road in Shelburne. There, entertaining Vermont naturalist/writer/lecturer Susan Morse will be on hand as the Shelburne Grange’s guest. Then, Saturday at 7 at Stanton Hall on 26 Russell Rd in Huntington, long a hotbed of four-legged cougar reports, the aforementioned COV will sponsor a program by ubiquitous Rhode Island cougar tracker Bill Betty, who will unveil a 90-minute PowerPoint show that spares no one involved in the Northeastern state-sanctioned denials that the large feline predators, native to New England through the late 19th century, are indeed repopulating the region. My guess is that Morse’s spiel is a little less confrontational or accusatory than Betty’s, but one never knows. This debate is getting wild, with the frequency of cougar-sightings increasing dramatically, including a certain impossible-to-deny South Dakota “disperser” that turned up as road-kill on a southern Connecticut highway in the spring of 2011.

Morse — founder of Keeping Track, Inc. from Huntington, Vt. — has 37 years experience as a naturalist and will be returning to western Massachusetts after appearing before a large fall crowd at Easthampton’s Arcadia Wildlife Sanctuary. Regarded as a tracking and nature guru, Morse has published many articles in respected outdoor journals, and was recipient of the 2001 Franklin Fairbanks Award for a lifetime of creative and dedicated service to enriching New England residents’ awareness and understanding of the natural world. To bring her to Shelburne, Selectman Joe Judd had to lace up his fundraising shoes, soliciting five generous donor-partners to help cover the fee. And those five benefactors — American Farm Bureau, National Wild Turkey Federation, Northeast Big Bucks Club, Virtual Archery and, Mountain Lion Foundation — will all set up promotional booths for Morse’s presentation.

“You better get there early,” cautioned Judd, “because there’s limited seating and I expect a big crowd. I’ve advertised it, and more and more local people are reporting sightings. I expect many of them to show up out of curiosity. I sure hope we don’t have to turn people away.”

As for Mr. Betty, well, he’s been in the forefront of the New England cougar watch for two decades and, like Morse, is no stranger to the Pioneer Valley. I have spoken to the man in the past and assume he brings chin music among his assorted pitches. His local credits include a 2005 lecture at the Hitchcock Center for the Environment in Amherst. That’s just one presentation that comes immediately to mind. There have been others, along with many in Connecticut and the northern New England states. More controversial and less credentialed than Morse, many will find Betty’s pugnacious style entertaining. On the other hand, word has it that some state and federal officials are not a bit amused by his shtick, which I don’t doubt. But again, people from the Westfield River community he’ll address have grown accustomed to hearing cougar tales over the years, so the program just may attract an agreeable cabin-fever crowd, with the strong hint of spring that I prematurely predicted had arrived last week poking through fresh white snow-cover.

It could shape up as an interesting weekend for folks curious about the possibility of a cougar comeback. Remember, the establishment continues to insist that Eastern cougars are extinct. Morse and Betty beg to differ. So do the COV folks, who are determined to prove it. Not only is COV looking for cougars, it’s in dogged pursuit of cubs or kittens to establish a reproductive population. And don’t you dare dismiss their goal as far-fetched. The group is committed and confident that, given the advanced hunter-surveillance cameras on the market, they’ll find what they’re pursuing.

Stay tuned. My line of communication with COV spokesman Ray Weber is open and very active, and the man seems to be cocked back on his haunches ready to pounce on fresh red meat.

posted in Columns, Cougars | No Comments

Mar
13
2013

Change Is Near

by Gary Sanderson

Two songs: one upbeat, joyous, the fiddle and mandolin giggling; the other foreboding, threatening, the tall stand-up base groaning in distress. I have hesitated for some time to jump into the gun-control fray, but will go there today; for what, I do not know. What do I have to gain? So, first, the happy tune celebrating spring’s arrival. Then guns, a discussion spurred by the plea of a reader minutes before the arrival of “Rolling Stone,” Issue 1178, Billie Joe Armstrong on the cover, an unrelated tease below reading “Blood Money: The Big Business of Assault Rifles.”

Believe me, my claim that spring’s already sprung has absolutely nothing to do with trusted morning weather wizards Al Roker or Willard Scott. And, no, I didn’t see “spring begins” in bold black letters on the Billy Burns Northwestern Mutual Audubon calendar snuggled between the fridge and dining-room door. Nope. All I needed was Springer-Spaniel pal Lily-butt, her and my diminishing eyesight, sadly no longer able to read the tight rotation of an oncoming slider, but still good enough, I guess. Lily, ready to turn 10 on my 34th wedding anniversary in late April, told me spring is here during a sunny Sunday-morning romp through granular Sunken Meadow corn snow, still close to a foot deep along the two southern cuffs shaded from morning sun. Yes, near a large, stately apple tree just past the midpoint of our daily rambles, Old Tavern Farm’s Tiger Lily disappeared over the edge, she did, and down the loose, gravely, 10-foot, undercut Green River bank. When I arrived at the escarpment edge moments later and looked down at the water, there she stood, up to her chest, taking a loud, sloppy drink. It gets better. Refreshed, with absolutely no encouragement or warning, she pushed off for a lazy swim toward the opposite bank, circling back on the downstream side, just for the hell of it I guess, slurping occasional drinks from the surface. She glided back to where she had started, leaving a V-shaped wake, regained a foothold on the rocky stream bead, removed herself, shook vigorously and scaled the bank back into the meadow. There she immediately trotted north to the eastern tree line, followed it a short distance, stuck her head into thorny farm-roadside bushes and exited with a familiar old skunk hide and tail in her mouth. She calmly dropped it between two shallow tire ruts melted bare and rolled on it with carnal glee.

What better indicator that spring has arrived? I’ve walked that loop almost daily all winter and it’s the first time she’s taken a swim since bird-hunting season. That sealed the message sent by front-yard cardinals singing their happy tunes, even when cool, gray and wet; the daffodils and crocuses sprouting between the snow pile off the slate roof and the house’s southern perimeter; and the lady bugs buzzing around atop the southern indoor window cases, seeking the same way out that they found in last fall.

On our return trip to Sunken Meadow Wednesday, following the drenching rain that melted much snow and reopened my backyard brook, along the raised lip overlooking swollen beaver ponds in the southwest corner, two massive red oaks, an equally impressive shagbark hickory and its tall, straight, shaggy adult offspring had noticeably changed their frigid dispositions. They appeared happy, richer in color, their branches reaching out, the budded tips up to embrace the morning sun and savor gluttonous overnight imbibing. Ah yes, just beginning, will get better. Much better. Spring has always stirred my most mischievous juices. Pushing 60, not much has changed.

Enough! Onward ho. No. Wait! A couple more tidbits.

I must report finishing that William S. Simmons book on the spiritual world and folklore of southern New England Indians, and enjoyed a long, entertaining visit from local lecturer Jim Vieira, who years back started popular presentations about sacred landscapes and related stone structures. Well, now he’s ventured far off the rails into discussion about a prehistoric land of North American giants. This new focus is attracting overflow crowds to local venues, a development that seems threatening to academic archaeologists, anthropologists and historians, who have responded with a concerted effort to debunk and silence the man. Oh well, what else is new? I don’t expect he’ll drop it. This dust-up between professional and amateur researchers has been going on for a long, long time, not likely to subside anytime soon. All I can say is thank the highest heavens for “amateurs” like Sheldon, Judd, Trumbull and, later, David Costello of map-making fame. Where would we be without these local antiquarians? But enough of that, perhaps another day. Right now, space heater purring at my back, sun blinding through the window, I find myself pondering that email jolt from an old Hatfield friend who thinks it’s high time for my “take, feelings, perception and overall opinion and insight on the hottest topic in the land, GUN CONTROL!”

Hmmmmm, guuuulp? Here we go.

Honestly, I have intentionally avoided this debate because I do not think the sensible approach is popular among the National Rifle Association rabble populating hook & bullet clubs. So why poke a hornets’ nest I have never been totally comfortable with due to innate political/philosophical differences? When I responded promptly, articulating my position and dilemma, my correspondent friend waited three days to reply and cut me not even a shallow belly of slack. “Your comments about gun control reflect the prevalent feelings of most gun owners today,” he replied. “Your position of keeping your thoughts close to your vest may be more in the national majority than you think. … We are afraid to say anything either way in public for fear of ‘offending’ either side of this very emotional issue. I too remain silent, many times biting my tongue just to avoid arguments with good friends — freedom of speech buried by emotion and personalities.”

Wow! Imagine that. A second scolding pig-piling atop that “Rolling Stone” article, which, no lie, I read not 20 minutes after shaking off my friend’s first backhander to address the gun-control issue. The Tim Dickinson article titled “The Gun Industry’s Deadly Addiction: Firearm manufacturers are betting their future on the military-style weapons used in Newtown and Aurora” is accompanied by a black & white photo of a teenage girl holding a light-colored, designer-model assault rifle. Dickinson reduces the debate to — Surprise! — a simple matter of capitalistic dollars and cents. Yeah, greed. That’s exactly what we’re talking about. Go figure. Even though the powerful, well-funded NRA still relies on old-standby sportsmen for vocal support and votes, it and the gun industry fully realize hunters cannot and will in the future not be able to carry their water. “Today, hunting guns account for less than a quarter of the market,” writes Dickinson, “and the hunting industry is forecasting a 24-percent drop in revenue by 2025.” On the other hand, in just five years time, gun manufacturers’ aggressive marketing campaign has paid handsome dividends, with handgun sales soaring 70 percent, those of assault-weapons doubling.

Guess what that means, fellas? Well, it ain’t rocket science, even for a flunky like me. Despite hunting’s slow death, gun and ammunition manufacturers are doing quite well, thank you, by building new markets and creating bogey men — dire threats like terrorists, illegal immigrants, and even ex- and current controlling bores who keep “their” women in servitude by brute force and intimidation. First the advertisers instill fear, then they teach their timid targets to release frustration by pulling the trigger of a powerful killing machine that can mow down even the meanest of monsters. I guess the husbands who buy spouses Christmas weapons to soothe their bored, frustrated-housewife syndrome just have to pray they don’t play out gun-club fantasies at home when their differences turn “irreconcilable.”

Then, of course, Dickinson says there’s an industry-wide motto that states: Teach a man to hunt, he goes hunting. Teach a woman and the whole family hunts. But that’s old news. The industry is way past trying to rebuild the hunting pool with women, regardless of those state-sanctioned “Women in the Outdoors” initiatives that cropped up a decade and more ago, likely with the backing of the NRA and its gun- manufacturer cash cows. It appears that gun salesmen now view hunters as supplemental consumers. A dying breed, hunters have been relegated to cheap mannequins in the gun-shop storefront drawing consumers to the till for handguns, purse derringers, assault rifles and all the enticing power-trip accessories promoted as the answer to self-defense and personal-protection worries. And that doesn’t even address the adrenaline rush of video-games played out on target ranges not unlike shooting clays or 3-D archery courses you’ve seen mentioned right here. These days in states like Florida and presumably Texas, instead of deer and bear and woodcock popping out into manicured sight lines on wooded courses, gun enthusiasts are shooting at “‘zombie targets, including ‘The Terrorist’ and, more troubling, a blood-soaked, buxom woman target called ‘The Ex,’” according to the Dickinson piece. Apparently in this era of video games and reality TV, kids and their moms just aren’t content shooting in gravel pits at tin cans or round, one-inch florescent targets stuck to gallon jugs. They want “action,” all of it dangerous to those of us who value our gun-owning rights, because out of this new faux-commando culture comes the likes of troubled Adam Lanza, who shouldn’t have access to assault rifles.

This I can say from the heart: Although I do possess a special license to carry a concealed handgun and own high-capacity weapons, I have never shot an assault rifle and have no desire to own or fire such a firearm. In fact, I rarely carry concealed, never in my daily rounds. I remember going to the skeet and trap range as a boy with my Uncle Bob each Wednesday evening outside Minneapolis-St. Paul and can’t imagine any of those gentleman owning such a military-style killing machine unless retrieved as a relic from some distant battlefield they fought on. That, I can understand. I cannot get my head around going to the local gun club to walk a target course where frightening human targets pop up in front of you, one a rapist, another a serial killer or maybe one of those diabolic demons of room-to-room video-game chases and online military or police games.

The gun-activists screaming loudest in opposition to background checks and assault-weapon bans — the same ones vociferously mimicking the NRA argument that only good people with guns can stop bad people from killing rampages at schools, malls and movie theaters, and who loyally vote the NRA ticket in every election — are slitting their own throats with die-hard support for NRA post-Newtown rants. Just this week an old military man from South Deerfield stopped by my home on another matter and, during a delayed departure under the rainy carriage sheds, he addressed the subject of assault weapons. He admitted  being perplexed by the debate, confused by the NRA argument.

“When I was 10, I got my first BB gun,” he explained. “I got a pellet gun at 15, a single-shot 12-gauge for bird-hunting at 16, and had to wait till I was 18 for a .22 because, you know, those bullets travel farther. I’ll be honest. I’ve never wanted to own one of those weapons I shot in the service. You’d pull the trigger and a quick burp would release 40 rounds. Those guns aren’t for hunting. They’re for killing. Why should anyone own one?”

Yes indeed, just one man’s opinion, I guess, but trending toward the mainstream, I suspect. On the other hand, it’s obvious why ammo manufacturers love such weapons at 50 cents a bullet. Think of it. When did hunters ever unleash such a profitable barrage? Most pheasant hunters don’t shoot 40 shells in a season. Deer and turkey hunters shoot even less.

I would guess that these days my friend, not a “lefty” by any stretch of the imagination, can find a lot of support for his opinion among gun owners and a shriveling hunter pool that’s tired of the insane carnage perpetrated by deranged people carrying military firepower. Like it or not fellas, I think assault weapons are on their way out. There are, in my opinion, two ways to go: cooperate and continue hunting and owning appropriate sporting weapons; or dig in, fight and suffer the painful consequences for waving the reactionary NRA flag. Public opinion has turned. The crazy, Wayne LaPierre/Charlton Heston NRA tirades, showy veins of anger bulging from their necks, have become the rallying cry, the wind behind the sails of the ever-expanding anti-gun movement.

So, fellas, if you want to slit your own throats, be my guest, but please count me out. I see no reason to participate in such an unnecessary Jonestown-style bloodletting. It seems to me we’ve tried the video-arcade game of assault rifles and it’s backfired loudly by making these weapons far too accessible to sociopaths. Maybe it’s time to try something new.

Seasons change. So do rules and regulations. Sometimes for the better.

posted in Columns, The Dogs | No Comments

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