Good thing I dug out my rugged hunting boots with the aggressive tread for a Wednesday-morning trek with the dogs. Icy and treacherous underfoot, I|couldn’t even walk my regular path. Nope. Had to trudge along the edge, crossing the path several times, previous days’ footprints glare ice after overnight rain, the ice getting harder and slipperier by the second. But, hey, it’s winter. At least I can still get to out-of-the-way spots that were inaccessible in January last year, when, with four-foot snow banks lining the roads, there was nowhere to park.

Not sure where I’m headed today. Probably stream-of-consciousness ramblings about cordwood and cougars, beavers and ballots, maybe even idle thoughts stirred by flatpicker Jorma Koukonen, the old Jefferson Airplane guitarist and current Hot Tuna frontman. Just this morning in the truck, I was listening to Jorma’s version of “Breadline Blues,” a Depression-era tune about downtrodden workers and corrupt government. It took me off to another place, mind wandering. My salient thought was that the smart folks weren’t standing in breadlines or sitting in soup kitchens back then. No sir. They were making moonshine in the basement or scheming to rob a bank. But that’s just my twisted way of thinking, I guess. You know how it is. Some kids grow up rooting for the cops, some root for the robbers. Out of those two schools of thought come conservatives and liberals. Me, well, let’s just say I’m no law-and-order man and leave it at that. But let us not digress. How about beavers? Yeah, beavers. I’ve been waiting to throw in my two cents’ worth ever since reading a couple of scholarly books about the 17th century Massachusetts economy, which initially relied heavily upon valuable beaver pelts.

Oh, before I continue, here it is getting cold and windy again and, sure enough, outside my window, the bluebirds are back. Just saw one perched on the electrical wires to my left. They’re here for the rose hips and bayberries. I do look forward to their visits, like sparrows in bright, happy colors. Which reminds me: I’m also expecting a visit from another bird of sorts: firewood vendor Blue Sky. Good thing the snow’s not deep and he can still get his dump-truck to the woodshed out in the backyard alcove. Otherwise I’d have issues I’d promised myself never again to endure. No, I hope I never in a pinch have to throw wood in the carriage shed out front, right in everyone’s freakin’ face, including my own. I probably should have never gotten to this point, but it wasn’t entirely my fault. Because Blue Sky was busy cleaning up tree damage left in the wake of that weird October snowstorm, he apparently fell behind in his cordwood duties. But now, thanks to an unusual winter with minimal snowcover, I’m going to sidestep a major inconvenience. Whew! But, again, let’s not get distracted. Back to the beavers, which have been multiplying and creating quite a mess in these parts ever since leg-hold trapping was outlawed almost 20 years ago. What an idiotic measure that was. If you don’t believe it, ask the landowners. They’ll tell you straight up that the laws are insane. If only the government would listen. The majority of voters, who, of course, had never seen a beaver dam anywhere but in a wildlife sanctuary or a movie before the vote, sent a message loud and clear that trapping was cruel and unacceptable in our modern, dignified Commonwealth. And while it’s true that trapping can be ugly business, it’s also true that trappers played a key wildlife-management role. Well, those days are apparently forever gone.

Here’s what irks me most. History tells us beavers are easy to control, and they were, indeed, indiscreetly managed by trappers for centuries before the ivory-tower animal lovers intervened to greet the new millennium. Back in the mid 1630s, when William Pynchon and son John were building Springfield into New England’s No. 1 beaver-trading outpost, the black, furry rodents were the most marketable New World commodity in England, and easy to come by. Beaver pelts made the Pynchons wealthy men overnight. But then, less than three decades later, the beavers were gone. Because the critters are slow reproducers and do not migrate, they were soon wiped out of primeval wetlands on both sides of the Connecticut and Hudson rivers. Here today, gone tomorrow. That fast. No lie.

So now, as I monitor the unfortunate souls trying to manage a beaver problem along the periphery of a riverside meadow I visit often, and learn in discussion of the annoying rules interfering with their task, I wonder how such foolish laws could have ever been adopted. Then I wonder how they have managed to stay in place for two long decades. It’s unbelievable. An old trapper friend of mine told me last week that he could solve the problem down in that meadow in two weeks, tops; that beavers are easy to trap. Yet the poor souls trying to work by the letter of the law have no chance, no matter how many times they demolish dams (illegal), install corrugated pipes for drainage, hire an expensive wildlife exterminator (probably also illegal), or erect chain-link fences, all of which accomplish only short-term solutions.

Back when trappers were working their trap-lines, few people were aware of their presence, and beavers were isolated in the wilderness, where they bothered no one. Now they’re back in the bottomland meadows of civilization, where they multiply as privileged nuisances laying waste to landowners’ property and wallets. Who can blame the folks who shoot and trap them illegally? Some laws are made to be broken, and game wardens with a conscience know it. Sad, indeed, the problems a misguided ballot initiative with overwhelming support can create. But enough of that. Let’s move to cougars.

Yes, the email feedback just keeps on coming. I hope it never stops, even if the experts do think I’m irresponsible for writing about cougars. Remember, they tried to silence me about the doomed Connecticut River Atlantic salmon-restoration project, too, to no avail. Included in my cougar correspondence were comments from people who had reported previous local sightings and felt vindicated by the Edward Caron sighting in Leyden, another from an Orange man who was stunned to see a cougar cross the road in front of him early one morning a couple of weeks ago in Windsor while traveling Route 9 to Pittsfield, and — get this — one from an msnbc.com editor/reporter working on a national
story about Northeastern cougar sightings. He said he’d been all through my blog, read about the many sightings I’ve reported and wants to interview me and some of my sources for a story about an “extinct” wildcat that keeps showing up in unlikely places. Imagine that! I told him it’s a good thing he didn’t work for Fox-News, because I would not have answered his query. I have no tolerance for that right-wing propaganda machine, to me a black mark on our so-called democracy. We’ll see what comes of this msnbc.com gig. I intend to cooperate.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Blue Sky’s come and gone, he’s paid and I have a pile of wood to throw in. Can’t say I’m looking forward to it. Not only that but a shallow, five-foot pile of snow came off the slate, carriage-shed roof overnight and is frozen solid to the driveway I cleaned Tuesday morning with a snowblower. Oh well, I guess it’ll either melt away or soften up enough for later removal, because I’m not going to put my snowblower through that stressful chore today. I may just have to live with that annoying pile and other winter irritants until the crocuses push through in March.

In the meantime, I’m wondering where I’m going to find time to feed and walk the dogs and fix something to eat before heading to work.

Another hectic start to column-writing day, which began with a robust workout and moved fluidly from a doctor’s appointment, to running the dogs, to the bank, to the gas station, to Foster’s for dinner and finally home, where I filled the stoveside wood cradle, swept up the debris and poured myself a cup of coffee. And, now, here I sit at high noon, hazy sun softened through sheers, pondering where to go and how to get there.

I suppose I could write about the preliminary archery and shotgun deer harvests that arrived in my inbox late last week. But why? The numbers are preliminary, incomplete (no blackpowder stats) and uninspiring if you live west of Worcester. What else is new? Hunters in the eastern half of the state recorded 78 percent of the 3,689 archery kills and a mere 74 percent of the 5,345 shotgun kills. Enough said until the final numbers are released and we can understand them in comparison to previous harvests.

Another subject that keeps passing through my mind of late is this weird winter we’re experiencing. My snowblower has been sitting idly in the carriage shed for more than a month, totally unneeded. Can’t say I ever in my lifetime remember bare lawn into the double digits of January. But that’s where we’re at this year, and I’m not complaining. I need exercise and the walking is great, hard surface underfoot, brisk air to invigorate the lungs and keep you fresh. Great therapy for one who loves to set his mind free, pondering, plotting, fantasizing, justifying. But I must say I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the weather’s been so strange. Not after what we’ve put our planet through the past two years. First the Gulf ‘s Deepwater Horizon spill, then Fukushima. Remember that? The press doesn’t seem to. Talk about poisoning our own plate. We seem to be good at it, and justifying it with lame excuses. Yeah, I know there are some who’ll call me loony. Who cares? My shoulders are strong enough to handle criticism. I truly believe that those two disasters disrupted Mother Earth’s digestive system in a big way, no matter what the fatherly figures on the boob tube and editorial pages would have you believe. But enough of that. Why beat my head against the wall? Onward ho!

Grandson Jordi’s due in town this weekend. We’ve been waiting for him since Christmas. Daughter-in-law Debbie finally called. He’s ours this weekend. Great news! Although the Christmas tree’s been down for a week, the presents are still handy, some for him, others for younger brother Arie. I still wonder where Gary came up with that name. He called him Arie Safari. Me, too, in his honor. The kid’s growing up fast. Heading on 3, not yet quite independent enough for my liking. But I know it won’t be long before I’m lugging two boys around in my travels. Can’t wait, even though I’m probably not the best mentor to produce that highly desirable front-row milquetoast skilled at telling people what they want to hear. Yuck! Definitely not my type.

My wife spoke to Jordi Tuesday night. She was thrilled to hear from him. Always is. Had left several unanswered messages since Christmas. In her conversation, she said the kid asked for me with true adoration in his voice. He wanted to know where I was.

“He’s at work.”

“Oh. Did he get that new truck?”

“Yes, we’ll drive it up to get you.”

“Good.”

To be honest, I can’t believe the kid remembered. I had just mentioned in passing that I was thinking about buying a new pickup. Wanted enough room for him and his brother. You know, just in case I needed it for Fort Ticonderoga or some other weekend adventure. He hadn’t forgotten. Which reminds me, have you priced Tacomas lately? Outrageous. But I have had good luck with two others, and I do know how to use them. I can see why some folks choose to buy a roadside beater that you start with a screwdriver. But why? Been there, done that. Life’s short. Hopefully, you’ve outgrown that kind of vehicle by 25. But that’s just me. More power to the folks who choose to live in unkempt shacks next to stinking cesspools, drive junk cars and read Penguin paperbacks while relaxing in Bob’s Furniture’s finest. All so they can die with money in the bank.

Whew, sorry! How did I get so distracted? Oh yeah, probably the devil himself, always lurking, seeking an opening, me often vulnerable. Or maybe it was that beautiful full moon, particularly alluring to a Cancer moon child like your truly. But enough of that! Onto cougars. Yeah, that’s right. Big cats again. Can’t resist.

There was plenty of feedback, some too intriguing to ignore, from last week’s column about a Leyden sighting that was difficult to dismiss. Not only that but peripheral information that went unpublished kept falling into place like windblown pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, which, to be honest, don’t often just fall into place. In fact, had the related information not come together so magically, much of it would have never made it into print. But here we go, despite the fact that some news Pooh-Bahs  may call me irresponsible, even inappropriate for reporting it. Those are among these fellas’ favorite descriptions of stories they don’t agree with: irresponsible and inappropriate, two charges that roll down the back of my raincoat. But remember, these are the same people who’ve advised us to ignore the dangers of nuclear power, DDT, global warming, mercury amalgams, infant vaccines, and water-supply fluoride. Inquisitive folks, liberals, tend to take heed and explore issues like those. Others quickly dismiss them out of hand. Count me among the former.

But, anyway, back to cougars. It seems there’s no shortage of local big-cat sightings  these days and, as usual, new ones came flying at me after publicizing the latest reported to me. What’s interesting is that a lot of this stuff started before last week’s column even hit the street. A friend of mine, already bored silly by winter, got right on what I’ll call the Caron-cougar tale because he knew some relatives of the source. He called a cousin to evaluate the man’s credibility and came away totally convinced the story was sound. Not only that but he implored me to speak to the cousin myself, said he had plenty to say about local cougars, starting with the matter-of-fact assertion that, “they’re definitely here, and there are people with photos to prove it, one in Shelburne and another who placed trail cameras near the Mt. Toby caves.”

Although that information piqued my interest, I figured it would be way too difficult to substantiate and could open me up to criticism from the grand Pooh-Bahs of news. Then the plot thickened when back-to-back emails arrived within an hour of each other Saturday, both reporting sightings near — you guessed it — Mt. Toby. The first response came from an Amtrak engineer, the second from a woman living on Dry Hill Road in Montague, in the vicinity of other sightings reported here over the years. Hmmmm? Definitely worth exploration.

First, the railroad engineer, who said he had read my column for years, had followed the cougar sightings with interest, and had a front-row seat for wildlife sightings from his train. In seven years of driving “The Vermonter” between our Springfield  and Brattleboro, Vt., he claims to have seen two mountain lions, both in Leverett under the afternoon shadow of Mt. Toby. The first sighting occurred four years ago when traveling north across Depot Road. That big cat ran eastward across the tracks and was gone. The second sighting occurred two miles north of that site as the train passed through lower Toby. That cat ambled slowly across the tracks and the engineer got a good look, said there’s no mistaking a cougar, even one running, for anything else. But here’s the kicker. All Amtrak engines come equipped with video cameras that capture everything in their path, including the two Leverett cougars.

The engineer said he considered, in response to all the cougar controversy, asking his foreman to download the movie for public consumption, “But then I thought, ‘I know it’s here, it knows it’s here and why bother it?’ I think if there is a next time, I’ll have the images downloaded and share them.”

To be honest, I hesitated to even put his exciting offer in print. Why, you ask? Well, because I wouldn’t put it past the same federal wildlife officials who a year ago declared Eastern Cougars extinct to lean on Amtrak administrators to keep such video evidence hidden from the public. It’s clear that such officials would prefer to continue dismissing Northeastern cougar sightings as creative figments of gushing imaginations.

That’s the way some people who control news flow operate — always, of course, for the good of the reader. But remember: YouTube and other New News mediums are badly hurting Old News standard bearers, many of which are dying slow, tedious deaths by self-inflicted wounds spurting denial.

It’s before noon Wednesday. I just finished Chapter 6 of a book I’m reading about a colonial Boston minister and poured myself a soothing cup of tea sweetened by Apex Orchards honey. So, now, here I sit at a familiar station for the first time after more than a month of vacation, looking out at a snowless January front lawn, small flock of bluebirds, six or eight of them, flittering about, perching on a bayberry bush not 10 feet out the window, picking the red berries one by one, flying off a short distance to a multiflora rose bush and returning. The cold has increased their appetite.

I started the morning at the gym, then a brisk mile-long walk on hard, frozen turf at Sunken Meadow, where the beavers are back with a vengeance, flooding three or four rows of infant Christmas trees planted just this past spring. If something isn’t done fast, there’s going to be a problem down there. Well, at least for the tree farmer leasing the property. But I guess it’s all relative when it comes to beaver “damage.” The ducks and blue herons don’t seem to mind the tidy dams and ponds a bit; nor do my dogs, Lily and Chub-Chub, for that matter, both lean and mean and rambunctious in the frigid winter-morning air. But still, why do the authorities make it so difficult to manage beaver populations these days? It makes no sense. But that’s a subject for another day. Today, I’ve plunked myself down to revisit an interesting subject that’s been prolific in this space over the past decade. Let’s just say I don’t have to chase it. No, it seems to pursue me. So here I sit, having talked to myself along the solitary walk, composing potential lines for the first time in some time.

The phone call came from North Leyden Sunday at 3 p.m. I was sitting in what I call my green parlor, toasty Rumford fireplace crackling, watching the Patriots go 21 points down before roaring back for a 49-21 win over the Bills. Seems like the Pats enjoy digging deep holes for themselves, then coming back to win. But you have to wonder if that’ll be a good formula for postseason success. I would guess not. We’ll see. But let us not digress. Back to the phone call from a man named Edward Caron, whose farm is situated on a remote dirt section of Greenfield Road leading to Guilford, Vt. He had seen something two hours earlier that blew his freakin’ mind. He thought the sighting would be of interest to me. He called the creature he saw a mountain lion, and no one will ever tell him different. He said he saw it clearly and claims someone else who stopped in a “blue station wagon or SUV” did as well.
“I wish I could have spoken to them,” Caron said. “I couldn’t see the license plate so I don’t know if they were from Vermont or Massachusetts. I thought maybe if you put something in the paper they’d respond. I’m sure they saw it, but I’m curious why they backed up. They could see it from where they stopped first, so I’m wondering if maybe there wasn’t another one with it.”

Being familiar with Leyden’s Caron family from a good hunting buddy of mine, I asked the caller if he was related to Elliott Caron, the late hunter and outdoorsmen who lived down along the Green River, not far from the infamous rifle range that has created such a ruckus in recent years. “Yeah, Elliott was my uncle,” said his 70-year-old nephew. “I live up top of the hill on the other side of town.”

When I phoned my buddy to tell him about the sighting, he didn’t hesitate to lend credence to Caron’s report. “Coming from one of the Caron boys, I wouldn’t doubt it for a second,” he said. “They’re good ole boys, have hunted all their lives and he wouldn’t call unless he knew what he saw.” A couple of days later, my buddy called a Caron relative to make sure his trusting knee-jerk reaction was valid. The fella he called concurred. He told my friend he knew Ed Caron well and, “if he says he saw a mountain lion, take it to the bank.” Of course, I needed no reassurance. I had spoken to the guy on the phone and had absolutely no reason to doubt him. He knows our hilltown woods as well as anyone, has been a lifetime farmer, logger and hunter, hounding bobcats, bears and likely snowshoe hare, not to mention hunting deer. Who would insult such a man by questioning the veracity of his sighting? Only a fool. Or maybe a government man with a party-line to protect; you now, like the recent reclassification of Eastern cougars as extinct. But let me repeat the man’s story, lay it all out there as told to me. Read it. Then be judge and jury.

Caron suspected something was amiss right off Sunday morning when he released his draft horses from the barn and they didn’t move to a feeding station midway down the pasture, where they feed daily. He didn’t make much of it at the time but his curiosity was piqued as the morning progressed and the horses still hadn’t fed, choosing instead to remain close to the barn. When he finally went out after noontime, there they were, still standing nervously near the barn door and Caron started looking around. When his eyes traveled down toward the feeding station, he spotted the big cat in the background a couple hundred yards away. He could clearly make out the long, muscular body and tail and knew precisely what he was looking at as it moved across the field. Then, when the big animal realized it was being observed, it “started zig-zagging” and disappeared. The horses saw it, too, because they became fidgety and snorted as the passing blue vehicle slammed on its breaks and sat motionless for a while before shifting into reverse, backing up a bit and stopping again. Then, off it went, Caron with no way to query the occupants about what they had seen.

But wait. There’s more. The plot thickens. During our phone conversation, Caron, out of the blue, asked me, “What kind of noise does a mountain lion make, anyway? Does it scream? My daughter-in-law and grandson where visiting for the weekend and they both heard the awfullest scream in the woods Saturday night. They heard it clearly but didn’t know what it was. It was probably that cat.”

Yep, quite likely, but don’t even bother making such a case to government wildlife officials. They don’t want to hear about New England cougar sightings. They’d probably claim the scream was a blustery north wind whistling through a high, jagged break in a toppled oak, the long-tailed animal an optical illusion, actually a bruising tomcat magnified in magical midday sunlight that can deceive the human eye.

Caron doesn’t care what anyone says. He knows exactly what he saw, and “it weren’t no barn cat.”
When I phoned Caron after 1 p.m. Wednesday to check facts, I asked if there’d been any more sightings in the neighborhood. He said no, “but I did tell an abutter what I saw and he told me he had seen one in his field in the summer but didn’t tell anyone because he didn’t want people to think he was crazy. Then he told me another neighbor saw one and didn’t say anything for the same reason.”

Caron wasn’t so timid. No fear. He knew exactly what he had seen and didn’t hesitate to report it.

Here we go again, second consecutive week that there’s so much stuff that it requires two columns; pressing information that really should be covered before it gets old. I probably could have held off but, having just returned from a wet hunt, maybe Wednesday’s local sports events will be canceled, opening up space. Plus, today’s supposed to be a washout, good day for reading by the woodstove, so why not?

Anyway, here we go again …

Let’s talk about cougars. Yep, more cougars, a few way too close to home, including one from right across the street that at first really piqued my interest. Then, this week, after revisiting the trail-camera footage copied onto a CD, I came to my senses. It was a house cat walking a trail through the woods. It fooled me the first time, even though I knew it couldn’t be a mature cougar, way too small. But it was definitely a cat with a long tail, and it was in the woods at night, lit up. Problem was there was nothing to compare its size to, and I was in a rush. I even told a buddy about it but admitted I’d have to look it over more carefully before drawing any conclusions, or sending it to an expert. Well, the second time I viewed it, I knew immediately it was a false alarm. As for the other two, well, let me continue.

I suppose I should start with the most recent incident, which came my way thanks to a message on my home telephone answering machine; it was from a friend I often spoke to at the auction and occasionally did business with at his antique shop. This fella and his wife both have roots in the area that reach deep into West County bedrock. I have over the years been suspicious of a few reports, but not this one, from a man I know. When I finally got through to him, the guy didn’t even want to admit what he thought he’d seen. Neither did his wife. I took notice. But the plot thickens.

About a month ago, a woman who lives at nearly the same location where the latest sighting occurred called my home and spoke to my wife about seeing a big-cat that had a tail way too long for a bobcat or lynx. I never chased down that lead because I thought at the time I had devoted too much space to cougar sightings. But now two in the same spot? Irresistible.

I listened to the antique dealer’s message noontime Monday after a short hunt. He had seen something on Leyden Road and wanted to talk to me about it. I wasn’t able to reach him until later that night from work. He said the sighting occurred Friday night about 9. He was on Leyden Road in Greenfield, between Leyden Woods and Wright Farm, on his way to a Leyden cattle dealer when this critter came out of nowhere, bound gracefully across the road in one powerful leap and vanished. He described it as “leggy and long with wooly legs” and his wife concurred, marveling at how smoothly it moved. “I wish I could have seen its face,” she said. “It only touched the road once, if that, then was gone. It was not a deer. That I know. Even the color was different. It looked more gray than brown.”

Although neither of them wanted to say or even suggest it was a cougar, clearly they didn’t know what else it could have been. Must be they couldn’t get it out of their heads over the weekend and finally called me Monday.

You may recall that I wrote a column this summer about several cougar sightings in my upper Colrain Road/Smead Hill neighborhood, which is just a hop, skip and a jump west of the Leyden Road sightings. One of the sightings occurred less than a mile west of me on Brook Road. Then there were several other sightings a mile north, atop Smead Hill, between Smead’s barn and the Van Nuys/East Colrain fork in the road.

I wonder if anyone else has recently seen something strange in northwestern Greenfield, Colrain and Leyden and kept it to themselves? Not unlikely.

But enough of that. The sightings don’t stop there. Another occurred last Tuesday on County Road in Deerfield, along a low ridge between Routes 5&10 and Eaglebrook School. It came my way via email Thursday. Let the emailer, Candy Rutka, describe what she saw:

“Mid-afternoon Tuesday, I spotted an animal about 75 yards away in the field to the north of the house. My first thought was a neighbor’s dog or a fox.  However, it was definitely feline — light tawny in color with a fairly long body and a very long tail, about the size of a German Shepherd. The face was lighter in color and may have had some darker markings. My husband got the best look through binoculars. We’re sure it was a Mountain lion. The evening before, while sitting on our north porch we had heard a very different animal call from the same area (railroad tracks run behind the house). A neighbor about half-mile away was out walking his dog and he, too, heard it and felt it was unfamiliar as well. Any other sightings reported in the area? It was quite an impressive experience!”

I wrote back that I did recall a sighting by Steve Nartowicz four or five years ago just below hers. According to Nartowicz, as I remember it, he was on his way to work around 7 a.m. and the cat crossed 5&10 just north of the Bridal Barn. The big cat climbed a leaning tree, looked back, bound down into the swamp and disappeared. That sighting occurred a half-mile or less from the Rutka sighting, which I would assume to be unrelated. Cougars passing through the Northeast are not residents; they’re wayward “dispersers” roaming eastward from the Wild West.

One more thing. Unlike the sighting by the Northfield Mountain cyclist reported here, then reported by the witness to MassWildlife, the Rutkas were not satisfied with the state agency’s response. The Rutkas interpreted it as dismissive at best, suggesting they had seen a bobcat, not a cougar, and that it’s always nice to see such a beautiful creature. Well, an indignant Candy Rutka was not amused with the condescending reply and fired back:

“This was NOT a bobcat. It had a very long tail, body-length perhaps, and one was spotted just below us some number of years ago. Trust me. This was a mountain lion!  Never saw anything like it before in my life, and I am 62 yrs old. They do exist!!! Why do you persist on denying it when there have been so many sightings???”

Leave me out of this one. You be the judge.