Stormy Skies

It’s that time of year when, sadly, I must report, not write, despite what’s going on around me. Given a choice, I always prefer writing to reporting. There’s a big difference. One not everyone understands.

The time is right for writing. Perfect, in fact. The early spring has produced a rare overlap of beautiful colors from the magnolia, forsythia, Japanese maples, apple, quince, bleeding hearts and Quanson cherries simultaneously adorning my yard in their full splendor. The rhubarb and asparagus are ready for their first cuts, and even the lilacs beneath the magnolia are sporting tiny purple blossoms while many full magnolia flowers still ride the cold, blustery wind on their flimsy shoots; very unusual, first time in 13 years on my property that the lilacs have shown color before the magnolia tree turned green, its scattered pink tulip petals rotting on the turf below. So here I sit, space-heater purring behind me, spot-heating, refusing to start the wood stove or tip up the thermostat for this cold snap that’ll soon turn warm.

Speaking of pink, how about that Full Pink Moon in the sky, the one I promised weeks ago was due for opening week of turkey season; weather permitting, would likely stimulate aggressive daybreak gobbling from boss toms? When I left work Tuesday night, I could feel that bright moon behind dense stormy clouds high in the southern sky, its filtered light illuminating downtown Greenfield, casting a favorable hue over the uplifting facelift bordering the town common. Miraculously, by the time I arrived home, some three miles north and west, and stepped outside to run the dog, the moon shone brightly in a clear, starry hole framed by billowy gray clouds, akin to a large floodlight peeking through a wide, unruly smoke ring, the sphere sneaking through leafing streamside maples and reflecting off a Hinsdale Brook eddy. The sight and sound spun me off into reflection and introspection as they often do. Call it lunar influence, which again infected me, brightening a cold, gray week in a suddenly clear midnight sky; as though the clouds intentionally opened to remind me the moon was there, looking over my shoulder, coddling me till the sky cleared, the air warmed.

Gray, overcast days and full moons might signal trouble for some. Take a friend I know who recently got into a turkey-hunting jam that’s haunting him. This good, honest man now finds his fate in the hands of the government, the law, which doesn’t often display empathy for honest mistakes. Maybe someone will intervene and inject some fairness into the authorities investigating this sorry case. Perhaps they’ll understand that the way the illegality played out clearly identifies it as an error, a twist of fate, not a crime. I hope so. The man deserves a break, nothing less. But the people calling the shots probably won’t care, seldom do in such cases. Sometimes judges and juries or officers of the law must understand the gray, not just black and white. They must be willing to explore the spirit of the law, the reason it was enact ed, not just the fact that a rule has been broken. At least that’s the way I see it, not from the rigid law-and-order, red-white-and-blue perspective; my view more philosophical, not cut and dried as prosecutors and cops often demand these unforgiving days.

Remember, this opinion’s coming from a taxpaying citizen who just Tuesday appeared for jury duty in Orange, was seated and promptly yanked by the prosecutor for the third time this millennium. I guess men who reason like me are not meant to be jurors in 21st century courtrooms, even in a liberal state. And to think I now sit passing judgment at my desk, seated on a long-ago discarded walnut chair from the Hampden County Court. Is it irony or coincidence? You decide.

But, like they say, life goes on. Then you die. I guess when you think of it, we’re all just passing through a place much bigger and more complex than any of us.

Fact is, like most, I wasn’t eager to serve on that jury, anyway. Fancy that. For once a member of the majority, far from silent.

Coincidence?

What a difference a day makes. That’s what I was thinking the day after last week’s column about the spring buds and flowers that had greeted me on a morning backyard visit with dog Lily.

What had struck me first the previous day were the burning bush’s tiny pink buds, a new color, subtle, lining the brook’s bank by the cook shed. After studying the tiny buds, I looked around to assess the progress of other trees and bushes, later recording in print what I had observed. Following a day of hot, bright sun and temps nearing 80, everything changed. That same burning bush was sporting green, not pink, the forsythia was in full yellow bloom and the maples wore that pretty pastel green of spring, having overnight gone from buds to tiny mayfly wings. But that is not what I want to discuss today. No, I want to focus on the saucer magnolia and coincidence. Yes, coincidence, something I have wrestled with often following surreal discoveries related to me and this valley called home. My conclusion is that very few weird discoveries I encounter are coincidence, but rather something far more spiritual — this from a man who’d break out in hives on a trip through the chapel door.

I wrote last week that I intended to fulfill a promise by sending a faraway female cyber pal photos of the large magnolia along the east side of my home. I wanted to reciprocate for pictures she had sent me of a Hawaiian magnolia flower weeks earlier. Later in the day, I evaluated the tree and decided to wait. More blossoms would be open the next day. So, wait I did, shooting several shots back-lit by the late-morning sun before e-mailing them to my German friend. A typical heartfelt response the next day brought me once again into the realm of coincidence vs. something deeper and more powerful; maybe a simple twist of fate, more likely a spiritual puppeteer playfully working his strings:

Dear Gary,
How nice of you to think of me and send these gorgeous sights! I had a bit of a difficult day yesterday — it was the 9th anniversary of Jon’s passing. Seeing the beautiful magnolia blossoms and learning that spring has arrived in your place really cheered me up. I do hope to meet you in person some day, dear cyber pal. Have a great weekend and enjoy the beauty of spring.
With much aloha,
Hannelore

She was referring to a boyhood pal of mine who moved far from his Franklin County home before departing this world too young, at 47, a cancer victim in Hawaii. It was there she met him and suffered through his illness, patiently nursing him along until his mom and late sister arrived for his final weeks; never easy for anyone. Hannelore has not forgotten her late friend. At least once a year she sends me a check for graveside flowers to adorn his peaceful resting place, protected under the canopy of massive hardwoods, even stately shagbark hickory, one of my favorites.

So, tell me: Was it coincidence that on an April 8 whim — sitting at my desk on a sun-splashed morn, magnolia beckoning though the window to my left, forsythias screaming from across the street — I stood to get my camera, take some shots and send them to my cyber pal? Or was I magically lifted from my seat by a force I cannot explain to brighten a sad day being suffered by a lady friend I have never met?

I cannot accept that quick trip across the south face of my old tavern as coincidence. Far more profound. Spooky, in fact.

Is it real? Or have I gone mad?

I guess it depends on the evaluator.

Native Wonders

I was out back early Wednesday morning with four-legged friend Lily by the brook, running clear and strong, its soothing rattle penetrating dense air as the dog made her rounds, splashing enthusiastically across a shin-high rapid to wet her coat before taking a little romp on the opposite bank. She broke into the perimeter of a small hayfield, nose high into a crosswind, searching for squirrels, rabbits, maybe turkeys, anything to flush or chase up a tree. The cool, damp air was pleasant, the sun hidden beneath foggy skies that would soon burn off and bring the predicted 85-degree April day, potentially a record, perfect for the nighttime Yankees-Red Sox rubber game.

The neighborhood dogwoods and star magnolias had worn brilliant white for days, and my own forsythias had been in bloom, not peak, since the weekend, nicely complementing the yellow daffodils. Now the lilac buds had popped into tiny little green wings that seemed to visibly grow as I stood looking at them in the dull, most air that had deposited a delicate, web-like dew across the greening lawn, clearly identifying my path, showing every step I had taken from the woodshed stoop to the kennel door, then across the mouth of the cook-shed to the lip overlooking water’s edge. I noticed, standing there, that the tiny pink buds on the streamside burning bush were more noticeable than the previous day and would likely be more prominent, even from afar, after a day of bright, hot sun, the same conditions that promised to bring out the saucer magnolia blossoms on the gabled east side of the house. They had been threatening to pop for days, just needed intense sun and heat to stimulate the process. I reminded myself to later in the day snap a digital photo of that tree, one of the oldest, most beautiful magnolias in the county, tightly clenched, pink buds waiting for days to burst and reach their showy tulip petals skyward. I had promised to e-mail cyber pen pal Hannelore Hoch a photo when it bloomed. A German professor/author/curator and friend of a friend who died too young near her vacation home in Hawaii, Hannelore loves flowers and had sent me a tight shot of a Hawaiian saucer magnolia flower six or eight weeks ago, her harbinger of spring. It was then that I promised to e-mail her a shot of my own magnolia when in blossomed. I knew the time had come, waning moon settling this two-legged lunar creature temporarily into a peaceful orbit. The new moon will appear in a week, leading to a full moon at the end of the month, brightening the prospects for opening week of turkey season. The night skies will then likely be crisp and clear and cold, perfect to entice throaty gobbles from predawn hardwood roosts. Something promising for hunters to eagerly anticipate.

The sound and sight of the free-flowing stream and the thick morning air reminded me of spring fishing, and the fact that stocking reports would likely be waiting in my e-mail inbox before 9. As I watched the stream’s current, it brought me back to my younger days, when this time of year I often pushed myself to the water’s edge at the crack of dawn, before the birds sang, to take advantage of ideal water conditions and voracious feeding by shaded mountain trout. Back then, I’d catch my limit before most people were awake, clean the fish streamside, return home to package them in Ziploc bags and deliver them to my paternal grandmother, always an early riser. She’d keep what she could eat and give the rest to friends who thoroughly enjoyed them. When I kept trout for myself, they’d always be squaretails, large or small, baked or pan-fried, their moist orange meat one of New England’s natural delicacies, right up there with fiddleheads and strawberries. I learned many waters that held the beautiful, native, speckled trout and likely still do, although I have heard disheartening tales to the contrary from brook-trout aficionados. I don’t want to believe them, would rather remember how it used to be, sneaking into the back side of reservoirs or private ponds we all knew well as boys and fished regularly, always early, before household light bulbs burned.

Stocked trout were fun to catch. I can’t deny that — acrobatic, sky-pilot  rainbows bursting from the riffles, furiously wiggling in midair, hooked, irate and trying to shake or break it. But they could never compare to squaretails as table fare, and I well knew the difference. Still do. Give me a native any day, be it fish or foul or animal, two or four-legged.

Yeah, maybe I am a snooty New Englander. Not the least bit ashamed of it, either. Quite proud, in fact.

Fish Tale Addendum

Because I got carried away last week writing about the Medieval Warming Period’s relationship, if any, to contemporary global warming, I ran out of space for an interesting e-mail from old friend Steve Stange.

I had mentioned Stange the previous week in a 1974 fish story about the day we coaxed a chain pickerel — lurking alongside a large, flat, submerged Leeds Reservoir rock — to take a whack at our broken-back Rapala lure. The fish had teased us through the summer on our way to and from a Middlefield land-surveying job. So we finally decided to catch it, perhaps illegally, can’t really say for sure. Does it really matter? The statute of limitations must have passed by now.

Stange chimed in from cyberspace because his aunt had mailed my piece to him. He read it and wanted to contribute additional information. That and offer his fact-checking skills. I had estimated the fish to be “two feet or more” in length but wasn’t certain. Stange was. He said it measured 26 inches, a big pickerel by anyone’s standards. What surprised him most, however, was that I had omitted a key component that’s still salient in his memory.

“That fish had a Daredevil lure in its mouth (I still have it) along with a No. 6 bait hook,” he wrote. “I recall on the ride home discussing the notion that at least two local people had a fish story that was not believed by most.”

Likely so. Now it’s documented.

Ghost Moon

It must have been the backyard brook’s rattle, clear, free and pure, coupled with the brilliant car dinal’s joyous serenade from its burning-bush perch, that got my wheels a spinning. I was enjoying the cool, clear, sunlit morning with frisky Lily, joyful gait, tail wagging, prancing along the south bank’s soft, dirty ice, reduced to a chocolate sliver in most spots, but still there like a skinny shelf overlooking the water’s edge, reaching out to a few large boulders. When Lily broke through, she displayed caution and backed off. Even dogs respect spring.

As I stood there, lungs savoring the refreshing air that had coaxed neighbors out of doors over the weekend, it was as though someone gently tapped my left shoulder and turned me in the opposite direction, back to the stream, facing southwest. I looked up to the right of the barn’s peak and there it was, in the cloudless, soft blue sky: a ghost-like quarter-moon, waning and barely visible.

Being a moon creature of Cancer persuasion, the mix of running water and moon, even an old daylight moon, had unleashed something inside of me, drawn my attention, heightened my awareness to its passing cycle. It seems to happen more often as I grow older and wiser, understand. This lunar magnet will only strengthen in a couple of weeks when the new moon shows its first quarter in the midnight sky. A week later, the first full moon of spring, the Sap Moon, will illuminate the sky and stimulate growth everywhere; in man and mouse and memory, good and bad.

But even that old-ghost Monday moon got me thinking, reminiscing about springs past, pondering the one ahead. This lunar introspection swept me back to my wayward and mischievous youth, when sodden khaki turf and airborne moisture saturated my nostrils with an enchanting natural amphetamine, better than anything at Frontier Pharmacy or on the street — a wonder drug that liberates blithe spirits and can lead to trouble in controlled environments; schools, maybe even work, for instance. The sweet maple sap and mountain streams race freely, and so do the juices of adolescence and human emotion, which can, to say the least, be distracting and troublesome when boxed-in and disciplined. Alluring spring cologne seems to thin the blood and elevate the heart rate, making Library 101 quite unappealing to some school kids. Count me among them. So there I’d sit, fidgety, anxious to get to the ballpark with a bat and ball and glove, or maybe to grab a fishing rod and bait-can for a pleasant day of wild freedom, calling all the shots along a woodland stream.

Springtime bliss: difficult to contain, impossible to ignore.

Problem was that once I reached high school and teachers knew I loved baseball, they’d use it as a whuppin’ stick to reel me in, force me to comply with rules I wasn’t fond of. But compliance was never my strong suit, especially to people for whom I held little or no respect; so let’s just say that I spent a couple of springs with more time on rivers than the schoolyard diamond; not by choice, of course — well, at least, not mine. Such punishment created deep resentment and a wide void while I awaited the faster, more-competitive summer game, one that had no strings attached to book-and-blackboard drudgery, or droning lectures from uninspired instructors working for a paycheck, a pension and little else. I guess they weren’t all bad. No. Some were OK. But there were enough rigid, boring drones to make the whole experience unpleasant, especially once spring arrived with its fresh air and intoxicating fragrance that infiltrated the classroom like a seductive whisper through a bedroom window, beckoning like that faded daylight moon, the friendly ghost calling from the pale blue sky like a boyhood pal home for a three-day weekend.

It’s so enrapturing, yet foreboding, this thing called spring; a magical season when nests are built, eggs are hatched and fawns born. Boys beware. Girls, too. Our sap miraculously flows upstream from our roots, feeding buds, then leaves after a cold, stark, barren winter. Gray skeletons overnight turn to rich green spheres, full of life and vigor. How could it not be difficult to rein in these sweet lilac joys brought by our most beguiling season? A kid no longer, it still inspires me, tickles my fancy, rouses a primal physiological freshet unlike any other.

I do hope spring fever never fades in me. I’d rather be dead. A playful attic spirit pulling mischievous springtime pranks.

Fish Tale Revisited

It’s that cabin-fever time of year when, with little to write about, I’m usually searching for something, anything to fill this space. Such a predicament I found myself mired in this week while preoccupied with other pressing, non-work-related issues. Then, out of the blue, like a gift from the heavens, an envelope appeared in my mailbox from longtime friend and colleague Chip Ainsworth, who’s wintering in Florida and bailed me out with a “New Yorker” article he thought I’d enjoy. He was right. Not only did I enjoy it, it brought me back some 35 years to the Leeds Reservoir. There, from the road high above, we kept seeing a large fish nestled up against the edge of a massive flat stone in shallow water along the shore, then finally figured out what it was.

But first the article, titled “The Patch” and written by John McPhee of “The Headmaster” fame. The narrative is about chain pickerel and how his pursuit of them with rod and reel related to the recent passing of his 89-year-old dad, himself a longtime fisherman who taught the author to fish. The piece describes pickerel, their habits and sporting value, and it hit home for me on many levels. Even got me reminiscing about my youthful land-surveying days with Stevie Stange, an old friend from South Deerfield who, at the time, was the party chief of our two-man crew during the summer of 1974. A large parcel of Middlefield property was changing hands that summer, and we were surveying it. As I recall, the property, mostly woodland, exceeded 500 acres, had been in the same family for two centuries and had not been surveyed since George Washington’s days, always a fun project.

To be honest, I never knew the quaint Hampshire County town of Middlefield existed until arriving there to start our little project. We began by finding the corners and establishing the property lines, then went around with a 16-foot rod and a level to pinpoint the details for the mapmaker, a job that kept us busy until the leaves fell. Middlefield had a classic rural center of town straight out of the early 19th century, or maybe one of those little towns in Wyoming’s Red Desert, population 12 or something ridiculous. Downtown consisted of one large, two-piece, two-story building with a porch in front. The place served as a country store, restaurant, Post Office, tavern, liquor store and gas station all in one, a great place to strike up conversation, prit’near any time of day or night.

We’d depart for the job each morning at 7 from my grandfather’s South Deerfield home, where Stange was renting an upstairs apartment. From there, we’d snake our way through Whately, Haydenville, Leeds and Westhampton, have breakfast at a Huntington greasy-spoon and arrive at the Middlefield work site about 9. Each day we’d pass the Leeds Reservoir twice, often stopping on the ride home at a little side-of-the-road pullover overlooking the water to search for fish or fowl or whatever happened to be there. With the water at is lowest midsummer level, we kept noticing that aforementioned large fish snuggled up to the major flat stone and wondered what it was and if we could catch it. If it was a trout, it was a beauty, all of two feet long.

Well, our curiosity finally got the better of us and, one evening, we decided to give it a whirl, see exactly what it was, fishing rod in the cargo space of Stange’s Toyota Landcruiser, dubbed the “Toyotski.” We didn’t have any bait but did have a tackle boxful of lures, mostly for warm-water fish like bass or Northern pike. We figured we’d give it a shot with a floating, broken-back Rapala, maybe four inches long. Even if it was a trout, at that size it would likely hit a Rapala. The trick was to get the lure within striking range on the first cast from a challenging distance above, no easy feat for a rookie.

I don’t remember who actually made the cast, but it was a good one, touching down less than two feet in front of the fish with a loud, showy splash. We let it sit there for a minute or less to settle things down a bit before giving it a twitch with the rod tip, then another. The fish didn’t budge, just laid there as motionless as the stone next to it. Then, on the third little twitch, the fish wheeled 90 degrees in a flash and — whammo! — struck like lightning, furious energy, getting a toothy mouthful of piercing treble hooks before taking off, Mitchell 300 drag whistling a shrill mountain tune. We ran down the elevated bank to the reservoir’s edge and played the fish to shore. Then one of us (again, I can’t recall which) ran back up the hill to the “Yotski” for needle-nosed pliers needed to remove the hooks. With the hooks removed, we released the fish back into the water. It was a pickerel, a beauty, two feet or more in length, razor-sharp, pointy teeth, nothing to handle with bare hands.

The released fish was sluggish at first but soon swam right back to its stone-side feeding lair and remained there for many days thereafter. Like McPhee said in his story, pickerel will stay in the same spot for days, weeks, years, unless removed. Well, I can attest to that because of that Leeds Reservoir pickerel that captured our fancy that summer. I witnessed it with my own two eyes, occasionally impaired. Those were the good old days.

Going With The Flow

A sparse snow had just started to fall, tiny flakes floating to the ground with the buoyancy of dust particles in a ray of sunlight piercing the woodshed window, as I stood Wednesday morning along the backyard bank of Hinsdale Brook; pooch Lily scampering along its frozen edge, likely following cold scent of a coon, mink or possum, oblivious to the murmurs of spring whispering from deep beneath a foot or two of ice and its crystalline surface. I find it surreal how moving water, its ebbs and flows, sights and sounds, can bring peace and perspective to a perceptive soul. I’m sure maritime men feel the same about the sea; it talks to them, whispers, screams, breathes warmly down their neck. But I’m an inlander, a freshwater man who often compares day-to-day and seasonal stream alterations to life’s transitions.

I guess I have felt a mystical attachment to flowing water since skating, fishing or just horsing around with boyhood pals on Bloody Brook, along which my Arms ancestors, once Sunderland tanners and cobblers, built a profitable 19th-century pocketbook shop, by my time a decaying, red, three-story Victorian plastic shop piping horrible, raw, rust-colored poison into the water below. That building’s now long gone, replaced by Cowan Auto Supply.

My riparian lure only grew stronger in later years, when dropped off by my mother at West Brook in Whately or Mill River in Deerfield for a day of trout fishing; spinning rod in hand; leaky hip boots and worm bucket fastened to my belt; wicker, fern-lined creel looped over my shoulder and neck. It taught me to read water, respect it, compare its riffles and pools, runs and eddies to the game of life.

Still later, I moved to similar streams a little farther off, the South and Bear rivers in Conway, where I honed my angling skills and discovered a bigger, more dangerous river called the Deerfield, just a larger version of its tributaries, worthy of more respect. Yes, one must respect big rivers like the Deerfield, which can swallow a man in an instant, then spit him out in a body bag, stocking-foot waders still strapped over the shoulders, belted at the waist.

Although I no longer fish, I may be more in tune with streams now than then, all because of the backyard brook that carries the surname of the original taverner to call my property home. I observe that free-flowing, stone-bed stream several times daily, find myself just standing there on the bank, often thinking how it symbolizes life and parallels our moods: slow and sluggish in summer; frozen and narrowed to random slits in winter; full of energy and emotion in spring and after heavy rains, even those of winter, when sudden freshets transport large, dangerous ice flows and bobbing logs to bottomland destinations, out of harm’s way. It’s like the stream speaks to me daily, reminding me we’re all in this together.

It was that soft murmur of spring muffled under thick ice, amplified by cold, still air that reached my ears this morning; an optimistic sound distantly related to the lazy snowflakes falling. It made me wonder if a man who interprets nature this way is losing his mind or gifted. Then I realized it doesn’t matter. Judge it as you may. I know who I am.

Leave it to the eye of the beholder.

Not So Bio-Fast

Back on a pleasant Sunday in December, on vacation, I decided at the last minute to attend a biomass gathering that drew quite a crowd to Bernardston’s historic Unitarian Church. I was curious, wanted to meet the players, inconspicuously work the floor, so to speak, perhaps eat a cookie in passing, kill time before the Patriots game. To my delight, what I found was a colorful crowd, mostly rabble-rousers riled up by the proposed Greenfield plant. I enjoy people of their tie-dyed ilk.

The place was bustling, Falltown String Band providing a complementary touch, as I stood out of the way, leaning against a wall near the kitchen doorway. The woman standing next to me was sporting an anti-biomass pin. We, of course, got to talking. When I introduced myself, she recognized my name and thanked me for an anti-biomass column I had written, then launched into a diatribe about my place of employment, criticizing perceived biased coverage in favor of the proposed plant. I craftily avoided that discussion before she introduced me to a woman approaching from my other side. Yep, another rabid opponent of biomass, known to foes as the “supposed” clean-energy alternative. Yes indeed, antis do take issue with that clean-and-green biomass-friendly description. They agree it’s green in a money-making context, but insist it’s far from clean.

Anyway, when my newfound friend said she wanted my business card, I told her my wallet was in the truck and we went outside to get away from the commotion. At the truck, warm winter sun high in the sky, we resumed our conversation. She encouraged me to speak to John Organ, chief of the Division of Wildlife & Sport Fish Restoration at the United States Fish and Wildlife Service’s Northeast regional office in Hadley. “He lives in Buckland,” she told me, “seems to be a pretty nice guy and may have something to say that biomass supporters don’t want to see in print.”

That surprised me. USFWS administrators these days seem to trend more toward Reagan revolutionaries connected to George W. Bush and his sorry lot, certainly no friends of the environment. And although I don’t know if Organ fits that bill, I never did contact him. I chose instead to e-mail one of his underlings, my friend and longtime source John McDonald, a wildlife biologist from Organ’s District 5 office. Formerly our state Deer Project Leader, McDonald specializes in black bears and deer. I figured he’d be as good a source as any about the potential impact of biomass logging on forest habitats crucial to wildlife.

McDonald and other deer specialists I’ve spoken to have for years identified “old-growth forests” in western Franklin County as the No. 1 obstacle to building desired deer densities of 12 to 15 per square mile. Needed, they say, is responsible harvest of trees 80 and more years old along with small patchwork clear-cuts to stimulate forest regeneration and create browse for deer and other wildlife that depend on it for winter sustenance. So, the salient biomass questions seem to be: Will it be an impetus for forest management; and is there enough fuel to feed the pig over the long haul without overharvesting? Then, a couple more questions: How many plants would be too many; and wouldn’t too many eventually create a supply shortage necessitating incineration of other fuels, perhaps hard-to-dispose-of rubbish that would belch unhealthy smoke into our skies, no matter what the proponents say about filters and buffers? McDonald was not timid about responding, on the record.

Yes, he opined, there is enough fuel to feed the pig by responsible logging, but not if opponents are successful in pulling state forests out of the supply chain while convincing private landowners not to get involved with biomass harvesting. As for how many plants would be too many, McDonald wouldn’t venture a guess, just wrote: “It is essentially a math problem that anyone thinking of building a plant would figure out. They would know how much wood they need per day, per month, per year to produce their target output. There is pretty good information on forest inventory available, and then they would have to estimate how easy procurement would be within various hauling distances. Then, you might do some estimates with nearby competitors and recalculate.” McDonald thinks biomass harvest would be an ideal solution for landowners whose wood lots are dominated by low-value hard and soft woods. Such trees could be removed to make way for a more valuable, healthy forest while bringing a financial return to the landowner. Biomass would also provide a market during periodic wood surpluses produced by such natural occurrences as last winter’s ice storm, which left many local upland forests in ruin and need of cleanup; it would also be a remedy for plagues like the Asian long-horned beetle invasion that led to the removal of thousands of mature central Massachusetts hardwoods, many gracing quintessential New England roads. But the question remains: Would the supply last forever or would we soon exhaust it and succumb to irresponsible, greedy logging? It’s a difficult question to answer before long-range impact on the forests can be assessed, all the more reason to proceed conservatively at the start by limiting the number of plants. Biomass opponents’ worst fear is that the demand will exceed the supply, eventually forcing plants to burn refuse that’s difficult to dispose of, stuff like tires and hazardous construction waste that few people north of the Mason-Dixon Line want burned and released into the skies. Count me among them. Sorry, but I don’t trust politicians, plant administrators and investors to do what’s right for the environment. There are piles of records to support my skepticism.

McDonald has concerns about another component of the argument: the activists raising a ruckus to derail biomass energy production. “What bothers me about the future is that folks want to keep taking parts of the resource base off the table, which might lead to irresponsible logging in the longer run,” he wrote. “If state forests are taken off the table for commercial logging, and local interest groups scare landowners from cutting trees, all bets are off. What could be a positive thing for forest health and wildlife species might then have negative consequences.” It’s a legitimate fear when you understand that the state owns the largest contiguous blocks of forest, thus foresters can do larger-scale operations there than on most private lands. But then again, according to McDonald, “That is the argument some folks on the other side use to oppose logging in state forests. They want to allow them to serve as reserves. So that becomes a value choice people need to make.”

From my perch high on a stately High Ridge beech, it seems there are better, more efficient ways to produce electricity than biomass, which seems like more of the same, not a step forward. Yes, I believe small-scale biomass energy production has a place in the big picture, but these large plants being proposed in western Massachusetts for the benefit of investors and eastern Massachusetts consumers are not for me. Given a choice, I’d prefer fewer smokestacks, not more. Everywhere. Not just in my backyard.

To me, this whole Greenfield biomass initiative smells like a project being pushed by disingenuous developers who attempted to slip it through quickly in a struggling town before residents understood the potential drawbacks. I saw the proponents speak and came away unimpressed. They answered the question they wanted to answer, cried foul on the ones they artfully ducked. Thankfully, cerebral Happy Valley activists were paying attention from the start, looked into the issue before the plant was built, and brought to light the promoters’ lies and half-truths.

My take is that the proposed Greenfield plant is a long way from its ground-breaking ceremony, regardless of what “Biomass Bill” and his most ardent supporters say. Just you wait and see. The opposition is vociferous, reaching deep into our gentle hilltowns, where the mindset is quite different than mainstream Greenfield’s. In fact, my observations tell me the countywide anti-biomass crowd is much stronger than the one opposing big-box development; and we all know how fast that Mackin-lot fiasco has borne fruit. It’ll be more of the same with biomass.

Trust me, those tie-dyeds will have a long time to snicker and dick
er. Why? Easy. Because they’re not just blowing smoke.

Helping Hand

One down, one to go: That’s how Buckland’s Roger Ward sees it.

First, the done deal. Anyone who’s scanned through the 2010 MassWildlife Abstracts may have noticed the $13 youth sporting license that’s available for the first time this year. If so and you wondered where it came from, thank Ward, known to his friends as “Heze,” pronounced Hezzie, short for Hezekiah, an obsolete Biblical name common throughout New England during its first 300 years. “To tell you the truth, my mother wanted to name me Hezekiah but my father wouldn’t hear of it,” said Ward, son and grandson of Hezekiahs. “For some reason, my father didn’t like the name.”

Apparently Ward’s playground pals didn’t give a hoot what his birth certificate read, because as soon as they learned his father’s name, it became his nickname, one that he’s grown fond of. So, over the years, he’s become Heze, a West County political gadfly of sorts.

But let us not digress. Back to the youth sporting license. Working on behalf of the Conway Sportsmen’s Club, Ward was the wind behind the new license’s sails. It saves youth sportsmen ages 15 to 17 a sawbuck. In the past, there was no youth sporting license, necessitating the purchase of separate hunting ($11.50) and fishing ($11.50) licenses, a $23 tab. Now that’s history thanks to Ward’s persistence and, of course, a year and a half of bureaucratic wrangling. In the books, it’s a feather in Ward’s Conway Sportsmen’s Club’s hat.

“Fewer and fewer kids hunt nowadays and we figured a cheap license might encourage them,” explained Ward. “We didn’t want cost to be an obstacle.” So now, thanks the Heze, these inexpensive licenses have become a painless annual Christmas present for parents to consider.

With the license issue behind him, Heze’s all stirred up about another initiative, one that may even convince the longtime, true-blue Democrat to vote for the other party in the next gubernatorial election. He’s upset that Gov. Patrick has laid down strict spending ceilings for state agencies, including the Division of Fisheries and Wildlife. The budget cap will, according to Ward, leave the division with a $17 million surplus this year. He thinks the surplus should be spent, not squirreled away, and supports his argument by pointing out that the DFW has never once run a deficit budget. Nonetheless, the agency has its hands tied from above and is unable to spend money raised exclusively for fish and wildlife expenses.

“It’s akin to someone bringing home $250 a week and the government telling them they can only spend $200 of it,” Ward explained. “It’s wrong because there’s not a penny of taxpayer money in there. It’s all dedicated funds generated from hunting and fishing licenses and fees, permits and stamps.”

The worst fear is that the $17 million surplus could be secretly funneled elsewhere, excluding the Bay State from annual federal funding provided to states that restrict such revenue only to fish and wildlife projects. If the governor decides to dip into the kitty and use even a small portion of the surplus for roads or schools or bridges, then the federal assistance is gone. End of story. Ward believes the dedicated funds should be spent where they’re meant to be spent and fears monkey business down the road in a state where funds are tight and a MassWildlife hiring freeze has been in effect for more than a year. He thinks the freeze should be lifted, the money collected from licenses and fees spent on fish and wildlife projects.

“I talked to a Patrick aide who danced around the issue and wouldn’t commit to anything,” said Ward. “If they won’t cooperate and the Republican candidate promises to leave those dedicated funds alone and spend the surplus on (DFW), I’ll support him.”

That’s coming  from a man who never thinks like a Republican, rarely votes the ticket and is entertaining serious thoughts about starting a petition drive to protect the “sacred” dedicated funds.

Remember, the money in question, when used for habitat improvement, land acquisition, or MassWildlife salaries, contributes to the enjoyment of many outdoor enthusiasts who do not hunt or fish and never will, anti-hunters among them. Included would be bird watchers, photographers, hikers, boaters and many other recreational users of our woods, waters and overgrown farms.

As usual, Ole Heze’s fighting a good fight, one for you and me, fueled by a strong dose of Yankee ethic with a shot of stubborn hill-town determination.

Color Games

I know some readers are sick of this stuff. A few good ole’ boys have even felt compelled to compose scathing letters to the editor. Then again, there are those who can’t get enough. So what to do when you sit in my chair and a story like this one drops into your lap?

It came via snail mail. I arrived at work and found a plump envelope resting on my desk, one that had the look and feel of a resume. The absence of a return address told me it was no resume, though, and piqued my curiosity further. I briefly suspected hate mail but quickly ruled that out. I have never received multi-page mail of that nature. Hate mail is typically short, vicious and to the point, often grammatically, uhm, challenged. I was convinced it was something worth reading, probably about cougars, maybe salmon, perhaps biomass or Wal-Mart or some other controversial issue I’ve chimed in on over the years. I couldn’t resist opening it and taking a look, so I peeled back a corner of the sealed flap, worked my index finger inside the inch-long hole and tore a jagged line along the fold. Sure enough, cougars.

The tidy letter (I only found a few minor typos in five single-spaced pages) began with a formal, six-line business address topped by my name in the upper left-hand corner. Then the intro began with a razor-sharp, barbed treble hook: “You seem to have run out of information relative to mountain lions but have established a proven record of honest interest in these animals locally. Consequently, this is a belated Christmas gift in hopes you can use it coupled with your investigative credentials to advance knowledge of mountain lion presence here.”

Hmmmmm? Interesting, indeed, but no time to carefully read it, organized in three bold-faced, labeled segments, “Published,” “Unpublished” and “Unsubstantiated.” Nonetheless, I skimmed through it, got the gist, and arrived at the end, where it was signed “CAU,” followed by the postscript: “Name omitted due to location and the traffic it may cause if you printed my name and address, but I will respond to any information or questions printed in your column if I know
the answer and subject demands response.”

The writer is an artist who believes in local cougars because he and his wife have seen them. The first sighting occurred several years ago on Route 2 in Shelburne as the couple drove past the old Mt. Mohawk Ski Area. Years later, his wife turned on two 500-watt floodlights to illuminate their backyard from the deck and came face-to-face with a big cat passing through. That animal “whirled around and stared directly into her face, waited, then turned and bounded off, tail high. As she described the ears and tail, there was no question but what this was a mountain lion like we had seen on the Trail.”

The man even ventures off into the common subplot of government conspiracy and secrecy, accusing MassWildlife’s Western District office of receiving, reviewing, substantiating, then burying photographic evidence of a Berkshire County cat furnished by a private citizen. I’d rather not go
there; have heard it or similar accusations many times in the past. They’re not worth chasing for many reasons, foremost that there is zero chance of confirming such a tale through state wildlife officials. Zilch. Especially now that you must first go through an annoying state Executive
Office of Energy and Environmental Affairs filter before speaking to any state employee. If something must be hidden, it will be. You can thank dandy former Gov. Mitt Romney for that. But let us not digress into politics. Back to the letter, which delves into a fascinating discussion on color manipulation under different concentrations of light, according to our source, the reason big-cat reports vary in color from black to gray to brown depending upon where and what time of day they are seen. And remember, this analysis comes courtesy of an artist who is familiar with
the way color changes under different light.

The first hint of this color-altering dynamic appears early in the narrative, paragraph five, when describing the Mohawk Trail sighting, a road-crossing from the overgrown ski area to the old Taylor farm, now Kenburn Orchards Bed & Breakfast: “As the animal traveled through the shade into the sunlight and out, it changed from gray to auburn to a light sienna (rust) and then back as it passed in front of us.” Get the point? The animal appeared to be several different colors during the same brief sighting by a trained eye. It gets better later, when the writer returns to an in-depth color discussion to conclude his piece.

Because I do not understand the relationship between light and color nearly as well as my source, I am about to do something I usually avoid like the plague when writing: lengthy quotes. To me, extended, uninterrupted attribution in a piece like this is lazy. A writer should be able to capture conversation by paraphrasing and writing, not quoting, except for short snippets delivered for sudden impact, maybe humor. I often find myself feeling the same way about dialogue in fiction, even from the masters, including my own favorite, the great Hamsun. I would rather be told what was said and why, not read quotations. But that’s just me.

Nonetheless, here I am about to violate one of my own golden rules by quoting verbatim my source’s scientific analysis of why the color of cougars can vary so from sighting to sighting. Sorry. Here it is. Rather than using quotation marks, I’ll use italics to identify his words:

Finally, I wish to debunk some of the misinformation we are fed by the fish and game, DCR or whatever it is called now. For too long, they have been fabricating information about … how the animal could not have been a mountain lion because they misidentified the color. I write not as a hunter or any kind of outdoorsman, but as a professional artist with the requisite training and about 50 years experience. Part of that training includes initial and continued intensive study in color and color theory as well as improvement in observational skills. … It is because of this
training and experience that I know our DCR is either lying to us, doesn’t know how stupid they actually appear or, since most are male, carry the color-blind gene, or perhaps all three. Here’s why:

Animal colors in this area as opposed to the tropics appear to be made up of a color and a tint (white) or shade (black) of that color. Burnt sienna (rust or iron oxide), such as that of a fox, for example, is a dominant color. Add more black and it turns a darker color, such as that of a blue Doberman. Add lots of black and you get a brownish black, such as a black bear.

The base of a rust color is composed of burnt sienna (red) and gold (yellow). A cougar’s color is on the gold side of this base. It appears that the color is generated by mixing the yellowish ochre color with that of its complement, which would generate a neutral gray or muddy brown. The surface of the animal appears to be a coppery-bronze rust color depending on light. However, as one looks inward below the surface toward the skin, it appears to get grayer and more neutral. This can be explained in several ways.The first possible explanation is that the deeper you look, the darker it gets, therefore harder to see color. It might just be that the pigmentation appears only on the very tips of the hair while the rest is the neutral of the color. One might think of this color-changing as perhaps a defensive response that allows the animal to hide in some types of lighting.

Furthermore, color changes with light. For example, take a walk in the woods with the sun at your back and the foliage will appear one color. Turn around and it is completely different. In addition, the sun reflects off the surface in places where the fur is compressed, and is absorbed in others as the animal stretches, creating lighter or darker variations of the same surface. In the animal world, think of the ridgeback, where the light splaying on the texture seems to create a different color along the back, where you look into the fur.

The animal I saw was in and out of the sunlight and at different positions relative to where I was. When I was in a position where the animal faced me or was at an angle in the light, it was a rust/bronze color. But as it moved across my path, I looked directly into the ends of the deep fur and it was gray. This occasionally shows up in photos of the animal and should help explain why there have been different color sightings by various people.

Since most cougars hunt and travel in the poor light of dawn or dusk, the colors of the beast would probably appear to be deep yellow- to grayish-ochre. Seen in front of the light, however, they would appear black. Finally, in any group of similar animals, there will always be variations. That the state uses this color “mix-up” to prove its point and confuse the issue is either innocent ignorance or blatant subterfuge. Take your pick.

So, readers, chew on this analysis whenever contemplating the reason why witnesses dating back to colonial New England have been reporting black or gray panthers. Apparently, it’s all about the light under which they see them. And remember, the preceding explanation came from a man who knows color and the effects of different light on it. That’s why I printed it as it came to me. Frankly, I couldn’t have said it better myself, and may have been inaccurate if I tried to paraphrase.

Why chance it?

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