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?

Fair Play

I’ve had a letter sitting here on my desk for a couple of years, one I’ve “been meaning to get to,” if you know what I mean. But here I sit, finally getting back to it, prodded by the man who sent it, dignified octogenarian Edward M. Wells of Leyden, Franklin County roots nearly as deep as the Sunderland sycamore.

It was Mr. Wells who showed up at my door a month or so ago inquiring about the letter. Did I still have it kicking around? If so, he thought he’d float it past Irmarie Jones or someone else who may be interested. It brought me back to my school daze many years ago, the Harris-tweed, bespectacled teacher, chalk-dusted shoulders, asking how many more days I’d need to finish the essay due last week. Well, let’s just say Mr. Wells got a 21st-century response, no resemblance to my trusted 1970 friend, Sixties Defiance. The story of Robert “Bud” Coombs’ had indeed interested me; loved the writing style, too. I did intend to do something on it. Just needed a little poke, I guess. Well, Mr. Wells was there to dig his dusty pointer stick between my ribs. So here I sit, wondering where to start.

Accompanying the essay was Mr. Wells’ handwritten letter, dated June 2, 2007, prefacing the little tale, deft touch, that had been written for the Christmas holidays by his late cousin’s Tucson, Ariz., widow. Her name was Jean, wife of “Bud” Coombs, he from, you guessed it, Coombs Hill in Colrain, just a hop, skip and a jump west of me, on the site of the old Fort Morris of French & Indian War fame, one of four garrisons available to Coleraine’s earliest Scots-Irish settlers when danger loomed in the howling wilderness. Bud’s people had farmed that idyllic spot looking east at Monadnock since the start, parts of four centuries turning up stones and Native implements while tilling the soil.

But this is not a history of Coombs Hill or Coombs Farm or that old “South Fort.” No, this story has Franklin County Fair flavor, one that some of the older readers among us will remember well. It’s about what the annual September gathering on Petty’s Plain once meant countywide to farm- and schoolboys alike. Sadly, this weekend there will be no
schoolboy athletic competition akin to the days of Bud Coombs and my own father, himself a former fair sprint champion, then a Deerfield teen representing Greenfield after putting Deerfield High in his rearview due to “issues” with the school administration. Like they say, the apple doesn’t fall from the tree. Maybe I too should have fled. But I stayed … and ultimately paid.

Enough of that, though … back to Bud Coombs and his Franklin County Fair day in the sun, as told by his sweetheart in her stylish, heartfelt essay that touched on a little of everything pertinent to country fairs and those who attended them way back when. Times have changed. Now the grandstand is filled for demolition derbies; in my day, fireman’s
musters. Not back then, in 1942, bombs disrupting daily lives worldwide, subsistence hilltown farms struggling to make a go of it with laborers off to war on faraway
continents. Like many other agrarian highland lads, Bud Coombs was strong like bull and fleet afoot but unable to join proud Arms Academy’s athletic teams because daily farm chores precluded it.

The story begins in the barn, where Bud and his father are performing morning chores as part of their daily routine, the reticent teen hinting that he’d like to break free, no school, and take the old Chevy to the fair. His father, painfully short on words, one-ups him, tells him to take the big red Oldsmobile, quite a treat for a 17-year-old rolling down dusty Brook Road and across the lush Greenfield Meadows to the county fair. Yes sir, he was living large.

He climbs the gentle slope to the fairgrounds, parks the Olds out of harm’s way and heads for the gate. Once inside, young Bud goes directly to the grandstand area to catch the track meet, where the county schools — his Arms, Greenfield and Turners, probably others — vie for bragging rights annually in a spirited competition fueled by town and school pride. Remember, those were the days when every Franklin County town had
its own summer baseball team, and inter-town rivalries were intense, more so than today,
when kids have traded their Louisville Sluggers for joysticks. But let us not digress, or take cheap shots at today’s youth. Back to the ’42 fair, nine months removed from Pearl Harbor, the world aflame, young Bud quick-stepping down the midway to the track.

He arrives at in front of the grandstand and the Arms coach, short of competitors, is nervously pacing, furiously scanning the bleachers, the track, anywhere for able bodies. He spots Bud. Can he run? Timidly, Bud nods. Yes, he can run. He’s promptly rewarded with Arms maroon and white to don, a pair of “roomy” track shoes to lace up. He puts on his new uniform, receives quick lessons in stance and how to burst from the blocks at the report of a revolver, and proceeds to win the 220- and 100-yard dashes, helping his school secure the Franklin County track championship, quite a feat against the larger schools. A story fit for the big screen, that of Bud Coombs’ day of glory at the fair. Yes, a
wartime tale worth repeating.

Before departing for home, back up Brook Road to Coombs Hill, Bud is named captain of the fair team and spends the rest of the day walking the lanes, flirting, eating hot dogs, cotton candy, candied apples; playing games and riding the Ferris wheel with adoring Arms coeds, frightened by rocking at the peak. He arrives home a little late for evening chores and his father is already at it. He doesn’t say much, just nods and softly kicks a milking stool toward a waiting shorthorn. Bud sits firmly, grabs a teat, pulls and twists, producing that familiar hollow splash off the base of an empty bucket.

“Good fair?” his father inquires.

“Yup.”

More splashes.

Humble souls, those country folk from our bucolic Franklin hills. Don’t say much. Never did. Never will.

Just enough.

Just Because

The brittle leaves underfoot were dry and noisy, the day unseasonably warm for early November, approaching 70. The noontime sky was clear, blue and infinite, not a trace of a cloud anywhere, the southern sun big and bright, the air tomb still.

We were walking an abandoned road, me and a man who shares my love of local history, old roads and stone-clad cellar holes marking the sites of long-ago abandoned hilltown dwellings. I had for some time meant to return to this road and these woods containing the historic farmstead of Conway’s first settler, Cyrus Rice. It was as good a day as any, with optimal visibility through bare-boned fall hardwoods; revealing, dusty beams of light filtering through to illuminate patches of the forest floor. We were there as the result of a mid-morning whim and my impulsive phone call had us traipsing through what was once a sparse group of expansive 18th- and early 19th-century farms, now dense forest along the western lip overlooking Deerfield’s Mill River section.

We had met at the Route 116 convenience store, where he left his car before I drove my 4-wheel Tacoma pickup to our destination, there driving a few hundred yards up a snowmobile trail to a location within sight of charred remains from a mid-20th century hunting camp. From there, we walked and talked and studied the lay of the land, stopping here and there to probe beneath the leaves on the forest floor with my walking stick, assessing acorns and other hard mast (hickory nuts everywhere); along the way passing a bittersweet canopy tangled through small trees, a massive wild grapevine wider at its base than my right thigh, and even a twin white birch more than a foot and a half wide along the ridge’s highest spine; your typical, knobby, southern New England upland forest. Beautiful indeed.

At the peak of the first hill we hiked, the old road traveled a short distance downhill and split. We took the right fork down a level, where the road looped us through wide-open forest to a spot where a tidy stonewall abruptly ended, behind it a line of large maples blazed with circular red blotches head-high, behind them a foot-wide spring brook running clean and free through a shallow hollow and toward the Mill River. We stopped and talked and probed and laughed as we discussed our next move, how far we intended to continue our little discovery mission, trying to connect opposite ends of the road. But we were in no great hurry, just enjoying the gorgeous day, the sun, the woods and conversation through breathless dry air.

I mentioned that I thought I knew the small brook as one I used to cross years ago hunting on a friend’s land, perhaps a half-mile below. Down there, I remembered the stream as wider, trickling through a steep, foreboding gorge-like ravine just above its confluence with the Mill River. As we discussed that and the straight, sturdy stonewall, the blazed trees and whatever else came to mind, we heard leaves rustling in the distance. Something was moving toward us from the other side of the stonewall. At first, I assumed it was a squirrel but told my friend it could easily be something we weren’t expecting, even a bear, because there are many bears in those woods, and they would definitely be around with a bountiful nut crop to forage. Then he saw something moving and said it looked like a dog, “right there,” pointing, “Do you see it?”

I didn’t but was expecting a coyote. When the animal cleared the trees screening me and came out into the open, I could see clearly what we were dealing with: a whitetail, spikehorn buck, spikes eight or 10 inches long, probably weighing between 90 and 110 pounds. We continued talking and it kept on its merry way, right at us, walking to within 25 yards before noticing us, freezing, staring for a second or two and taking two or three bounds to the peak of a little knob maybe 50 yards away. It stood there, broadside, to again examine its unexpected guests before vanishing over the top.

How do you explain such a thing? Deer hunters wash their clothes and bodies in special scentless soaps, apply scent masks or cover scents to their clothing, and discipline themselves to remain quiet and motionless for hours on stand. And here we were, midday, bright woods, making absolutely no effort to conceal our presence or be quiet, and the young buck walks right up to us as though deaf. You’ll never convince me that deer was deaf. No way. We just happened to be in the right place at the right time, what it’s all about for such sightings, gun or no gun.

Of course, my pal had another take as we walked back to the truck discussing it. He agreed it was an incredible moment, but asked if I was certain it wasn’t an escaped mule. Uh-uh. A mule it was not. Definitely a spikie.

I guess it’s days like this that bring me to the woods. You never know what you’re going to run into. Perhaps something you’ve never before seen, maybe something you’ve seen many times but never get tired of. This week’s spikehorn was more the former than latter, but still unusual, unexpected, interesting and, on another level, frustrating.

Frustrating? Yes, because I must admit that since the sighting I have more than once during idle moments thought: “Why doesn’t this happen when I’m deer hunting?”

Just because.

Still Going Strong

I took my two surviving English Springers on their routine morning run Wednesday, 8:30-ish, to the usual hayfield — a mix of clover, timothy, orchard grass and rye — the shadowed eastern third still frosted brittle. I let Ringy and Lily out and sat in the cab listening to Dennis and Callahan on WEEI.

Well, I wasn’t there for more than a minute or two when I heard one of the dogs jump aggressively onto the truck’s bed. I looked back and, strangely, it was Bingy. Hmmmm? Very unlike ole Bingy to be eager to leave. So, I hopped out of the cab and the dog leaped off the tailgate and ran 35 yards toward the river bank, stopping to look back at me before rearing back a couple of times and bouncing on his front feet like a horse. I called him and he sprinted to my side, seeking affection. I pet him on the breast bone, under his jowls, and he stood motionless, enjoying the attention, before again sprinting down the path toward the steep river bank and repeating his previous horse dance.

Bemused and in a hurry, I called him back, kenneled him and whistled for Lily, she searching about through a melon patch some 100 yards south of me. She lifted her head, spotted me and sprinted across the sunny section of ankle-high hayfield before bounding onto the truck’s bed and straight into her porta-kennel. I fastened the door shut and re-entered my cab.

As I drove homeward toward a couple of hot houses, I was thinking about potential reasons for Bingy’s peculiar behavior. He was clearly asking me for something. I was not sure what. Then it came to me. I have been running them each afternoon in the adjacent sunken meadow, where they seem to enjoy hunting rabbits and whatever other critters lurk in the bordering wetland, not to mention eating green pear apples under three “wild” apple trees at the far end. With a chill in the air and wind in his sails, Old Bingy, a youthful 12, was frisky and wanted to head for that sunken play ground.

His time is near. Soon it’ll be hunting season and we’ll travel to many similar haunts, where that enthusiastic gait will sing the same joyful song it’s sung for more than a decade.

Who would have ever dreamt he’d outlive Bessie?

A Sad Ordeal

It should be with euphoria that I greet the dawning of a new bird-hunting season, which opened today for woodcock, Saturday for pheasant and partridge. And, yes, I am looking forward to the exercise, the dogs and wing-shot challenges. But it would have been better with Bessie — that is, Old Tavern Farm’s Brown Bess — a rambunctious, biddable, 2-year-old bitch who wanted to please and would have come into her own this season. The anticipation was intense, the potential immense, and now she is gone, victim of an insidious skin disease that led to euthanasia. A sad ordeal, heart-wrenching, she the product of my other two; the future, swept out from under me like worn soles on a black-ice spill.

What brought on this auto-immune disease called pemphigus foliaceus we will never know, but I have my suspicions. Perfectly healthy and vigorous, a bundle of energy and athleticism for her shots and exam on July 24; then, a month later, a crusty rash, unsuccessful treatment with two antibiotics, a skin biopsy, diagnosis, Oct. 2 (2009) euthanasia. It was a sad, sad song, one I lived every day for two months, helpless as I watched it progress, fearing it would spread to kennel-mates Ringo and Lily, washing my hands again and again after touching her, bathing her, administering oral medication. And when I finally took her to the vet on that final day, the saddest of Fridays, she was still wagging her tail despite significant hair loss that exposed hideous scabs and raw holes which destroyed her beauty. In two months that seemed like five, she went from a stunning animal, something worthy of the national circuit, to a crusty, bloody mess. The meds wouldn’t touch it. Life is strange.

I’m not here to point fingers or gripe about the money lost on a hopeless case. That’s behind me now. But I would like to know what happened. The disease can be caused by a reaction to foods ingested, even seemingly harmless produce like cauliflower or pepper, or by a reaction to medicine.

I’m no doctor or scientist, so I won’t go into a discussion on vaccinations and the potential for side-effects. But I have been told by folks who refuse all vaccinations except rabies, which is mandatory, that their dogs live long healthy lives without immunization against distemper and Lyme. In the future, that’s the route I’m taking. This was the second dog I’ve lost after immunization shots. I was warned on the first one, a dog battling terminal leukemia, and took a chance with little to lose. Had I been warned on this animal — perfectly healthy, vigorous, brilliant, beautiful — I would have gone without. Her affliction may have been a reaction to the shots, maybe something else. I know that. But I have my suspicions, the doctor didn’t dismiss them, and now it’s off my chest.

So it’s on to the marshes, one dog short, the future, my attempted continuation of a special pedigree now lost forever.

I’ll get over it … slowly … very slowly.

Another Shop Bites the Dust

Sad news from Noho, where Dave Warren is closing the doors to Dave’s
Pioneer Sporting Center on the south side of Damon Road.

Tell me, is there a less likely location for a successful gun and tackle
shop than Northampton, the politically correct capital of our Happy
Valley? No sir. But that’s not what killed Pioneer. It was the economy,
stupid; you know, the one the Fed says has recovered.

Well, Warren couldn’t disagree more.

“My fly-tying and archery business is what always kept me going,” Warren
said, “but they just died in this economy. First, a slow spring and summer, now this. I should be selling a lot of archery stuff now, but nothing’s moving. What can you do? I’m closing Saturday, going hunting and then I’ll figure out what’s next.”

Bargain hunters should check out the inventory for the closeout sale through Saturday (Oct. 11, 2009) afternoon.

Asked if Wal-Mart had a hand in his demise, Warren chuckled and confidently said, “No, Wal-Mart never hurt me. They sell junk.”

What a hoot? Have you ever in your life heard Wal-Mart associated with junk? Oh my. All I can say is: Thank you, Dave. You made my day.

As for the folks aware of my negative predisposition toward a Wal-Mart in
Greenfield, I didn’t say it, Dave Warren did. And there’ll be many in Greenfield who’ll love hearing it; and, of course, many who’ll scream bloody murder, want my scalp, friends among them. They may even start hurling the hated “Normanite” tag my way (to me supreme praise), that and NIMBY, another compliment in my book. Heaven forbid I’d ever be associated with the Penrick gang. No sir. Not me. My roots go far too deep for that shallow lot.

But, let us not digress; back to the sport-shop closing in Noho, sad indeed. I have stopped there to chew the fat for many years dating back to before my Recorder days. It all started t’other side the road as Pioneer Sporting Center, owned by Bill Krinsky, now long gone to Texas, where, if he’s still in the business, it’s likely booming. But he can have Texas. I wouldn’t go there for fortune or frolic, too conservative for my liking. Hell, you’re liable to be put to sleep there for delinquent parking tickets, if of the wrong hue or accent. So, yeah, I guess a man of my proud heritage may have a chance of escaping that
dreadful fate — maybe being the key word. But that could change fast once they understood I’m one of those who think our demise began with the Sixties assassinations, glorious days in that Loon Star State.

Anyway, Krinsky sold Pioneer to Hadley taxidermist Bill Van, who stayed
at the original site on the north side of Damon Road until he and partner Warren moved across the road to a smaller space. Ultimately, Van went back to taxidermy, Warren bought him out and will soon head for the Hamptons in the western Hampshire hills.

Not a bad place to “retire.” Not bad a’tall.

Gentelman Jim

I found retiring, longtime state Bear Project Leader Jim Cardoza at his desk Tuesday (Oct. 6, 2009), just after noon, at Westborough’s MassWildlife Field Headquarters, where he’s kept his office during my entire Recorder tenure; more than 30 years, almost unimaginable to me, the South Deerfield bad boy who told many a teacher and coach to, quite frankly, take a hike to Satan’s kingdom. You know the way those things usually turn out. Yeah, of course, I was the one who needed walking shoes. And walk I did, defiant smile gleaming, euphoric to be rid of a dreadful place with little to offer except aggravation. I guess it always came down to respect with me. If I had none, I showed less; not the way to go for any kiddies out there allowed to read this.

So here I sit, penning a column for a little newspaper, laying out pages, writing heads and cuts, toiling to make ends meet on a meager, ink-stained salary. But this isn’t about me, it’s about Jim Cardoza, with whom I have nurtured a professional relationship, one I value because of his knowledge and rare accessibility, not to mention the fact that he’s been steward for two of the most successful wildlife-restoration projects ever seen this side of the great Mississippi.

I phoned Cardoza to get the final numbers for the September 8-26 bear season, 17 days that threatened to break a record, which, he didn’t know off the top of his head. But never fear, it seems that the former dunce filling this space found the needed handwritten records in his  slightly disorganized (yeah, right!) files; right there in the first drawer I opened, fifth or sixth sheet of paper examined. So, for the record, we did not set a record this year, but were close. When all the cards are counted, either 137 or 138 bears will have been killed. Cardoza was out of town on Wednesday and had one report sort of hanging, thus the incomplete figure. But at this point, does one freakin’ bear really matter in the big picture? I don’t think so.

Yeah, I know, I could have been a good little scribe and waited for the snaily press release to arrive. But what I have is, as the saying goes, close enough for government work, which it is, thus good enough for me. The all-time September record, reached in the consecutive seasons of 2003 and 2004, is 142.
But, enough about bears. Back to Cardoza, whose star-studded 40-year career will come to an end Friday (Oct. 9, 2009), when he’ll ride off into the sunset knowing his was a job well done. How else to describe the bespectacled, professorial wildlife biologist who oversaw the restoration of bears and turkeys, both of which today present thriving statewide populations that are sure to expand.

When I spoke to Cardoza, I articulated my appreciation for his cooperative demeanor whenever I had called, even in these tough times of having to first go through the screen set up by the state Executive Office of Energy and Environmental Affairs. I’m not going to wait for the press release to throw out some sappy quote saluting the man. No, I’m just going to say that during my long tenure here, Jim Cardoza was always there for me, even returned calls — a rare courtesy — and always had his facts straight before calling. A perfectionist, there is no mystery why his programs succeeded beyond expectations. He willed them to where they are today. To use a few old clichés, he left no stone unturned, dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s, was a stickler for detail.

I have dealt with many of his colleagues over the years, going way back to Jim McDonough, Dick Cronin and Bill Pollack, later Wayne MacCallum, Steve Williams, John McDonald and Bill Davis, he the absolute best PR man ever before taking his current job as Central Wildlife District manager. All of the aforementioned were good men and humble servants, but no man helped me more, or more often, than Jim Cardoza. Not even close.

Sure, Jim had his critics, many of them the same people who view me as traitorous for criticizing their sacred NRA. But I always defended Cardoza as smart, accessible, accountable and professional to a fault. How can anyone criticize that?

The last time I saw Cardoza in person was on the Whately/South Deerfield line, at that big gas station/Dunkin’ Donuts/Subway monstrosity that used to be Spuds ’n Buds. I was pumping gas, heard a familiar voice to my right, looked over and saw Cardoza among a crowd gathered near a fleet of state vehicles. MacCallum was also there.

They both gave a warm smile and friendly greeting when I approached. They were participating in a field trip to a nearby bears’ den with a retinue of state legislators. Cardoza and MacCallum both made me feel welcome, like they were genuinely pleased to see me, no passionless handshake and cold “howdyado” typical of politicians.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got. Jim Cardoza will be missed. Whoever steps into his shoes has a tough row to hoe, as weedy and rocky as it gets. Jim Cardoza had the Midas touch for wildlife restoration. Till my final day, if I remain here where my roots lie, I will think of him whenever I pass a flock of turkeys or slow down to let a bear and her cubs cross the road.

Jim Cardoza brought them back, made an impact of historical proportions.

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