If you want to find out where you stand physically, try following two enthusiastic English Springer Spaniels through dense, wet, tangled cover for the first few days of the pheasant season. It’ll put you in you place fast if you’ve made your living sitting behind a desk for any length of time. So I guess it’s a fact that crippled office rats who refuse the health club can’t hunt forever. They just think they can.

I know, I’m one of them — north of a half-century and feeling like the plump warhorse I am, fatigued, groins aching and wondering when the day will arrive when I won’t be up to the task. Something tells me that day will come, or at least I’ll have to change my style, but please allow my denial to last a little longer. I prefer it that way, regardless of the warning signs my body is transmitting.

Thank God I finally gave in and strapped a knee brace onto my scarred, deformed left knee, the one that’s been painfully operating just fine, thank you, since May 1976, when the ACL snapped never to be repaired. Yep, that’s right, 29 years worth of loose abuse, and still plugging. I can only imagine the pain that would be emanating from that joint was I not lining it up properly with the brace to limit the bone-on-bone grind. It’s a sound you hope you never hear, and one I’ve learned to live with for nearly three decades.

So I guess that’s the good news: the brace seems to be working, and the knee’s feeling better than it has during Octobers of the recent past. Now it’s my quads, groins, hamstrings and lower back that are killing me as I sit here pecking at this noisy keyboard, trying to pen a column with fatigued creativity.

Oh, I’ll be back out there tomorrow, sleep-deprived, pushing my body to its reduced limits. You can bet on that. You only get six weeks to hunt birds, so you can’t step into it gently. No sir, it’s full speed ahead. But I am for the first time cognizant that the day will come when even stubborn willpower will not be enough to outweigh the pains of aching wheels.

I suppose the primary problem is that springers were created to slither through, burrow under and bound over the most unforgiving cover, which cannot be said for aging bipeds, particularly those who’ve abused their bodies between the lines. Sure, it was great upending a second baseman with a take-out slide or lowering your shoulder to punish a tackler or drop a punishing runner, but there’s a price to pay for the nicks incurred from such violent behavior, and now it’s time to pay the bill. At least that’s how I look at it. No denial, no regrets. It is what it is.

Perhaps, for the first time in my life I’ll have to give in and change my style. You know, slow it down a bit, maybe even purchase a pointer and make the transition to a gentleman hunter during my gray years. But how can I do that with a year-old springer bitch that has seven or eight good years ahead of her? It just wouldn’t be fair, would it? And besides, it’s that steady, sometimes furious chase behind a flush-and-retrieve dynamo that pushes my buttons and calls me to the covert daily. The chase is more challenging, and so are the wing shots.

But, still, I may be approaching a familiar crossroads. What I’m going through today brings me back some 30 years to my diamond days. I can vividly recall stopping at a local watering hole on my way home from a hardball game back then and bumping into old high school teammates or foes in their finest tease mode. They were slo-pitch heroes, and they’d have a half-hour head start on me sitting at the bar. The ribbing would begin soon after I walked through the door and ordered a beverage.

“Hey Bags, when you gonna give up baseball and play a man’s game,” they’d bellow. But the playful banter didn’t bother me. “It won’t be long,” I’d reply. “As soon as my legs can’t handle the big diamond.”

I was a man of my word. Sporting a noticeable limp, I moved to the smaller diamond with the bigger ball at around 30 and proceeded to delay adulthood another 10 years. To be sure, it was a different game — slower, more mistakes — but there were still four bases, a mound and a bench, and the dugout camaraderie was worth the commitment. Couldn’t give it up, especially when I discovered the semi-fast alternative. Fastballs, changeups, knucklers, risers — as close as you could get to the real thing.

Now, with that activity 12 years in my rearview, all that’s left for me is the exhilarating flush-and-retrieve game. The adrenaline flows as you challenge yourself to follow a better animal than you on a chase through thorn-laced cover — stumbling over hummocks, pulling your feet through snaring swamp grass, and bulling through bittersweet vines on the way to a flush. Then, when you hear the flush, you step toward the sound, locate the fleeing bird, point, swing and fire to drop it from the sky.

Maybe as my legs grow older, my eyes weaker, my back and shoulders stiffer, the success rate will diminish. Perhaps my endurance will diminish, shortening the typical hunt. But somehow I don’t believe those humbling issues could ruin a good day afield.

Like my hunting and softball buddy, Cooker, told the orthopedic surgeon who warned me to to give up softball or it would cut my bird-hunting short: “You don’t know Bags.”

He had a chuckle in his throat.

We’ll see.

The joy of bird hunting —free-wheeling through dense, wet, thorny cover behind an enthusiastic dog or dogs — is often preceded by the drudgery of preparation, something no hunter looks forward to. But a man is only good as his gear, which, unfortunately, requires consistent maintenance.

Boots and bibs need regular cleaning and dressing, shotguns beg for TLC following every hunt — particularly those on wet, low-pressure days — and there are always accessories like shooting glasses, whistles, gloves and cleaning rods that must be dealt with.

For me, procrastination begins and ends with the messy waterproofing of boots and bibs. Both chores call for elbow grease, messy hands and an electric hairdryer, which tends to come away from the workbench as sticky as your hands. Of course, because you’re dealing with waterproofing, soap and water won’t remove it. So you must have a can of paint thinner or turpentine nearby if you don’t want to clean every door handle you touch on the way to the shelf where you store it.

My clothing of choice is Filson Tin Cloth Hunting Bibs ($200) and 16-inch uninsulated L.L. Bean Hunting Boots ($100) — you know, the ones with leather tops and rubber bottoms. I like the bibs because they eliminate the discomfort of untucked shirts and slipping pants, which open the door for debris down your pants or bull briars across the bare small of your back. As for the boots, well, I suppose I could eliminate the waterproofing if I went to high rubber boots, but the cheap ones don’t offer the support required by an old warhorse of many ankle sprains and the $350 ones are just too expensive. Plus, I don’t think the expensive rubber field boots would stand up to the cover I frequent, not with hidden, rusted barbed-wire snare traps buried deep.

As for my Filson bibs, no one could convince me there’s anything better for my style of  hunting; cheaper and less labor-intensive, yes, but not better. I wish they’d make a pair with a game bag on the back, but a hunting coat or vest takes care of that problem.

As for the claim that Tin Cloth bibs are virtually indestructible and offer many years of hunting pleasure, well, if you don’t care for them and pound heavy cover aggressively, you’re lucky to get two seasons out of them. That’s 12 weeks, which may sound crazy, but is true, at least for me. The secret is to apply Filson’s Original Oil Finish Wax ($8.25 for 3.75 ounces) whenever the bibs start to show wear and creases. Those worn areas soon become tears if left untreated and, over time, even despite multiple treatments. But I have found that I can get three full seasons of aggressive hunting out of a pair of Filson bibs, then retire them, tattered and torn, for the less aggressive use, such as woodland walks, yard work and firewood chores.

Over the years, I have perfected a method of waxing my bibs and waterproofing my boots on the workbench in my shed. The process takes about an hour and a half, then an hour or two in front of the woodstove. What you need is a work area with an electrical outlet, rags, a coarse bristled brush, a hairdryer, and potentially Saddle Soap for extremely dirty boots. The boots and bibs must be totally dry before the procedure can begin.

I usually start with the boots, removing the laces and aggressively brushing all dirt and debris from the surface. Then I place them in front of the woodstove while I deal with the bibs, which also need a good brushing before applying the wax.

With the boots still soaking up the heat in front of the woodstove, I place one leg of the bibs on my bench and insert a 10-inch board up the leg to the crotch, then zip the leg down as far as possible and flatten out any creases so that I’m working with a flat surface. Then I scoop a gob of wax, a little denser than cold bacon fat, from the container and liberally apply it to the leg, leaving thick streaks of it here and there from thigh to ankle. You then hold the cotton rag in one hand, the hairdryer in the other, and blow hot air on the leg to melt and apply it evenly. Repeat the process on the other side of the leg, then on both sides of the other leg and into the crotch before returning to the woodstove, placing the freshly treated bibs on a clothes rack in front of the stove, and grabbing the warmed boots. Now the heat of the stove will enhance the wax-penetration process on the bibs while you treat your boots, creating more time for hunting. Plus, I’ve learned to own two pairs of boots. That way you have a pair ready when you’re done applying the dressing to the boots you’re working on. And when you go hunting, you just leave the freshly waterproofed pair in front of the stove to complete the waterproofing process.

I’ve found that the hairdryer is also useful for applying whatever waterproofing product you prefer — Snoseal or Filson Original Boot Oil Finish are my favorites, but I have also used Mink Oil and other products, and they all seem to do the job. The hairdryer melts any of the pasty substance that settles in the eyeholes and liquefies it for an easier, more uniform application.

You never look forward to such chores, and they’re never fun, but the hunting experience is always improved by foot-ware and clothing that can stand up to the most challenging conditions. Not only that but, if you take care of your hunting clothing, it lasts longer, wears better, and costs less over the long haul.

Head to the barber shop, newsstand or corner greasy-spoon and you’re bound to hear discussion about coyotes — a hybrid wild canine that appeared on the local scene some 40 years ago, when loggers, hunters and farmers occasionally encountered what was then referred to as “wild dogs,” believing German shepherd-mix strays had adapted to the wild and were living on the fringe of civilization.

When it later became apparent that we were dealing with a new species, not a domestic mongrel gone wild, the beasts were called “coy dogs,” the prevailing wisdom speculating a midsized wild canine of coyote/domestic-dog mix. Then, as the population exploded and it became clear that these “coy dogs” were, indeed, a new wild canine species unique to the Northeastern, biologists called them Eastern coyotes, larger versions of the the Western coyote. Why these animals were larger than their cousins was puzzling, but some scientists believed we may be dealing with a Great Lakes cross between the Eastern timber, or gray, wolf and the Western coyote. The logic was that the gray wolf had been driven west by early New England colonists, the Western coyotes were driven east by Western settlers, and the two species collided and bred in the desolate Great Lakes region. The new species first appeared around the Great Lakes, migrated into New York and Vermont by the mid-20^th century, and showed up here slightly later. Eastern coyotes are found statewide today, inhabiting even metropolitan areas, where they are a common sight along the highway and at the rubbish bin.

Our coyotes are known killers of house cats, livestock and fowl, and are believed to have a negative impact on our deer population despite a lack of scientific evidence. Still, with or without hard evidence, if you want to get a good lively coffee-shop or tavern discussion going, suggest that coyotes are not killing deer and brace for the argument.

During my decades-long keeping of this space, no subject has attracted more attention than the coyote/deer relationship. “Why don’t you write about coyotes killing deer?” the readers implore. The answer is that it’s difficult to assess an issue without facts on which to base a conclusion. Simply stated, despite what hunters tell you, the fact that they routinely spot coyote tracks following deer does not prove that coyotes are doing great damage to our deer herd. What you need to find is deer carcasses and blood and body parts, and the fact is that few woodsmen — including the most outspoken coyote haters — seem to be finding much evidence.

“Surprisingly, not much real research (on coyote predation of deer) has been conducted in the Northeast,” reported United States Fish & Wildlife biologist and former MassWildlife deer project leader John McDonald. “Some work was done in New Brunswick in the late 1990s, but nothing really in the New England states.”

Even the state’s deer-radio-collaring project has provided no useful information regarding the issue. That statewide initiative has proven that coyotes eat deer, not that they kill the deer they eat.

“I don’t know that any of the radio-collared deer that were obviously fed on by coyotes could be said to have been killed by coyotes,” McDonald wrote in an e-mail. “I know that a couple that died had been dead too long by the time we got to them to determine what killed them.”

If coyotes are only scavenging weak, injured or road-killed deer, then who could have a problem with that? The answer is nobody. But there’s also the contention that coyotes are taking their share of newborn spring fawns, which is always a possibility, and there’s no data available to dispute that claim. In fact, a recent fawn-survival study conducted in Pennsylvania reported that coyotes did indeed kill fawns, as did black bears. “However, deer densities there are much higher than we have here,” wrote McDonald, who went on to address the bear issue.

“When I led the (Massachusettts) bear-research program, we looked at hundreds of scats over several years and only found fawn remains in one that I can recall,” he wrote. “For bears, predation on deer fawns can be opportunistic, i.e., if a bear runs into a fawn it can kill, it will. But for them to learn how to hunt them and be regular predators, there has to be a lot of fawns around. Then it would be worthwhile and possible for the bear to learn how to do it.”

Hmmmm? A new twist, huh? Now we’re bringing bears into the equation. Like coyotes, bears are a relatively new phenomenon to this state. They are indigenous but had been scarce until the past two decades; similar to the gray wolf, which was wiped out by colonial bounty hunters and has now been replaced in the predatory chain by the “brush wolf ” or Eastern coyote.

Can there be any doubt that as the bear density increases and spring forage is at a minimum, they will or already have learned to hunt newborn fawns. It makes sense. So does coyote predation. But it also seems unlikely either predator will make too dramatic a dent in the expanding deer population. Nature has a way of figuring out the right formula.

May 2006

An alarming news release arrived in my Inbox. The headline read: “New Data Shows Brook Trout Imperiled Throughout Entire Eastern Range: Massachusetts Brook Trout Populations Threatened by Dams and Roads.”

Troubling.

We’re not talking here about the stocked hatchery brookies anglers have been catching in small streams this spring. No. We’re talking about the native “squaretails” we all grew up with; those steel-blue, brilliantly spotted freshwater fish that, as fingerlings, breaded lightly with corn flour, are a cast-iron delight dating back to colonial times. A salmonid of the char family, Eastern brook trout (Salvelinus fontinalis) are regarded by many as North America’s most beautiful freshwater fish. Count me among them.

I grew up catching native squaretails, big and small, in local waters I would never identify in print; and although I haven’t fished those waters in a generation, I believe they’re still there, beautiful and tasty as ever. However, that assumption may not be accurate given recent findings by Trout Unlimited and a coalition of state and federal agencies that collaborated on the recent report, “Eastern Brook Trout: Status and Threats.” Researchers found that “brook trout survive in less than half of their original range in Massachusetts.”

“Brook trout are the canary in the coal mine when it comes to water quality,” said Gary Berti, Trout Unlimited’s Eastern brook brout campaign coordinator. “The presence of brook trout in a watershed indicates that water quality is excellent. Declining brook trout populations can provide an early warning that the health of an entire stream, lake or river is at risk.”

The brookie havens I know well are probably still producing the gorgeous native fish, albeit fewer than during my boyhood days when I vividly recall watching trophy brookies spawn each fall at a secluded old mill site in the woods. I assume that they’re still there because the site is located within the remaining “few patches of relatively strong Massachusetts brook trout habitat” pinpointed in the press release. That region includes the Berkshire and Taconic mountains, portions of the Hoosic, Deerfield and Westfield watersheds, and several Connecticut River tributaries. Otherwise, according to the release, brook trout have been eliminated from seven percent of their historical Massachusetts habitat and are greatly reduced in another 28 percent of habitat that once supported them.

“While these results are sobering, we are already pursuing many opportunities for conservation of remaining high-quality habitat as well as restoration of impaired streams,” said MassWildlife aquatic biologist Todd Richards. “Our collective challenge is to protect the best remaining habitat and restore the rest.”

While there is no denying the looming threat, the outlook is far from hopeless, according to Warren Winders, brook trout coordinator for TU’s Massachusetts Council.

“Brookies are quick to respond to habitat improvements,” he explained.  “We have already seen the results of our work with state and federal partners on Quashnet River and Red Brook. By scaling up these programs throughout the state and region, we will see wild brook trout returning to our streams.  And that’s great news for all of us who love to fish locally with our families and friends.”

Winders’ assessment represents the first stage of the Eastern Brook Trout Joint Venture’s collaborative efforts to restore habitat. The venture was initiated in 2002 as a pilot program of the National Fish Habitat Initiative. Participants include fish and wildlife agencies from 17 states, federal partners, conservation organizations and academic institutions. The results of this assessment will be used to develop state-by-state strategies for brook trout conservation and recovery.

The full report, as well as state-specific data and maps, is available at www.brookie.org. Print it out, chew on it a while and see if you get the same rotten taste I did.