Interesting how, now that my hunting gear is squirreled away till next year, my sparse venison supply long ago consumed, Mother Nature has dropped two perfect snowstorms for deer hunting in less than a week. The old hag must be looking out for the deer in my neighborhood; at least that’s how it appears on the surface. And I can’t say it surprises me much, either. I guess that’s just the way it goes.

Yeah, I know we got a snowstorm during shotgun season, one that gave us everything required to cut fresh tracks and follow them. But I can remember getting out of the truck that morning, slipping on my coat and orange vest, loading my gun, taking a few steps across the alfalfa field in light, shin-deep Conway snow and saying to my buddy, “We got way more than we needed,” which meant, “Why couldn’t we have gotten 1-3 inches of soft, wet snow instead of a foot? Well, that 1-3 came overnight Monday, following a perfect inch Sunday, at a time when it did local deer hunters no good at all.

Dogging tracks in this stuff would have been a breeze, no resistance as you put one foot in front of the other, no lifting of the feet, and no unzipping your coat and removing your hat to wipe your brow as you made your way through the woods.

Even though it wasn’t ideal, you could live with the snow we got that second week of shotgun before rain fell, crusting the snow and making it noisy, particularly at icy first light; and that’s not even considering the way crunchy snow changes deer habits. Essentially what that thick, noisy crust did was shut down deer movement for five solid days, which was easy enough to figure out. After that crust formed, you couldn’t find a fresh track on the busiest trails you’d been monitoring for weeks.

Well, you ought to see those runs now; right back to where they were before the icy snow; converging on a small standing cornfield from all directions, through people’s yards, across driveways, alongside barns and dog kennels — picking at moist cover crops barely poking through the snow. No fear under dark winter skies.

The good news is that they’ll be back next year, multiplied by two or more. No one did any damage to the deer we hunted, and the herds there will be better for it. In the meantime, I guess I’ll have to settle for market meat … again.

What to make of the recent bear problems in Deerfield? Well, we better get used to it and take precautions to eliminate artificial food sources that encourage bears into residential neighborhoods before natural foods become abundant.

Bears come out of their spring dens famished, and there isn’t a lot of natural food available for months. That’s when it’s crucial for people to eliminate garbage, beehives and birdfeeders as food sources.

Word on the street was that the sow killed by law enforcement after it entered a resident’s kitchen on Upper Road in Deerfield had been fed by a resident or residents on Hoosac Road in Conway, just across the Deerfield River in the Stillwater area. That story may or may not be accurate, but if it is, then the people who contributed to the problem now carry the guilt of the two motherless cubs fending for themselves.

It’s no secret that the Bay State bear population is a runaway train. As a result, uncomfortable, potentially dangerous bear/human confrontations are inevitable. The problem confronting state wildlife officials now is how to stabilize or reduce the statewide bear population, a tough nut to crack because bear hunting is not and likely never will be popular here.

As problems increase, the gadflies who’ve advocated extending bear season during the shotgun deer season as a solution will have a field day criticizing the bear-management team. The state has already lengthened the bear season dramatically — from 12 to 23 days — in an effort to increase the harvest, and the kill did jump to a record 153 quickly. But 153 is not nearly enough to stabilize the population. And unless the population is stabilized soon, we’re going to see more and more bears killed in residential and agricultural neighborhoods.

Archers can legally take bears during the November season, which overlaps the archery deer season for six days, but critics say many hunters are nervous about killing a bear with an arrow. They say there would be no such reluctance by shotgun-toting deer hunters.

The other side of the argument is taken by state Bear Project Leader Jim Cardoza. He says that, because bears are often denned-up and inactive during the shotgun deer season, bear-hunting opportunities would be inconsistent and thus ineffective as a management tool. The critics counter that even an “insignificant” or inconsistent annual kill is better than nothing, and that maybe three or four annual deer-season bear kills in areas with dangerous bear densities would be enough to eliminate some problems.

Where is this argument headed?

It’s anyone’s guess, but state wildlife officials seem to have few bear-management options better than opening the deer season.

Like a vocal local proponent of deer-season bear hunting said in this space recently: “I don’t know why they don’t at least throw their worm in the water and see what happens.”

Sounds reasonable.

Sometimes with deadline approaching I sit at my desk, sheer-softened sunlight illuminating the room through the south windows, e-mail in the rearview, wondering how to fill this space. Then it just comes to me in any number of ways, this time during a telephone conversation sweetened by procrastination.

I was chatting with a friend and neighbor about subjects we often discuss — things like antiques and auctions, local history and issues (plenty of those in Greenburgh these days), birds and wildlife. Nearing the end, he said he thought he had seen a coyote out back earlier that morning, alone. Could it be?

Sure, likely a coyote, probably not alone, though. There were others with it, perhaps concealed in the rush swamp or behind the wild rosebush, but they were there somewhere, probably rabbit hunting in unison for a squeal-frenzied dawn feast.

So there it was, a subject to write about: coyotes and the potential impact they’re having on deer in this deep, crusty snow that seems to have been with us for more than a month, never good news for deer.

I have been keenly aware of coyote presence around my home all winter, especially when I’m out with the dogs during the wee hours. I hear them working the frozen, skeletal woods, hooting, hollering, yipping, barking; family units hunting, sound ricocheting off the icy terrain, amplified by the cold, clear, black winter air. My dogs and cats are aware of them, too, well aware, for good reason. Coyotes are a danger to pets, and despite the fact that I rarely see one, I know they patrol the neighborhood, perhaps right along the perimeter of my dwelling.

During a recent telephone conversation with a local upland farmer, a woman, we somehow ventured to coyotes. When I told her my guess was that this winter’s been tough on deer, getting tougher every day under the current conditions, she concurred, saying they have to seek safe-havens where they can escape the canine predators. She then shared a proven rural remedy for coyote issues, one that’s apparently quite popular among hilltown farmers who keep livestock and/or fowl. ”We call it the three-S solution,” she said, ”see ’em, shoot ’em and shut up. It works for us.”

Myself, I know of and accept such homespun justice, even though I’m aware it doesn’t follow the letter of the law. Truth be told, even though they’d never admit it, most game wardens put up with it, too. They know that in the real world there will never be enough coyote hunters to keep the species in check. They also know the damage a runaway coyote population can do to game, large and small, furred and feathered. So they just ignore vigilantism, pretend they don’t hear the gunfire, and like members of the secret three-S club, mum’s the word. Like they say on the hardcourt: no harm, no foul.

There is no denying this winter has been a horrible one for Franklin County deer, at least in the western half I’m most familiar with. Whitetails do poorly on hard, crusty, treacherous snow, which allows pursuing coyotes the advantage of staying on top while quickly exhausting a hoofed, fleeing deer, breaking through. Not a pretty sight, forest slaughter; blood everywhere, patches of hair, hide and hair, a hoof, a naked ribcage or hind quarter, maybe a head or an ear, coyote scat, not much else. Murder and mayhem, that’s what it is, among the most brutal sort, akin to a 16th century English execution, disemboweled, drawn and quartered, a gruesome statement on the forest floor.

Coyotes have a big edge this time of year with deer entering their weakest physiological state, winter fat-reserves thin, high-protein food scarce; old, young and pregnant most vulnerable. Throw in the hard, icy surface and it’s much worse. When chasing a weakened deer, coyotes will often semi-circle and drive it toward a large frozen pond, where the pathetic animal slips and splays out immobile, awaiting a grotesque end.

With snow conditions as they now are, coyotes need no frozen impoundment. The snow is their lake, and it’s everywhere. Once the deer tires, it’s doomed to a horrid, unmerciful end. Myself, given a choice between that and the three-S solution, I’d choose the latter in a heartbeat. Short, sweet and dignified, at least that’s the objective when the trigger’s squeezed. And even if death isn’t instant, it’s still more humane than the one the victim delivers.

Is that what they call “frontier justice?” I guess so.

I caught it too late, a missed telephone message responding to a short narrative about a deer that had been killed by coyotes up the road from my home a month ago, one that dovetails nicely with fresher news about deer mortality north of here, in Vermont, where experts are concerned about the effects this winter will have on their herd. So why not touch on both subjects and take a swipe at “the fellas,” to boot?

Sounds like a plan on this gray day, annoying white stuff looming.

First, the telephone message. I happened across it last week at work while going through more recent stuff about the passing of a friend. A Greenfield lawyer wanted to tell me about a second deer-kill in my neighborhood, a more brazen act. The deer had been tackled and partially devoured on a neighbor’s driveway. The caller left the name of a colleague who knew more. I contacted the source to see what he knew. The answer was, not much, but he did confirm that a deer had been killed on a neighbor’s driveway, that the neighbor had chased off coyotes eating it, then dragged the carcass away from his yard.

Not surprisingly, the coyote activity I routinely heard at night during cold, crusty late January had been productive. Apparently, that pathetic deer had attempted to escape by heading for civilization, hoping the coyotes would back off. No such luck. Coyotes are smart. They learn to coexist with humans, operate when activity is light in residential neighborhoods. They move in when the lights are out, seeking food, be its cats, garbage or both. If they rummage around Boston suburbia, then what’s the chance that they’ll shy away from the Greenfield Meadows? Slim to none, especially with fresh, tasty red meat in sight.

Moving to Vermont, well, if you think the winter here was bad for deer, it was worse in the Green Mountain State, where wildlife biologists are prepared for the worst. According to Dr. Shawn Haskell, Vermont’s deer project leader, conditions forward will dictate antlerless-permit recommendations for the fall deer season.

”Once again, western Vermont has maintained less snow than the rest of the state, at least until mid-February,” Dr. Haskell said. ”Predictions of a cold dry winter seem about half-right. It has been quite cold but we have received lots of snow. It could be worse. Much of the state experienced 20-30 inches of snowmelt in December. Had that not occurred, the deer might already be in trouble.”

Haskell says winter conditions in late March and April are especially critical for deer, which is true here as well. By then, they will have burned off most of their fat reserves and will become weak and vulnerable. Frigid temperatures or persistent deep snow can weaken and kill them, one way or another. Adult deer survive severe winter conditions better than fawns. Although adult females may survive until mid-April, their body condition is probably depleted enough by the time they drop fawns four to 10 weeks later that they have too little energy to produce the milk needed for twins. So, not only do difficult winters reduce the yearling fawn crop, they also increase spring fawn mortality.

Deer maintain a reduced metabolism during winter, conserving energy while moving and feeding less. Consistent harassment by predators changes the formula and causes mortality. All dog breeds can be guilty, and chase-related deaths occur even when deer are not caught.

State authorities are quick to caution dog owners that free-roaming pets chasing deer can be shot. They rarely mention coyotes. Although I am no coyote hater, I find it irritating that wildlife officials try to deny the impact they have on northern New England’s deer herds. We’re told that domestic dogs can chase and kill healthy deer, but that coyotes prey on the sick and injured. Simple logic will tell you that pet dogs are no match for their wild cousins as hunters. So why don’t our wildlife officials admit it? Do they think we’re stupid?

It’s institutional dishonesty. Any discussion about canine predation of deer should start with wild and include domestic.

Tell it like it is, fellas. That’s all we ask.

Coyotes are the most efficient large-game predators in our woods. And unless cougars and wolves return, that’s not going to change.

When my Recorder phone, I picked it up, put it to my right ear and glanced at the clock hanging high on the north wall. Half-past eight, Peter Mallett calling.

The affable Mallett — card-carrying union pipe-fitter, conservation gadfly, Millers River Fishermen’s Association founder, and world-class gabaholic –sounded pleased to hear the, “Sports, Gary Sanderson,” on the other end of the line.

“Hey, Gary, how ya doin’, Peter Mallett here.”

He didn’t need to identify himself. I immediately recognized his raspy, high-energy voice, spiced by that North Quabbin workingman’s twang. Although we’ve never met eye-to-eye, we have built a good telephone relationship over the years and, always eager for column fodder, I could smell it.

“Hey, Peter, what’s new? Stayin’ busy?

“Oh yeah. Workin’ on a braised-bear roast at the gun club now, and we had a helluva spaghetti feed for the MRFA. Everything was homemade, including my own meatballs. It went well. All the money will go to trout stocking.”

“So is it the braised bear you’re callin’ about?”

“Hell no. I don’t need that headache. We’re almost sold out.”

Then it was apparent to me that Mallett wasn’t contacting me about anything pressing, just wanted to shoot the breeze. And, oh my, can Peter Mallett talk when he cranks up that jaw of his.

Our chat began, as usual, with his MRFA, approaching 200 members now, always raising money for Millers trout stocking, his passion. He’s burning brush on the land he cleared for a private hatchery behind his rural New Salem home. Imagine that. His own backyard hatchery, built solely to improve other anglers’ recreation on the Millers River he worships. It’ll soon hold fish. Many fish. No strings attached. Pure altruism. That’s Peter.

Out of the blue, our conversation moved to hornpout, bottom-feeding pond fish more commonly known as bullheads, something I had never before heard Mallett mention. It’s a good-eating fish that many old-timers seek in their summer travels. The problem is, according to Mallett, “hornies” are getting scarce and no one except Mallett seems to understand why. To him, it’s a matter of simple logic.

“All these guys filling up five-gallon pails ought to think about it a minute,” he said. “When they’re cleaning a bucketful of those fish to eat, how many have eggs in them? Therein lies the problem. You can’t take the eggs out of the pond and expect there to be fish. It’s not rocket science.”

Before the hornpout topic took off, I gently nudged our conversation North to Warwick, where an enraged Mallett had complained last summer about what he perceived to be irresponsible logging around Clubhouse Pond and Mount Grace. After publishing his one-source tirade, I received an irate call from the forester who oversaw the projects and called my piece “irresponsible,” among other things. I defended myself, responding, “I didn’t say you raped the forest, Peter Mallett did. Maybe you should take it up with him.” A civil discussion ensued, ending in a friendly tone.

Well, a couple of months later, at a Historic Deerfield Tavern Night, I got talking to Beth the tavern wench (just kidding), who happens to live in Warwick. She described the mess loggers left behind as “disgusting” and said she and her neighbors agreed with everything Mallett said in print.

“We like Peter Mallett in Warwick,” she said. “He’s a folk hero.”

Mallett seemed pleased, not surprised, to hear he had a Warwick fan club.

“Yeah, I knew those people were angry. After your article ran they put up a big sign that read ‘Mt. DisGrace,’ and I made sure a picture of it found its way into the Athol Daily News. That was beautiful. Got the message across loud and clear.”

From there our meandering dialogue found its way to a familiar subject, that of local cougar sightings.

“Loved that article you wrote last week about the Deerfield mountain lion sighting,” he said, before spewing uncomplimentary, if not disrespectful, accusations about state wildlife officials. He then passed along a rumor about the photo someone took of a big cat lying in a Royalston tree and shared a personal big-cat experience from many years ago in Quabbin country. Then, it was on to the beaver issue that’s festering along the outside edge of his big toenail. Rural Bay Staters are getting mighty tired of the flood damage being caused by those shiny black critters multiplying like flies on a manure pile since trapping was outlawed 11 years ago. Mallett wanted to chime in.

“Did I ever tell you about that beaver meeting we had at the gun club with a speaker from the state?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Well, I stirred ’em up’ when I stood and asked the speaker if it would be OK to build a beaver pen behind the club so that we could live-trap ’em and store ’em there. Then, when we gathered enough to fill up a trailer-truck, I told him I’d rent the truck out of my own pocket and deliver the beavers straight to Boston Common, where everyone loves ’em.

“The speaker didn’t think I was funny, and I think there were some at the club who agreed. But hey, it’s like I told ’em, ‘Those poor beavers know they’re loved in Boston and they’ve been tryin’ to get there on their own. The problem is there’s too many roads to cross and they’re gettin’ run over.’ I just want to help ’em get where they want to be, where they’re loved.”

How can you not love it? Pure Peter Mallett. Tears of laughter flowing in the isles.

A rabble-rouser with a sense of humor.

The man inspired a belly-laugh at my desk months later. I only wish I had been there.

Pure Peter. Classic.

I look through electronic press releases from various sources daily, seeking information that may tickle my fancy. Rarely, though, do I get one like last week’s from Vermont Fish & Wildlife that touched on three subjects relevant to Franklin County.

Most interesting was the item about a central Vermont dam-removal project. It got me thinking about the lower Green River, where there’s similar talk about removing antiquated dams that have been reduced to dilapidated monuments from a better day in Greenfield, when downtown was bustling, industry booming, blue-collar families breaking ground for backyard pools. These dysfunctional monuments to our fading industrial heritage are in many ways symbolic of 21st-century Greenfield, squeezed into a space so tight it can’t get out of its own way. But that’s discussion for another day. This is about dam-removal and its environmental benefits.

Before I get going, let me admit to being a little biased, given what happened to that section of the upper Deerfield River known colloquially as ”The No-Kill,” Thus my inclination to be more supportive of the Vermont venture at Northfield Falls’ Cox Brook Dam than our latest desperate attempt to revitalize Greenfield. My justification centers on the different sources of energy driving the sprockets of change for the two initiatives. Here in Greenfield, you have commercial whitewater people floating ideas aimed at their tills, while in Vermont the primary impetus is habitat improvement to benefit Dog River fishes. In Vermont, they’re talking stream restoration and dam removal to produce unobstructed movement of wild trout and other indigenous species. Although there is some discussion here about habitat-improvement and anadromous-fish passage, it begs the question of whether it’s genuine or contrived as the means to an end?

My own suspicion is that commercial interests are using proposed habitat restoration to facilitate government money for personal gain. If it’s the ecosystem they’re trying to improve, then I’m all for it. But, from my perspective, the undercurrent driven by self-centered commercial whitewater interests is far too strong, and frankly transparent, at this point.

When I hear or read about whitewater businessmen advocating dam removal and river-bed reconstruction to improve flow for whitewater recreation, I’m turned off. No, I can’t say I blame the entrepreneurs. Who wouldn’t want state and federal funds to recreate a river suitable for activities that fill their coffers? But anyone familiar with FERC’s contentious Deerfield River dam-relicensing meetings of the mid-1990s knows what happens when whitewater interests prevail. Ask Trout Unlimited, which fought valiantly and lost in its effort to limit river-flow for the good of the ecosystem and its anglers. The battle was won by savvy commercial whitewater investors who organized West County business people and recreational activists to push for scheduled dam releases sufficient for summer whitewater activity. Altruistic TU conservationists, some of them practicing lawyers, didn’t stand a chance in the political struggle. As usual, business carried the debate and, in the opinion of nearly all lifelong western Franklin County anglers, their Deerfield River was the pathetic victim.

On the other hand, jump two hours north to Vermont, where folks are sincerely committed to conservation and preservation. What the movers and shakers there seem to desire most is bucolic landscapes displaying an occasional solitary angler quietly pursuing a passion in an unobtrusive, artistic manner; maybe even a kayak or two, a canoe or Jon boat when stream conditions are right. A better way of thinking, in my opinion, while the whitewater folks here prefer bringing to the Green River what we already have on the Deerfield, gaily clad metropolitans screeching and banging and splashing their way along a scenic stretch of river; loud “Yahoos,” wearing a colorful mix of chartreuse, hot pink and electric blue. And that’s ignoring the vans, the buses and general commotion they bring to secluded parking areas in an otherwise pristine slice of Franklin County paradise.

Obviously, Greenfield is in a bad place these days; it aches for an economic upturn and imaginative leadership, but is this it? Or is this just another blatant example of entrepreneurial creativity trying to cash in on a public resource for private gain? The question is, what do these whitewater businesses give back to the river?

I guess, in my opinion, there’s a fine line between protecting Franklin County’s natural beauty, perhaps its greatest asset, and abusing it? So, when it comes to our woods and waters, I support harmonious balance, with conservation and preservation outweighing commercial exploitation.

Balance is certainly not a priority for those who want to siphon green from the Green.