Yes, the brook’s roaring, the songbirds’re singing, the snowbanks’re shrinking, and my last load of cordwood’s drying ever so slowly, stacked under the eaves of the sunny carriage sheds. No, it isn’t time for stream-fishing here in the northern tier of Franklin County. Too much snow, way too much, in fact; even worse, annoying mud to follow.

Yee-uck!

But still, before you know it, stocking trucks will be rolling on our roadways. Trust me. And what a welcome sight they’ll be for everyone, especially anglers, who in better days could, in print, be called fishermen. There is a difference between fishermen and anglers, you know, but I guess your DOB would have to fall before 1980 to understand it. Sad but true. That from an understander, sorta like a decider, if you know what I mean.

The stocking has already started south of here, where the snow disappeared weeks ago, as unimaginable as that may seem to snowbound hilltowners. But it’s fact. Travel the valley Interstate and you’ll find the snowline following the Whately/Hatfield line. South of there it’s gone, very April like. But not here, where winter is lingering like a slobbering drunkard at an open-bar bash. You know the type. The longer they stay, the louder they get. That’s what this winter reminds me of, the barroom bore spitting praise of that great American hero, Grampy McCain, who’ll beat that b-word Hillary and n-word Barack like he himself was beaten at the Hanoi Hilton. Just you wait and see. God bless America. Praise the lord. Slaughter the anti-Christ terrorists. … Haven’t we been through this drill before?

But let’s not digress. What I’m trying to say is that if you haven’t already done so, it’s time to rescue your fishing equipment from the dusty shed for its annual once-over. Cleaning and oiling and replacing line are perfect chores to perform with March Madness dominating your inner sanctum, color analysts, themselves former players and coaches, extolling the virtues of sport, how it builds character, makes America a better place. As they preach, believe me, the chores won’t interfere with your brackets one iota.

Brackets? Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. Doesn’t everyone have at least one? Well, not everyone, I guess. In fact, I must admit I don’t. Must be the malaise brought on by male menopause. Yeah, that’s it, male menopause, middle-age lethargy. I’m sure I can find a doctor, maybe a therapist, to support my layman’s diagnosis. And there’s definitely a pill to cure it, maybe a handful three times a day if you’re willing to bury your face in a Reader’s Digest for an hour before spilling your guts to a total stranger in a stifling, antiseptic space. Praise the world of office visits and pharmaceutical solutions: gulp … ah! … your troubles behind you.

Myself, well, I guess I’ll just deal with such maladies the old-fashioned way; keep plugging, a day at a time, steady she goes, don’t even glance in the rearview. Yup, that’s the route I’m gonna take, even though it does absolutely nothing for the economy or hungry Pfizer shareholders.

Enough! There I go again, getting distracted by current events and modern solutions to ancient issues. What I really wanted to say is that trout-stocking has begun. Those trucks with insignias on their doors, purring, aerated tanks on their spines, will soon be depositing nets full of shiny trout into sparkling waters near you. Thankfully, waters like that still exist here in the impoverished valley and its glorious hills. But don’t take them for granted, these hills and dales, rivers, streams and bogs. Neglected, they’ll be devoured by glutinous big-box development, wiped from the face of the earth for a buck and a quick, unimaginative fix.

Why can’t we all just get along and look like Arkansas or Texas or Tuscaloosa, places where you wouldn’t stick your little toe into a river, never mind eat something from it? Why can’t we all buy cheap toys made in some Chinese sweatshop, and poisoned food for our pets and selves? Everyone else is doing it. Why not us?

Whew! Glad I finally spit-up that hairball. But if that’s where this bus is headed, count me out. I have another destination in mind. Me, I’ll be the deranged loner, a little rough around the edges, unshaven, wetting my worm in the whitewater froth below the damp, shaded gristmill ruins. It’s a better place. Far better.

If y’all don’t believe me, then order yourself a fat Cheezdawg to-go and take a little nature walk. But please, I beg, don’t leave the wrapper at the water’s edge. It’s toxic.

They’re raising a ruckus in the sleepy Hampshire County hilltown of Chesterfield, where officials are threatening to shut down a longtime camp on a Boy Scout reservation in a dispute over a temporary summer shooting range.

Although I don’t intend to research and devote a lot of time to the case — surely, much to the chagrin of those who will scream bloody murder that it’s my duty as a hook & bullet columnist — it is local and, thus, worthy of mention. So, I’ll just be the messenger. No more, no less. Anyone previously unaware and so inclined can get involved.

To summarize briefly, a Chesterfield neighbor or two has complained about the summer noise emanating from the camp and other issues pertaining to guns and the antis who loathe them. The clamor reached town officials’ ears long ago, and now, after two years of bickering, the town has ruled in favor of the plaintiffs by, 1.) prohibiting the Scouts from allowing others to use their property, and 2.) limiting firearm use to small-caliber rifles.

Unhappy with the town’s decision, the Boy Scouts have filed a federal-court appeal, and the Gun Owners Action League, a state firearm association that runs the shooting camp along with MassWildlife, has jumped into the fray to offer its support. It won’t be long before the National Rifle Association appears, if it hasn’t already, so expect a long, drawn-out fight and media barrage when the NRA reaches into its deep pockets to support the Scouts’ right to continue using their rifle range as pleased.

This dispute has a lot to say about the way times have changed in our Hampshire/Franklin hamlets, where outfits like this Massachusetts Junior Conservation Camp in tiny Chesterfield ran smoothly and out of harm’s way for generations, no complaints from tolerant backwoods residents who owned guns, probably hunted and had no fear of gunfire. Now, the same expansive hilltown farms these simple agrarian folks maintained for centuries have fallen into the hands of fancy-pants metropolitans, accustomed to gangs and drive-bys, committed to gun-control and political correctness. They don’t buy second homes in the country to put up with gunfire, the poor souls. That’s why camps like the one under fire in Chesterfield cannot escape challenges. Sad but true. And take it to the bank, there will be more.

Is it right? No. Not from this perch. I say live and let live. But count me out of this battle. While I believe strongly in my right to bear arms, there is nothing else about which I agree with right-wing organizations like the NRA. As a kid, I found Charlton Heston entertaining in his Western films; as an adult, I viewed the aging actor as frightening when exposed to his wild-eyed NRA rhetoric.

Sorry, fellas, I know its sacrilege, even blasphemy, coming from a gun-owner and hunter. But that’s the way I feel and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Simply stated, NRA and GOAL politics are not for me. So let someone else carry their water.

I’m not religious or self-righteous, don’t have a Southern twang, am pro-choice, pro-union, and antiwar. So how can I support the NRA?

Impossible.

Another evening phone call at my Recorder desk that got my wheels spinning. Gotta love it.

The caller was a dear old friend, one I see far too little of now that we’ve “grown up” and gone our separate ways. That’s life. But he touches base now and again, usually at my workplace, to rattle my cage about something or even discuss a serious matter. This was the latter.

I knew he was stirred when he asked, “Hey Bags (my nickname since childhood), why do they protect those goddamn coy dogs? Someone’s got to tell them to smarten up. What good are they? Why don’t you go after the idiots protecting them? I’m gonna shoot every one I can whether they like it or not.”

Strong words from an otherwise conservative, law-abiding man. And he is far from the only person with such a strong opinion in disfavor of our Eastern coyote. You’ll hear the same rant from country folk who raise livestock or fowl, own cats or dogs, any of which can feel the deadly fury of the opportunistic Eastern coyote, still “coy dogs” to some in the Franklin County vernacular.

Before we proceed, be it known there are readers out there who’ll accuse me of publicizing or even lending credence to an irresponsible point of view. But I’ll take my lumps here. I believe people are entitled to their opinions in this land of the free, home of the brave, despite what “culture warriors” Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity, those two “fair-and-balanced” guardians of freedom, liberty and justice, say.

But let’s not digress. … Back to my buddy and his coyote problem, which left me a little perplexed at the start of our conversation. I tried to clear my confusion.

“Why do you say they’re protected?”

“Because they have a season on them. You should be able to shoot ’em year around.”

“Oh yeah, I guess the season goes from November to March. That’s not long enough for you?”

“No. It should be year around. What good are they? When I see them around my place, I’m gonna kill ’em. Take that to the bank.”

What had my friend’s blood boiling was backyard slaughter, a poignant, bloody mess on virgin snow. It seems he’d grown quite fond of three fawns and two does feeding at the edge of his yard since June and enjoyed their presence as many rural residents do. There’s just something peaceful and comforting about deer grazing on your lawn when you pull into your driveway at dusk. “They weren’t tame by any means but they’d stay right there, look at me and keep eating as long as I didn’t make a loud noise, quick movement or anything.”

Presumably due to the abundance of acorns and the lack of snow and winter cold through January, the deer were noticeably absent for months, totally ignoring the winter corn piles Mr. Bad Boy had dumped along the woods line, and he was wondering what was going on. Deer had always come to his cracked corn in previous years, but this year nothing. But then came the snow, the bitter cold and the deer, daily in February.

Yeah, yeah, we all know the authorities frown on feeding wild animals, including if not especially deer. In fact, it’s downright illegal. But we also know that people do it all the time and will continue to do so. So, given that there’s little anyone’s going to do about it, let’s just ignore the issue for the sake of telling a story.

With the late winter finally taking root for the February freeze, the deer came to my buddy’s corn regularly for a few weeks then curiously disappeared. After days of absence, he suspected something was amiss. He wasn’t sure what, but something wasn’t right. Then, during the barren period, he came home, noticed hair frozen to the crusty snow and went out back to investigate. Sure enough, coyotes had taken down a deer, probably one of the fawns, right by the corn mounds. All that remained was blood and hair, two telltale signs. He followed a faint trail back into the woods a little ways and came up only with a square piece of hide and hair, nothing else, before turning back.

“Those (illegitimates) killed that deer right there where it was eating. I don’t know if they waited in the bushes and ambushed it or what, but they took it down right where they’d been eating.

Perhaps the deer had been wounded by a car, then devoured, I thought out loud.

“I knew you were going to say that, or that it was for some reason weak. Maybe so, but I think they killed a healthy deer. They sure looked healthy to me.”

It’s definitely possible for canids to take down a healthy deer, particularly on slippery, crusty snow that can be deadly to whitetails. Maybe a family unit of coyotes surprised the group of feeding deer and one of them, startled, slipped and splayed out on the icy surface. It happens, and coyotes are well aware of deer’s helplessness on ice. That’s why they are known to coordinate winter chases toward frozen surfaces, force a whitetail onto the ice and make quick work of it where, hooves rendered useless, it’s splayed on its belly and unable to move, a pathetic sight. Pathetic indeed.

Also, when snow is crusty like it was at the time of the kill last week, deer are particularly vulnerable. When chased by a pack of coyotes or domestic dogs, the pursuers stay on top of the crust and the pursued break through, creating a mismatch, especially in deep snow. The final act is not pretty.

Self-described “animal lovers” who view that final act as an act of nature, not predatory malice, would be the first to abhor a cleaner, quicker, more humane kill of an unsuspecting creature by a bipedal hunter. On one hand, they philosophize it’s wrong to have a vendetta toward coyotes for slaying deer, on the other they propose a ban on immoral human hunting.

Go figure.

A couple of items about, dare I say, competing interests on the Millers River conservation front, one about the upstart Millers River Fishermen’s Association led by indomitable Peter Mallett, the other regarding the Millers River Chapter of Trout Unlimited and Ken Elmer.

To avoid any favoritism accusations we’ll list them according to date of the event they want publicized, which means the MRFA agenda first.

— Mallett and the boys will be set up at Sunday’s annual North Quabbin Sportsmen’s Experience, a sporting show held at the Athol-Orange Elks. There and later at the annual Millers River Rat Race (April 14), the MRFA will be selling raffle tickets for a Cabela’s Panther river-drift pontoon boat to be raffled off on June 30, the date of the organization’s fishing derby for kids 1-14. … In other MRFA news, the organization is selling five-piece topographical map sets of the Millers River basin, including all 45 miles of river. The cost is $10. They are available by calling Mallett at (978) 544-7126 or visiting the MRFA Web site. … The MRFA has organized two trout-stocking and tagging events in May. The first on May 5 at the Orange Wastewater Treatment Plant off Route 2A, the second on May 19 at the Birch Hill parking lot in South Royalston. Kids will be allowed to tag their own trout for release into the river on those dates. … Whew! Never short and sweet when it comes to Mr. Mallett.

— As for the MRTU Chapter, it will hold its annual banquet March 31 at the Sacred Heart Church on Cross Street in Gardner. A pasta dinner will be followed by well-known fishing guide Marla Blair, who’ll present a program “Fly Fishing on Kodiak Island, Alaska.” Doors will open at 6 p.m. and supper will be served a half-hour later. Many great raffle items will be up for grabs. For more information, check with the MRTU Web site at www.millersrivertu.org.

By now, the stink bait must be getting pretty ripe, sun-baked in a covered, five-gallon, galvanized pail with a bail handle — what we used to call garbage cans back in the day.
If you’re confused, relax, you just aren’t familiar with catfishermen and the bait they use. Aficionados brew special bait for a catfish derby, the biggest and best of which is scheduled for this weekend, “any where on the Connecticut River and its tributaries.”
We’re talking about the Holyoke American Legion Post 351 derby, 29th annual, the granddaddy of them all, the one the best and brightest anxiously await,
affable Senior Advisor Don Partyka at the helm, throwing in his two-cents’ worth from the sidelines, early and often, all in good fun, of course. Yes sir, the “Channel Cat” is quite the boy, one of the best, an all-time jawboner, probably Hall of Fame material.
Someone ought to buy him a Derby hat for the occasion. Maybe I will. A formal one.
Myself, I have no first-hand catfishing experience. No, I have always been on the periphery, but I do vaguely recall an old Pine Nook trapper, a good one at that, brewing catfish bait from carcasses and entrails; a pungent mix that would gag you, eyes
watering, out by his backyard clothesline. Open that garbage pail and be prepared to burn off your nostril hairs, one powerful stink. I’ve smelt it and could never imagine working with the stuff, transferring it to some sort of bait can or mayonnaise jar, and then
actually handling it to bait the hook. I guess old Trapper Teddy employed rubber gloves, which solved one problem, that of odor and bacteria on his hands, but who would want to deal with the stench every time they opened the container along the river’s bank? Phew! Maybe Trapper Teddy brought nose plugs to address the issue. All I can say is: Deep-fried catfish must be delicious, given what a man has to go through to catch them; off the bottom, of course, attracting them with a stench that would curl your hair and turn your tummy.
Trapper Ted used to say “the riper, the better” when it came to catfishing. I believed him. He knew what he was doing, whether running a ridge, chasing through swamps, or working a trap-line, upland or down. They don’t make any like him anymore; a
throwback from way back when I knew him; more than capable of making ends meet.
Anyway, Trapper Teddy’s long gone by now, probably resting at Pine Nook Cemetery, a good thing for competitors at this weekend’s derby. He would have been a tough man to deal with at such a gig. Having grown up on a large dairy farm bordered on the east
by the Connecticut River, Teddy learned to fish for catfish on lantern-lit nights, convivial occasions, of course. In fact, maybe the liquid refreshments helped him cope with the unpleasant odor accompanying his leisure activity; probably stimulated conversation,
too; kinda Huck Finn-Tom Sawyer stuff, plenty of ribbing, practical joking and horsing around away from the watchful eye of the, ah, authorities. Which is not to suggest that’s what happens today, in this more refined, homogenized culture. Uh-uh. We’re talking
about a little more law and order nowadays. No, a lot more; increased enforcement, too. Rules and regs. Gotta have ’em. Soon they’ll probably have surveillance cameras watching from the heavens, if they’re not already up there spying, Big Brother style. My
GPS unit says they’re already there, observing from the heavens. But let’s not digress. Some people welcome that kind of stuff, sing heartfelt praise. So, with that … back to the 29th annual Catfish Derby, Don’s Derby.

The good thing is that with Trapper Ted out of the picture, everyone will have a fair shot. But be advised that the old guy will be looking over the shoulder of anyone fishing his stretch of the Connecticut, and he’s not bashful; never was, always more than willing to
tell anyone who’s listening that they’re a stupid SOB who doesn’t have a clue. I heard it said hundreds of times, to me and many others.
It was no joke. Teddy meant every word he said. Spared no one.