Every spring near the end of March or early April, fishermen anxiously awaited the moment when the ice would depart the lake and the frogs would come out of hibernation so they could once again gather at Bither Brook in Unity to share an evening of heavy drinking while capturing a mess of smelts to take home to the family. It was a seasonal ritual, a time when they could get themselves outside away from Momma and the kids and share some quality time with their neighbors at the brook well after dark.
Most of the time these men gathered in a tight circle around a bonfire, passing around jugs of home brew and other liquid spirits while enjoying the camaraderie of friends. There was no doubt this was the highlight of the season for many of them.
I found myself being indoctrinated into the event in a manner that, more than likely under today’s working conditions and rules, would have been an actionable offense—I’d have been fired. However, there was some good to come out of my first adventure at the little rural brook. One night’s eagerness to be one of the gang somehow managed to gain a little mutual respect from those who were among the regular attendees.
I wanted to make my presence known, seeing as I was what Arthur, the nightly overseer of the booze and bonfire detail, called an “old repubate and the area’s newest fish-cop.” Arthur was well known for poaching abilities. Matter of fact, he was the recipient of the very first summons I issued after assuming my official duties in the area, so we were on a first-name basis. It was the rest of the gang gathered around the bonfire that I had yet to meet. I’d been told by my old warden friend, Milt Scribner, that most of them needed watching. Given the opportunity, they’d clean the brook out of every smelt swimming upstream to spawn.
The festivities were going full scale when I sidled in among them. The joke-telling was constant, boisterous laughter echoed throughout the wooded area, and the jug of home brew continued making its rounds, until it got to me. Up until that time, hardly anyone had noticed me.
“John, you gawd-damned old repubate you! Welcome aboard,” Arthur said. He introduced me to the group, making sure to be loud enough so that those fishermen who were after smelts in the nearby stream could hear.
The jug was thrust into my hands and there was dead silence as everyone waited to see whether I’d partake. Wanting to make them think I was one of them, I tipped the jug up to my lips and took a large sip of Arthur’s specialty. I had to admit, it certainly warmed my innards. The gang nodded their approval and I handed the jug on down the line. I had passed muster.
The storytelling and laughter resumed. Eventually, I even found myself telling a few raunchy stories of my own, much to the delight of the crowd, which by now was thinning a little. It seemed as though that jug of Arthur’s brew kept returning to me awful quickly.
I awoke the next morning on my couch with my pants half on and half off. Not having a clue as to how I got there, I only could wonder how many smelts left the brook the night before, well over the legal limit of four quarts. All I did know was that my head ached as if someone had smashed me between the eyes with a sledgehammer.
Later, I learned that the Bither Brook gang had decided I was an all-right dude, after all, so I guess that was worth my headache. But from that day forward I vowed to pass the jug along should I find myself standing around the bonfire with those guys again. And soon, there I was.
A couple of my new cronies told me about one fisherman, Dave, who was taking well over his limit of smelts from the brook. Nearly every fisherman wore a pair of chest-waders so they could venture out into the deep water. Dave, apparently, after filling his containers to the brim with the legal limit of fish, would then fill his chest-waders with many more. In the past, I’d checked his catch as he was leaving the area, none the wiser about his blatant abuse of the rules.
“The stupid #$@%*& doesn’t have a clue of what’s going on. I can walk right past him with way over my daily limit,” he chirped to his so-called buddies about me, the numb, new, baby game warden.
His arrogance apparently was a little more than some of the gang could put up with, so they told me. It was quite obvious they wanted to teach their comrade a lesson and they hoped I’d do my part.
A few nights later, Dave was back at the brook. I closely watched his every move, especially since there was a terrific run of smelt that night. As the evening wore on, he headed upstream well away from the glow of the bonfire and the other fishermen. After a few glances around him, he pulled the top of his waders out and emptied several nets full of fish inside them. He tugged and pulled at the rubber suit to allow the smelts to settle down around his midsection and legs.
He made his way back to the rest of us, bragging as usual that he’d caught yet another good limit of smelts to clean and fry. “Time to go home,” he said.
With parting winks and grins from a few of the men gathered around the fire, I tagged along a short distance behind him.
At the parking lot, I caught up with Dave and asked him if I could check his limit of smelts.
“Sure you can! I got my usual limit, John,” he answered calmly, acting as if I was his long-lost buddy.
“Damn, you’ve done well, Dave. It’s great to see how successful you are night after night,” I said. “I’ll just measure them to make sure you don’t have too many. I want to treat everybody the same. The boss will give me hell if I don’t.”
“Yup, no problem, John,” Dave said. “You’re only doing your job.”
“That’s right, that’s exactly what I’m doing. I really appreciate your cooperation.”
I slowly measured out the legal limit of fish he was allowed to keep.
“I guess I’m all set, huh, John?”
“I reckon you are, Dave, but can I ask you an honest question?”
“Sure, what’s that?”
“Dave, I’ve heard through the grapevine that some fishermen are leaving here, night after night, with their waders stuffed right full of smelts after they’ve reached their legal limit. Can you imagine anyone doing something like that?”
I watched a heavy bead of sweat appear on Dave’s forehead. He stuttered, “You gotta be kidding me, John! Who to hell would ever think of doing such a thing?”
Before I could respond, he blurted, “But you know, John, it’s funny you should mention it, because in the past I’ve found a couple of smelts that accidentally fell into my waders. They had to have fallen out of the net while I was filling my containers.”
“I suppose it’s possible,“ I said, “but I think that would be quite a rare possibility, highly improbable!”
By now, beads of sweat were streaming down Dave’s forehead. His hands were trembling and he didn’t seem to be quite the usual calm, self-assured person he was a few minutes before.
“Dave, you wouldn’t mind dropping your waders to see if possibly a few might have slipped inside tonight, would you? I’m going to be checking everybody just to see how rare the chances of these fish falling into their waders might be.”
He hesitated before saying he would, then he started lowering the rubber waders. Smelts began falling all over the ground. Some stuck to his clothes.
“Well, I’ll be damned! I must’ve missed my bu-bu-bucket more than I th-th-thought,” he sputtered, as the fish kept falling away from his rubber suit.
A few moments passed before he said, “You don’t believe any of that, do you, John?”
“To be honest, Dave, no, I guess I really don’t.”
“I guess you got me then. I should have known better! Who told on me?”
“Yeah, Dave, you really should have known better! And as far as who told on you, what makes you think that someone did?” I asked him this while handing him an invitation to appear before the judge.
I couldn’t resist. “You know something else, Dave?”
“What’s that?” he sheepishly mumbled.
“Someone once told me that even a big old fish would never have gotten caught if only he’d kept his big mouth shut.”
He knew what I meant.
Before Dave left that night, he pulled me aside. “Can I let you in on a little secret, John, just between you and me?” he asked. “Did you know that Arthur is getting more than his fair share of smelts down here, night after night? He watches you like a hawk, and then he stashes buckets of extra smelts out near the road. He comes back in the wee morning hours to get them after he knows you’ve gone home. I’d love to see him get caught!”
And so it was along the shores of Unity Pond on those cold spring nights. I learned there is no honor among poachers. Whenever the chips are down for one, it’s rewarding for them to put someone else in the same boat. I suppose it’s their means of justifying their own devious actions by telling on others who are doing the same thing.
Life was good at the smelt brook, and it appeared my job was getting easier with each passing season. The bonfire gang certainly provided me with a fair share of entertainment over the years. It was a good time for sure.