At the top of my “most wanted” list were the night-hunters, mostly because they knew exactly what they were doing. They obviously were trying to outwit their local warden, and we wardens were trying to be smart enough to rope them in. For the most part, the advantage was theirs.
By far the cagiest of the night-hunters were those who walked out to a remote spot near their homes with a handheld light and a rifle. These “foot-jack-uhs,” as I called them, usually dressed warmly for the occasion and were extremely familiar with the countryside they hunted.
Unlike those lazy nincompoops who hunted from a warm pickup with a plug-in spotlight, flashing one field after another, hoping to catch a big buck grazing in the black of night, these foot-jack-uhs were serious in their efforts.
I had a close call nabbing a foot-jack-uh early in my career in a remote section of Burnham. I barreled across the field running as fast as my fat little legs would carry me, gaining on my man.
It was one of those nights when it was darker than the inside of a rubber boot. It was also another one of those times when I’d failed to grab my flashlight. The next thing I knew, I went sailing headfirst into the puckerbrush as my legs snagged on a barbed-wire fence along the wood line.
Needless to say, my foot-jack-uh knew the area far better than I did. The last I heard of him, the brush was breaking far ahead of me as he scurried off into the dark of night and I lay stunned in the muck along the edge of the field.
Oh, well. You win a few and sometimes you lose in the competitive activity known as law enforcement. That night, I was on the losing end.
A short time later was a different story. It was a dark, frosty night as I parked on an old tote road adjacent to the Hemlock Hill Road in Unity. Nearby was a green field that looked enticing to anyone searching for a big buck feeding under the cover of darkness.
I’d just poured myself a cup of hot coffee and was settled inside the comfort of my cruiser, watching, waiting, and listening, wondering if this was the right spot to be.
A burst of light swept the field around me. At first I thought I might be seeing things because my eyes had a tendency to play tricks on me in the black of night.
I rolled down the window. Once again a beam of light swept the nearby field, only this time it appeared to be getting closer.
My heart started racing as I anticipated the mess I’d be facing in a few minutes. Without a doubt, I knew there’d be one—there always was—as it looked like I might catch up with a foot-jack-uh.
I got out of the cruiser, making sure I had my flashlight gripped tightly in my hand.
The wait was on as I scanned the darkness, hoping to see signs of movement. My ears were open, too, listening for any rustle of footsteps.
I heard a quiet shuffling. They’d walk a short distance and stop. There’d be nothing but dead silence before they’d continue walking again.
Each time, a burst of light lit up the field and the surrounding area. They obviously were searching for the yellow eyes of a whitetail.
Eventually, I made out the silhouettes of two men, traveling side by side. I assumed one of them had the gun while the other was operating the light. They were still a few yards away, coming directly toward me.
My heart was pounding wildly, and I actually feared they’d hear it long before they reached me. I remained completely still, waiting for the right moment to ambush them, hoping not to get shot in the process.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. Their feet crushed the frozen ground as they walked. Again they stopped, briefly lighting up the back of the field. I thought they’d never reach me.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. They were getting closer. I remained motionless, tucked up against a tree along the edge of the field. I could barely see them as they slowly inched my way.
It was show-and-tell time! I jumped out of the woods, aiming my light directly at them while at the same time screaming, “Game warden—hold it right there!”
You’d have thought I’d painted raw turpentine on their bare butts as they both screeched, which ended up scaring the hell out of me. It didn’t slow them down one bit, though, as they shot out across that field like a couple of racehorses running the Kentucky Derby. They knew there was a lot at stake for both of them, and they needed to get away as soon as possible.
Wisely, they separated, leaving me with no choice but to pursue the one closest to me. He was a big one, too, easily six feet tall and built like a football linebacker. Considering his size, I was amazed at how fast he could run. We zigzagged across the field and eventually onto Hemlock Hill Road. I was gaining on him, which for me was a minor miracle.
Finally, I was close enough to make a lunge for him, grabbing him around the neck. Down we went, rolling around in the ditch like a couple of tired-out pigs in a pig scramble at a country fair.
I was completely out of breath and so was he. As I lay on top of him like a beached whale, pinning him to the ground, I told him he was under arrest.
Neither of us could’ve gone much farther, nor did we have the strength to fight or struggle.
Regaining my composure, I managed to handcuff him. I was gasping between breaths while attempting to read him his constitutional rights—the right to remain silent and blah-blah-blah.
He said his name was Rodney and that he was from Bridgewater, Massachusetts. His driver’s license confirmed this information. Other than that, Rodney refused to say who was with him or answer any of the other questions I asked as we hiked back to the cruiser for the long, quiet ride to the Waldo County Jail.
“Rodney, I don’t suppose you know a fellow by the name of Grover, do you?” I inquired.
I suspected there might be some connection between Rodney and Grover, the area’s notorious poacher, seeing that some of Grover’s relatives lived a short distance away and my past experiences revealed that many of Grover’s hunting buddies came from the same Massachusetts area as Rodney.
“Grover! Grover who? I ain’t never heard of any #$@%*& Grover!” he replied.
“I’m sure you probably haven’t,” I smartly responded. No sense doing any more talking, I thought.
I booked Rodney into the county facility, charging him with night-hunting, and requested that the jail notify me if anyone showed up to post his bail.
Amazingly, within a few hours of my departure, I received a radio message from the jail staff. “Warden Ford, your man was just freed on bail. A fellow by the name of Grover arrived with plenty of cash to finalize the deal.”
Surprise, surprise! Without a doubt, either Grover or one of his nearby relatives more than likely had accompanied Rodney that night on Hemlock Hill, but proving it would be impossible.
Oh, well. Even though I hadn’t successfully captured both of them, at least I’d finally bagged my first foot-jack-uh. I’d simply have to wait and see what Grover’s demeanor might be the next time we met. I was sure he’d have something to say.