An informant who planned on trapping off an old tote road on the back side of a mountain in Monroe told me he found a set of illegal traps in the area, so I headed out.
I found two of the traps within a few yards of each other, just off the road, far away from any form of civilization. It was obvious they’d been there for a while, though it appeared they were being tended with some regularity, as there were ATV tracks in the dirt along the trail.
The traps lacked the proper identification, a violation in itself. The season was due to open the next day, so they were out of season as well.
I sprung the traps so I could tell if anyone came during the night to reset them. Then I made several deep impressions in the carefully sifted dirt, giving the appearance that some type of wild animal managed to escape the wrath of the metal jaws.
With my own trap now set, I snuggled in among the fir trees. I leaned up against the base of a tree that made a great backrest and commenced to read the book I‘d brought along to bide the time.
Other than a partridge scaling through the alders in front of me and a small doe sneaking along the edge of the tote road, the afternoon wait concluded at darkness. I hiked back to my cruiser, deciding to return the next day.
Early that morning, I wandered back through the woods and into my den, ready for yet another day of waiting and watching. With my book in hand, I began passing the time, hour by hour, minute by minute. Patience was a definite requirement for this job, and I had plenty of it. Hell, why wouldn’t I? Who else could take a book, hike into the woods, lean up against a tree, and spend an enjoyable day watching the wildlife around them while getting paid to do so? What a great job I had!
Like the day before, a couple of partridges winged past my location. A red squirrel occasionally taunted and chatted at me from a short distance away, irritated that I was treading on his sacred territory. But as before, no one came near the traps. I wondered if they knew I was around, even though to the best of my knowledge, no one had seen me coming or going.
At the edge of darkness, I again clambered out from underneath my blind. I planned on adding another charge for these culprits, if and when I ever made contact. By law, traps were required to be checked every twenty-four hours. I had carefully marked the location, and it was evident that no one had been there over that span.
The next day I’d bring more reading material. I had finished my book halfway through the day and got so bored that I passed the afternoon whittling away on a piece of wood with my pocketknife.
I arrived early armed with magazines, snacks, drinks—the works—ready to make another go of it. The sun slowly climbed above the trees from the east, bringing yet another warm October day. I was immersed in my book when I heard the putter-putter of engines coming my way.
My heart began to race. Could these be the culprits I’d been waiting for?
Sure enough, the noise grew louder and louder, and soon, two ATVs churned their way up the old tote road, heading toward me.
The first stopped directly in front of the trap nearest to me as the other machine continued on toward the second trap. Both young gentlemen climbed from their rigs and walked toward their illegal sets.
It was show-and-tell time. I slithered from underneath my perch, quietly walking toward the burly lad standing back-to, looking down on the sprung trap. He never heard me coming as I shuffled in behind him.
“What the hell kind of animal is this?” he muttered, hunched over, studying the strange prints I’d left behind in the soft dirt.
Loudly and boisterously I said, “I was that kind of animal!”
A shotgun blast between his eyes wouldn’t have shocked this poor fellow any more than I had. He let out a screech that could’ve been heard in downtown Bangor and scared the living bejeezus out of me.
I asked him to pull up the trap and meet me by his ATV, and I hustled up the trail to where his buddy had headed. Apparently the buddy had overheard our conversation, as he was desperately attempting to suck his large body behind a small tree, hoping I wouldn’t see him. I could see his shoulders and one leg protruding from behind, so I ordered him to come the hell out of there and to bring the trap with him.
I was familiar with both of these young men and was surprised to find them involved in such an activity. But then again, in this game, not much surprised me anymore. Even those I thought I knew quite well occasionally stepped over the line and violated a rule or two if they thought they could get away with it.
So my patience paid off. I wrote several summonses to hold them accountable for their sins and moved on. In the end, hopefully, these young fellows would learn to respect fish and game rules. They never knew when the beady eyes of a woods cop might be lurking nearby.
A few days later, I was told that I was being compared to a damned ghost who suddenly appeared out of nowhere in places where most men would never venture. It was a pleasant and complimentary comment, but in reality, like my fellow wardens, I was only doing my job.
Being a damned sneak happens to be one of the tools of the trade. If this was to be my reputation, I would accept it with grace.