I’ve purchased my hunting and fishing licenses religiously since I was first required to do so fifty years ago. I’m conscientious not because my father, a principled outdoorsman, instilled in me his praiseworthy sportsman’s ethical code. And, it’s not because I love to see my exorbitant non-resident fees fund essential state and federal game management programs. No, I purchase the required sporting licenses because I don’t want to share a jail cell with the “Brooklyn Strangler” in the Clinton Correctional Facility. I’d prefer not having to align myself with the Muslim or Aryan Brotherhoods to insure a peaceful night’s sleep. More importantly, I’m too stuffy to enjoy communal showers with large, hairy sociopaths.   

In my half-century sporting career, my license has been checked twice.  Are you kidding me? Thousands of hard earned semolians doled out and I get checked twice in fifty years. What’s up Game Wardens? Are you downtown drinking coffee at Walt’s? When I was stationed at Air Intelligence School in Denver back in the sixties, I went trout fishing on the South Platte River. I had a Colorado license and caught my limit in less than an hour. As I was leaving the river, a Game Warden drove up and asked me how I was doing. I crowed that I’d bagged my limit. He congratulated me and promptly split. He never checked my license or creel, which contained ten trout. That limit was fine back east, but after locating my mislaid fishing regulations, I discovered that the limit on the Platte was five trout. Yikes, can you say Crowley County Correctional Facility?   

I was first checked in the Adirondacks in 1972, while I was slaying the brookies on the Sacandaga River. A Mayfly hatch was blocking out the sun and I’d just crossed the swiftest section of river to fish a placid pool boiling with brookies. They were so thick, I was catching them on my backcast.  I was in another world, totally focused on leaping trout. Then, an obnoxious clamor broke my Zen-like trance. I looked back to the far bank and spotted a DEC Game Warden hailing me over. I pretended I couldn’t hear him, but he continued bellowing. He was also packing, so I figured I’d better stumble back through the boulder strewn rapids to face the inevitable.  

After the daunting ten minute crossing, I crawled up the gravelly river bank like a shipwrecked sailor washed ashore on a coral atoll.  

“Hi, looks like you’re doing pretty good over there,” he offered cheerfully.  “I was,” I replied sardonically. “I need to see your fishing license and check your bag,” he said dutifully.  

“How come nobody ever checks my license when I’m getting skunked?”  “Luck of the Ukrainians,” he replied lightheartedly. “Okay pal, your license is in order and you can keep two more brookies. Good luck,” he said sincerely.  

“Before you go, Sir, can you carry me back across those rapids where the hatch is?” I quipped sarcastically. I thought I saw him go for his bear spray, but he thought better of it. Too much paper work.

I was hunting rabbits with friends in Maryland years ago. The area was a mixture of hardwood forest and cultivated fields. It was colder than a bat’s patootie and crusty snow covered the ground. We had bagged a couple of cottontails in the field and decided to head into the woods to escape the windchill. We hunted the woods in a line, from east to west, and proceeded forward. To my left was an old family friend and true character. Tom was a West Virginia mountaineer, born and raised. Growing up, Tom’s family subsisted on what they grew and killed. They stored their bounty in a dirt root cellar under the kitchen floor. I heard somebody to my right holler and an instant later a big turkey flailed overhead, struggling to gain altitude.

Before I could say, oh crap, a 12 gauge thundered and Tom bagged himself a nice outta season tom turkey.  

Tom’s exact words were, “I couldn’t help it!”  I believed him. He stuffed the contraband inside his hunting jacket as we headed back to our vehicles parked along the road. Just as Tom and I came abreast of my VW Beetle, up drives a Maryland Game Warden. Like Houdini, Tom vanished behind my Bug, dropped the turkey outta the bottom of his coat and kicked it under the running board. The Game Warden rolled down his window and asked us how we were doing. We showed him the two bunnies and he went merrily on his way. I was shaking in my boots as he drove off.  I sputtered, “Tom weren’t you nervous?”  

“Naw, that guy wasn’t wearing his coat. I knew he wasn’t leaving his nice warm truck. Besides, the turkey’s under your car.”  

Jeez, can you say Montgomery County Correctional Facility?

The last time my license was checked, it was by Lance Maly in Third Lake, back when Lance was young. It was a pleasant spring afternoon and although we hadn’t iced any fish, our cooler was well stocked with chilly Saranac beers. Since my fishing buddies and I were always disarmingly charming when interacting with peace officers, Lance merely checked our licenses and wished us well. We were flattered to have our licenses checked by a law enforcement legend. Everybody likes Lance-a-lot.

Now, comes the confession.  I had a senior fortnight at the end of the 2010 fishing season. Historically, I try to fish the last day of stream trout fishing season. In my increasingly foggy mind, I could use my $70 non-resident license up until the season ended on Oct. 15. I lurched down my favorite stream, bagged four keepers and headed for the Tap Room to celebrate my uncommon success. Then it hit me. Duh, annual NYS fishing licenses elapse on Sept. 30. After realizing my prodigious intellectual lapse, I was relieved that our dedicated NYS Game Wardens had bigger fish to fry that day. Otherwise, I might be bunking with the “Son of Sam” in the Sullivan Correctional Facility. Can you say, bow wow?