There is a great tradition in New York's Adirondack Mountains. Hunting camps dot the land. Some are wall tents put up deep in the Forest Preserve, under permit from the local Forest Rangers. Others are more permanent structures on private lands, often amid the large tracts of land owned by one of the large timber or paper companies. Regardless of the location, most are populated by great sportsmen who truly love the outdoors and do almost everything by the book. We try to keep our eyes on all of them, but some go unchecked for a number a years.
One opening day the weather was miserable--it poured! A fair number of the hunters were out in the morning; but many, after coming in for lunch, just hung by the wood stove drinking adult beverages and playing cards. I decided it would be good day to pay some camp calls and have some friendly chats.
It had really been a good day, I'd spoken to a bunch of good guys, picked up some information about some illegal, or at least questionable activity and considered that I'd accomplished quite a bit for the way the weather was. All was going well and I stopped at one last camp. The door was well around the back with no windows showing between where I parked and the entrance. There was a good amount of loud and raucous laughter coming from inside and I guessed that the day had been spent with copious amounts of alcohol. When I knocked on the door, the laughter stopped for a minute and one loud voice called out "ENCON, DRAG YOUR A$$!" The laughter resumed, with even more enthusiasm...until the door swung open and there was an EnCon Officer.... Dead Silence... I gave the man at the door a smile and he laughed nervously, then apologized, then stated to receive abuse from the others in the camp.
There were no violations, but were they among the most surprised men I'd ever seen. I suspect that there's now a window on the side of that camp so they can see who is coming to the door.
Deer camps are a great tradition. Some hunters would do about anything to spend a week or two in camp with their friends. For many it's the tradition of their grandfathers and in some cases even great-grandfathers. I have seen four generations around a camp table for dinners, and even joined in on a few of those meals. It's a cherished part of their lives. One man got to spend some time in camp in a way that few, if any, have ever done.
Between the Indian Lake and Inlet NY is a piece of ground called the Moose River Plains. It's a beautiful piece of country and is accessible by a well maintained gravel road. In the deer season, several groups of hunters regularly set up permitted camps for the duration of the season near that roadway. One late October night as a freak storm came through the area dumping upwards of two feet snow through the plains, one member of a camp sat back after a good dinner, grabbed his chest...and died. He was among his dearest friends, but they could do nothing for him, he was gone. Though they were able to make some contact with authorities, the weather had so badly compromised the road and had brought down so many trees that no one could get in for nearly 36 hours. So, that hunter beat the odds. He got to spend not only his last hours in hunting camp; but even got to stay around after he was gone.
Working with some Forest Rangers, several other ECOs and I worked our way into the plains and checked on all the parties in there. We got the coroner and a Deputy Sheriff into the camp where the hunter had died. The hunting party had reverently placed their friend in the covered bed of a pickup truck and waited for our arrival. If I recall correctly, the sentiment was that "he would have wanted to go that way."
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Game Warden Files--Word Gets Around Fast
Before the days of facebook, blogs, cell phones and texts, word still could spread far and fast under the right circumstances.
Bob Gosson, from Hamilton County, had a piece of back country he really wanted to get into and spend a day during the deer season. It was remote enough that most hunters went in for several days at a time, some of them hiring the services of a float plane operator from nearby Blue Mountain Lake. When they were that far back, they really didn't worry about any Game Wardens sneaking in on them, and they were (unfortunately) right most of the time. It was not uncommon for many minor game violations and at least a few more serious ones to occur without anyone ever taking notice, so the tendency is for some hunters to stretch the law a bit.
It took some doing to have a couple officers clear their calendars so they could really spend a full day that far away from busy and demanding sectors. We were able to clear some time so I met Bob early one Saturday morning and we began the long hike into the back country. The hike in was about seven miles, but we took several side trips to check camps for any deer hanging, or anything else we might find. We ran into a one group of hunters that had no licenses on them; they were "back at camp." We followed them back and found an untagged buck hanging. We also found that one didn't have a license at all. This one group accounted for the majority of our cases, though we found a few more that day also. Failing to carry licenses and untagged deer were the majority of the cases.
We hit the trail out just at dark and began the trek back to the car. It was about a 16 hour day with over 20 miles walked when we finally hit our respective homes that night--but a it had been productive. We didn't realize how effective we had been until we started hearing the (somewhat exaggerated) reports of our exploits. To hear the stories, there must have been ten of us and we must have written at least a hundred tickets! Most interesting was that the majority of the violators had been from one part of the state and the stories started reaching us from the other side. The word had spread from the Canadian border to the Pennsylvania border--in about a week's time and all by either phone or person to person communication. I just can't imagine how it would have gone in this day of modern communications.
Bob Gosson, from Hamilton County, had a piece of back country he really wanted to get into and spend a day during the deer season. It was remote enough that most hunters went in for several days at a time, some of them hiring the services of a float plane operator from nearby Blue Mountain Lake. When they were that far back, they really didn't worry about any Game Wardens sneaking in on them, and they were (unfortunately) right most of the time. It was not uncommon for many minor game violations and at least a few more serious ones to occur without anyone ever taking notice, so the tendency is for some hunters to stretch the law a bit.
It took some doing to have a couple officers clear their calendars so they could really spend a full day that far away from busy and demanding sectors. We were able to clear some time so I met Bob early one Saturday morning and we began the long hike into the back country. The hike in was about seven miles, but we took several side trips to check camps for any deer hanging, or anything else we might find. We ran into a one group of hunters that had no licenses on them; they were "back at camp." We followed them back and found an untagged buck hanging. We also found that one didn't have a license at all. This one group accounted for the majority of our cases, though we found a few more that day also. Failing to carry licenses and untagged deer were the majority of the cases.
We hit the trail out just at dark and began the trek back to the car. It was about a 16 hour day with over 20 miles walked when we finally hit our respective homes that night--but a it had been productive. We didn't realize how effective we had been until we started hearing the (somewhat exaggerated) reports of our exploits. To hear the stories, there must have been ten of us and we must have written at least a hundred tickets! Most interesting was that the majority of the violators had been from one part of the state and the stories started reaching us from the other side. The word had spread from the Canadian border to the Pennsylvania border--in about a week's time and all by either phone or person to person communication. I just can't imagine how it would have gone in this day of modern communications.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
(Not So) Random Thoughts
Conversations with some folks lately have had me thinking about the nature of discipling. That's the process of bringing younger Christians to a point of maturity. Not an easy process, and certainly there are more than one ways to do this successfully; but it often fails or breaks down. Here are a few thoughts:
Whose job is it? It is certainly the job of more mature Christians to disciple the less mature and it should be the desire of those mature men and women to do what they can to get the process started. They must first be available and accessible. After that the rules are much less clear. Should they chase down the less mature and drag them into some kind of program? Maybe in some cases that works; but I suspect it works better in a different fashion.
I suggest that by looking at the way many people achieve success in some other ways. I first started think about the martial arts, where a prospective student would search out a suitable teacher and earn the right to be his student. For the most part, that's long gone, but even with the commercialized martial arts programs out there, the truly successful martial artists are the ones who seek out the best and train harder than the rest.
In our world of professional sports it's much the same way. Award winning coaches often get some great talent brought to them; but those great talents have been recognized largely because they've worked longer and harder than the others.
In education the truly successful are again the ones who seek out the best, and work harder and longer than the rest. Yes, there are some who seem to just "have it" and coast, getting by with minimal effort; but do are they really successful? Do they truly get an education that way? (Just asking on that one.)
So, what's my point? It's two-fold. Mature Christians, make yourself available. Be at your church's functions. Younger Christians, if you want to be discipled, seek out someone to do that. Not every older man is the right guy for a college student; not every older lady is right for the teen girl. Look around, get to know the older folks--we really don't bite and we want to help be there for you.
I've been on both ends of this. When I was young, our local postmaster was a man I admired. I'd hang around the Post Office and he'd tell me stories of hunting and trapping...and relate these things to spiritual life. My grandfather was another mentor (we won't count parents here--that's a specific role outside the scope of this) as were a couple other men I encountered in my chosen profession. I sought them out, spent time with them on their turf and soaked up everything they had to give me.
I've also been the "old guy" both professionally and spiritually to some younger folks. Many young folks have sought me out for advice, friendship, camaraderie, or just company. I've shared coffee, pizza, wings and walks in the woods. The conversation has been about chainsaws, guns, motorcycles and God. That's where discipling has taken place.
So, what I'm saying, it's not just structured study that builds maturity, it's time invested--on both sides. If you want a structured study, that can be done, but there are enough programmed teaching times now that one more is likely not the answer. Maybe attending those would be a good place to start. After that, I'll bet Cliff would love to have you hang out while he split wood, Jeff's putting a roof on, I'm always happy to make coffee and take a break from my chores, Pastor George will always talk cars...you get the idea. Nearly all of us are suckers for an excuse for a cup of coffee somewhere.
We're available, call us, stop by and drink coffee with us. We'd love to get to know you.
Whose job is it? It is certainly the job of more mature Christians to disciple the less mature and it should be the desire of those mature men and women to do what they can to get the process started. They must first be available and accessible. After that the rules are much less clear. Should they chase down the less mature and drag them into some kind of program? Maybe in some cases that works; but I suspect it works better in a different fashion.
I suggest that by looking at the way many people achieve success in some other ways. I first started think about the martial arts, where a prospective student would search out a suitable teacher and earn the right to be his student. For the most part, that's long gone, but even with the commercialized martial arts programs out there, the truly successful martial artists are the ones who seek out the best and train harder than the rest.
In our world of professional sports it's much the same way. Award winning coaches often get some great talent brought to them; but those great talents have been recognized largely because they've worked longer and harder than the others.
In education the truly successful are again the ones who seek out the best, and work harder and longer than the rest. Yes, there are some who seem to just "have it" and coast, getting by with minimal effort; but do are they really successful? Do they truly get an education that way? (Just asking on that one.)
So, what's my point? It's two-fold. Mature Christians, make yourself available. Be at your church's functions. Younger Christians, if you want to be discipled, seek out someone to do that. Not every older man is the right guy for a college student; not every older lady is right for the teen girl. Look around, get to know the older folks--we really don't bite and we want to help be there for you.
I've been on both ends of this. When I was young, our local postmaster was a man I admired. I'd hang around the Post Office and he'd tell me stories of hunting and trapping...and relate these things to spiritual life. My grandfather was another mentor (we won't count parents here--that's a specific role outside the scope of this) as were a couple other men I encountered in my chosen profession. I sought them out, spent time with them on their turf and soaked up everything they had to give me.
I've also been the "old guy" both professionally and spiritually to some younger folks. Many young folks have sought me out for advice, friendship, camaraderie, or just company. I've shared coffee, pizza, wings and walks in the woods. The conversation has been about chainsaws, guns, motorcycles and God. That's where discipling has taken place.
So, what I'm saying, it's not just structured study that builds maturity, it's time invested--on both sides. If you want a structured study, that can be done, but there are enough programmed teaching times now that one more is likely not the answer. Maybe attending those would be a good place to start. After that, I'll bet Cliff would love to have you hang out while he split wood, Jeff's putting a roof on, I'm always happy to make coffee and take a break from my chores, Pastor George will always talk cars...you get the idea. Nearly all of us are suckers for an excuse for a cup of coffee somewhere.
We're available, call us, stop by and drink coffee with us. We'd love to get to know you.
Monday, October 21, 2013
Game Warden Files--Not Really Game Warden Work
Since, as ECOs, we were on the road at odd hours of the night and were always poking our noses into strange places, it should be no surprise that we encountered things other than EnCon Law violations. We did get a lot of driving while intoxicated cases.
My first one was about 3 AM while coming home from a long night of working campgrounds in my neighboring sector with Jim Harnish. We had been dealing with problems in a campground that was a hundred miles from my home and were finally headed home. As we came through the sleepy town of Wells, we got behind a car that was weaving from guardrail to guardrail. We lit him up to pull him over and the driver slowed the car, pulled to the right--still weaving--and motioned for us to pass him. That's NOT what it means when the red lights come on.
Though not going fast, the driver continued his non-compliance and finally decided to get away from us. He pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant and tried to drive around behind it. However, the owners of the restaurant lived on the same property and the back yard was filled with lawn items. Next thing you know, the car had met a rather substantial swing set and the hood was up in the air, the radiator steaming and the driver trying to restart his now stalled car. While Jim called in the stop and a request for assistance from the State Police, I ran up to the car and pulled the driver out of the seat, swung him over the trunk deck of his car and put the cuffs on him all in one slick motion--after all, it's got to work right once in a while, right? The problem was that as I swung him onto the trunk deck, his abdomen struck the top of the fender and there was a sudden loud noise followed by a foul smell permeating the air; all accompanied by large stain on our drunk's pants. You guessed, he'd lost control of his bowels.
Since this was not an EnCon case, we did the only "right" thing: we turned it over to the Troopers. They wrapped him in an emergency blanket, stuffed him in their car and headed off to process him. Fortunately, this was a time before smoking in state owned vehicles was prohibited and both the Troopers were pipe smokers. You can bet that they fired up the pipes for that trip to the station.
Returning from a similar long night in the campgrounds, I was driven off the road by a car coming right at me. I managed to avoid being hit, got the car stopped and made another DWI arrest. The driver in this case had just had his license revoked for a previous DWI. The revocation had taken effect at midnight and here it was the wee hours of the following morning. I processed him at Gloversville Police and went on about my business. Though I expected a trial, the entire booking process had been recorded and the driver's attorney had asked to see the tape...he took a plea bargain as he didn't want a jury to watch the tape.
I hadn't thought much of that case until years later a young man came into a convenience store where I was drinking a cup of coffee. He asked if he could join me and speak with me a minute. I allowed him to do so. "You don't remember me, do you...?" began the story. He was the man who had run me off the road that early morning. He thanked me for saving his life, he was sober now and had been since dealing with that arrest. I'd like to think I'll run into him again some time and he still will be.
My first one was about 3 AM while coming home from a long night of working campgrounds in my neighboring sector with Jim Harnish. We had been dealing with problems in a campground that was a hundred miles from my home and were finally headed home. As we came through the sleepy town of Wells, we got behind a car that was weaving from guardrail to guardrail. We lit him up to pull him over and the driver slowed the car, pulled to the right--still weaving--and motioned for us to pass him. That's NOT what it means when the red lights come on.
Though not going fast, the driver continued his non-compliance and finally decided to get away from us. He pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant and tried to drive around behind it. However, the owners of the restaurant lived on the same property and the back yard was filled with lawn items. Next thing you know, the car had met a rather substantial swing set and the hood was up in the air, the radiator steaming and the driver trying to restart his now stalled car. While Jim called in the stop and a request for assistance from the State Police, I ran up to the car and pulled the driver out of the seat, swung him over the trunk deck of his car and put the cuffs on him all in one slick motion--after all, it's got to work right once in a while, right? The problem was that as I swung him onto the trunk deck, his abdomen struck the top of the fender and there was a sudden loud noise followed by a foul smell permeating the air; all accompanied by large stain on our drunk's pants. You guessed, he'd lost control of his bowels.
Since this was not an EnCon case, we did the only "right" thing: we turned it over to the Troopers. They wrapped him in an emergency blanket, stuffed him in their car and headed off to process him. Fortunately, this was a time before smoking in state owned vehicles was prohibited and both the Troopers were pipe smokers. You can bet that they fired up the pipes for that trip to the station.
Returning from a similar long night in the campgrounds, I was driven off the road by a car coming right at me. I managed to avoid being hit, got the car stopped and made another DWI arrest. The driver in this case had just had his license revoked for a previous DWI. The revocation had taken effect at midnight and here it was the wee hours of the following morning. I processed him at Gloversville Police and went on about my business. Though I expected a trial, the entire booking process had been recorded and the driver's attorney had asked to see the tape...he took a plea bargain as he didn't want a jury to watch the tape.
I hadn't thought much of that case until years later a young man came into a convenience store where I was drinking a cup of coffee. He asked if he could join me and speak with me a minute. I allowed him to do so. "You don't remember me, do you...?" began the story. He was the man who had run me off the road that early morning. He thanked me for saving his life, he was sober now and had been since dealing with that arrest. I'd like to think I'll run into him again some time and he still will be.
Game Warden Files--State Campgrounds
Among the many duties I assumed upon becoming the new guy in Fulton County was policing the state campsites. I had one in my own sector and several more in adjoining sectors. Policing campgrounds was nothing new to me as I'd served as as seasonal officer with the NY State Park Police, Taconic Region from 1977 until 1980. However, in my work with the Park Police I'd never seen the intensity of problems and extent of disorder I'd come to see within the campgrounds under DEC's authority.
In the course of my first weekend working (which was July 4th weekend) I spent the better part of my time answering complaints and quelling noise problems in the two closest campgrounds. In the first few years working in my sector, my neighboring officers and I spent countless hours and wrote innumerable tickets in those sites. That would continue through most of my career.
Some of the events are specifically memorable:
Prom weekends were nearly always problems. The kids from some bigger schools near Saratoga Springs would rent many campsites (Actually, in most cases their parents reserved the sites for them, but that's a problem we couldn't deal with.) and the kids would start arriving for the post prom activities sometime around 11 PM. One night, I found a party building up and called neighboring officer Ray VanAnden to come over and assist me. We started rounding up kids, most of them by now drinking heavily--and remember these are high-school kids.
One young man was trying sneak away from Ray while holding a very large mug of beer, more like a pitcher of beer. The event is burned into my mind in cartoon-like fashion. He was tiptoeing among some small evergreen trees trying to get to his tent without being observed. The trouble was that I was standing beside his tent. He started to run, still on tiptoes, and then made a flying dive for his tent--still holding the beer. In one of the best timed moves I'd ever made, I reached out and grabbed him by the ankles as he was airborne. His body stopped in mid-dive, the beer sloshed out of the mug onto the floor of his tent and when gravity took over, he landed in a beer-soaked sleeping bag. Then he got a ticket for his effort. We rounded up about 20 kids in that sweep, wrote at least most, if not all of them tickets for some campground offense, then called their parents and got them out of our campground. I saw this played out many times over the course of the years and was always amazed that the parents sponsored this activity and were upset with us for wrecking their kids' good times--and their own free weekends. Only once did we find a group that was partying alcohol and drug free. They even pointed out a group from another school prom that was not sober and told us where the keg was hidden in the woods.
Memorial Day weekends were a big problem in the Caroga Lake campground above all others. It seemed like all of our local high schools would be there, some of them skipping school on Thursday of the weekend to get a head start. It wasn't just the troubled kids who were the problems; it was more often those who were from decent and well known families, were reasonable students and often were among the star athletes. We'd find them drunk or in violation of other laws, usually relating to not being permitted in the campground after day use closed. One Memorial Day Weekend night as I walked through the darkened campsite, I saw a young man pick up a bottle of beer and take a big drink. I took the bottle from his had and told him that he was going with me. "You can't arrest me, I'm Pete -----." He invoked the well known family name. Just then, two other officers, Larry Johnson and Bruce Perry, came by in a patrol car. I handed the beer to Bruce and put Pete in the back seat. Oh yes we can arrest you. His dad was NOT happy when we called him to come get his drunken son.
One weekend we had a problem with a young man who would sneak in without paying, get drunk and then get loud. We caught him twice in about an hour, ticketed him and tossed him out of the campground. Not long after that, as I was hiding in a patch of woods keeping watch on a group of campers, I noticed a Sheriff's patrol car driving slowly through the campground. Out of a group of people stepped our now twice-arrested young man who, beer in hand, greeted the deputy with with "Hi Mr. Gisondi! Ha, Ha, I'm not supposed to be here!" Before he could say another word, he was in the back seat of the Sheriff's car and on his way to get his third ticket of the night. This time, instead of sending him out, we sent him right to the local judge who sent him to jail. He didn't get bailed out until the weekend was over--end of problem.
Interestingly, the following year he was back, a changed young man. He spent his time trying to keep kids quiet and sober.
In the course of my first weekend working (which was July 4th weekend) I spent the better part of my time answering complaints and quelling noise problems in the two closest campgrounds. In the first few years working in my sector, my neighboring officers and I spent countless hours and wrote innumerable tickets in those sites. That would continue through most of my career.
Some of the events are specifically memorable:
Prom weekends were nearly always problems. The kids from some bigger schools near Saratoga Springs would rent many campsites (Actually, in most cases their parents reserved the sites for them, but that's a problem we couldn't deal with.) and the kids would start arriving for the post prom activities sometime around 11 PM. One night, I found a party building up and called neighboring officer Ray VanAnden to come over and assist me. We started rounding up kids, most of them by now drinking heavily--and remember these are high-school kids.
One young man was trying sneak away from Ray while holding a very large mug of beer, more like a pitcher of beer. The event is burned into my mind in cartoon-like fashion. He was tiptoeing among some small evergreen trees trying to get to his tent without being observed. The trouble was that I was standing beside his tent. He started to run, still on tiptoes, and then made a flying dive for his tent--still holding the beer. In one of the best timed moves I'd ever made, I reached out and grabbed him by the ankles as he was airborne. His body stopped in mid-dive, the beer sloshed out of the mug onto the floor of his tent and when gravity took over, he landed in a beer-soaked sleeping bag. Then he got a ticket for his effort. We rounded up about 20 kids in that sweep, wrote at least most, if not all of them tickets for some campground offense, then called their parents and got them out of our campground. I saw this played out many times over the course of the years and was always amazed that the parents sponsored this activity and were upset with us for wrecking their kids' good times--and their own free weekends. Only once did we find a group that was partying alcohol and drug free. They even pointed out a group from another school prom that was not sober and told us where the keg was hidden in the woods.
Memorial Day weekends were a big problem in the Caroga Lake campground above all others. It seemed like all of our local high schools would be there, some of them skipping school on Thursday of the weekend to get a head start. It wasn't just the troubled kids who were the problems; it was more often those who were from decent and well known families, were reasonable students and often were among the star athletes. We'd find them drunk or in violation of other laws, usually relating to not being permitted in the campground after day use closed. One Memorial Day Weekend night as I walked through the darkened campsite, I saw a young man pick up a bottle of beer and take a big drink. I took the bottle from his had and told him that he was going with me. "You can't arrest me, I'm Pete -----." He invoked the well known family name. Just then, two other officers, Larry Johnson and Bruce Perry, came by in a patrol car. I handed the beer to Bruce and put Pete in the back seat. Oh yes we can arrest you. His dad was NOT happy when we called him to come get his drunken son.
One weekend we had a problem with a young man who would sneak in without paying, get drunk and then get loud. We caught him twice in about an hour, ticketed him and tossed him out of the campground. Not long after that, as I was hiding in a patch of woods keeping watch on a group of campers, I noticed a Sheriff's patrol car driving slowly through the campground. Out of a group of people stepped our now twice-arrested young man who, beer in hand, greeted the deputy with with "Hi Mr. Gisondi! Ha, Ha, I'm not supposed to be here!" Before he could say another word, he was in the back seat of the Sheriff's car and on his way to get his third ticket of the night. This time, instead of sending him out, we sent him right to the local judge who sent him to jail. He didn't get bailed out until the weekend was over--end of problem.
Interestingly, the following year he was back, a changed young man. He spent his time trying to keep kids quiet and sober.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Game Warden Files--Time to Leave All That Behind
It was in the spring of 1986 that we had been upstate to visit my family. Though spring had already come to Staten Island, it was sweeter yet in Columbia County. One afternoon Lt. Molinelli stopped by the house after he'd had occasion to drive the Taconic Parkway down through our home area the day before. "You've got to be crazy wanting to stay here" was his comment, "It's beautiful up where you're from." But we did love Staten Island. We were happy in home, work and church; our kids were doing well in school. We were so comfortable that we'd had another baby and were now a family of five. And then it happened. As the department was starting to fill another academy class they opted to open up some additional transfer opportunities. Two of them fell within that now smaller magic circle we'd drawn on the map. Fulton and Saratoga Counties would be open and I was on the transfer list for both of them, was I really interested?
After agreeing that I was interested, we spent several uncertain days waiting for the transfer process to be completed. At last I got the call, or Peggy did anyway. We were moving to Fulton County. We set the plan in motion, bought a house and arrived in the City of Johnstown in time for me to go to work over the July 4th weekend.
You might think that being a couple country kids, both having grown up in the mid-Hudson Valley, we'd have fallen back into the role quickly. We found, however that the culture shock of moving back upstate was greater than that of moving to the city. The four years we had spent within the New York City area had forever changed us. We remain convinced that those years were very well spent, and now we were off on a new adventure. I was now the country game warden, the job I'd been after for all those years.
After agreeing that I was interested, we spent several uncertain days waiting for the transfer process to be completed. At last I got the call, or Peggy did anyway. We were moving to Fulton County. We set the plan in motion, bought a house and arrived in the City of Johnstown in time for me to go to work over the July 4th weekend.
You might think that being a couple country kids, both having grown up in the mid-Hudson Valley, we'd have fallen back into the role quickly. We found, however that the culture shock of moving back upstate was greater than that of moving to the city. The four years we had spent within the New York City area had forever changed us. We remain convinced that those years were very well spent, and now we were off on a new adventure. I was now the country game warden, the job I'd been after for all those years.
Game Warden Files--Boat Chases
The Clam Wars of the Great South Bay had been fought from boats and we employed boats in a lot of our work also. We make some great partnerships with the Hempstead Bay Constables and spent many nights in the upper reaches of Jamaica Bay. We also teamed with the highly skilled operators with the US Park Police Marine Unit working the large expanse of the bay that was under federal control. They knew all the little channels of the bay better than any of us did and that make the work much easier. The other player was the Nassau County Marine Police who would occasionally come into the very end of the bay which was in the Town of Hempstead, Nassau County. We had a pretty good team and put a cramp on the clamming; but some still tried it--and some of them still got away.
One night I got a call from the Nassau County Marine Police. They had just come into the area, had a boat under surveillance and had one of their boats being trailered to a nearby launch. Lt. Molinelli and I headed over from Staten Island hooked up with them and while I got in the boat with the two county officers, Lt. Mollinelli worked his way to an observation point.
We came quickly around a small peninsula approached the clammers and caught them totally by surprise. One of them went to start the engine and I could hear sound of a dying battery trying to start a badly tuned engine. This was going to be a triumphant night! Then I heard the county's boat throttle back, and the unmistakable sound of an engine failing--badly--like a piston through the side of the block. I was on the bow of the now-dying police boat headed directly at the violators' boat and ready to board it when suddenly the previously dead engine on it sputtered and came to life. Though it was coughing and sputtering, the violator's boat pulled away just out of my reach--or ability to jump into it. It disappeared into the night not to be seen again...and we paddled into shore. Not a happy night.
Though there was a good deal of adrenaline generated by that, it was nothing compared to a night working with the Hempstead Bay Constables. We'd been getting complaints almost every night and had two boats and crews staged in the area of Head of Bay, just south of Kennedy Airport. When the call came in, we headed to the location. The plan was to keep hitting them with spotlights, effectively killing their night vision and force them to shore where other units would locate them. It was a sold plan since they were clamming in an area with a very narrow outlet at low tide and we thought we could keep them blinded long enough. The plan worked as well as it could have, except they had more determination than we ever expected. They tossed all their equipment, clam rakes and baskets overboard forcing us to maneuver around them and ultimately got out of our lights. They then acquired enough vision to find the channel out of there and headed west to open water. I had the faster boat, but within a couple miles had lost any sight of them.
Though we only caught a few of the boat diggers, the two close calls they had with us pretty well shut them down. I think we only had one other incident where one of our guys just lucked into a guy heading out with clamming equipment in a boat. He called me and we waited him out, catching him as he loaded is truck. Not nearly as exciting as chasing down a boat; but a good catch.
One night I got a call from the Nassau County Marine Police. They had just come into the area, had a boat under surveillance and had one of their boats being trailered to a nearby launch. Lt. Molinelli and I headed over from Staten Island hooked up with them and while I got in the boat with the two county officers, Lt. Mollinelli worked his way to an observation point.
We came quickly around a small peninsula approached the clammers and caught them totally by surprise. One of them went to start the engine and I could hear sound of a dying battery trying to start a badly tuned engine. This was going to be a triumphant night! Then I heard the county's boat throttle back, and the unmistakable sound of an engine failing--badly--like a piston through the side of the block. I was on the bow of the now-dying police boat headed directly at the violators' boat and ready to board it when suddenly the previously dead engine on it sputtered and came to life. Though it was coughing and sputtering, the violator's boat pulled away just out of my reach--or ability to jump into it. It disappeared into the night not to be seen again...and we paddled into shore. Not a happy night.
Though there was a good deal of adrenaline generated by that, it was nothing compared to a night working with the Hempstead Bay Constables. We'd been getting complaints almost every night and had two boats and crews staged in the area of Head of Bay, just south of Kennedy Airport. When the call came in, we headed to the location. The plan was to keep hitting them with spotlights, effectively killing their night vision and force them to shore where other units would locate them. It was a sold plan since they were clamming in an area with a very narrow outlet at low tide and we thought we could keep them blinded long enough. The plan worked as well as it could have, except they had more determination than we ever expected. They tossed all their equipment, clam rakes and baskets overboard forcing us to maneuver around them and ultimately got out of our lights. They then acquired enough vision to find the channel out of there and headed west to open water. I had the faster boat, but within a couple miles had lost any sight of them.
Though we only caught a few of the boat diggers, the two close calls they had with us pretty well shut them down. I think we only had one other incident where one of our guys just lucked into a guy heading out with clamming equipment in a boat. He called me and we waited him out, catching him as he loaded is truck. Not nearly as exciting as chasing down a boat; but a good catch.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)