The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

How’s the fire danger today?” Others would say, “I’d really love to work with animals,” not realizing that most of the animals I saw were dead or seriously wounded or sick with rabies or brain worm.
    What I tried to explain to these nice people was that I was a cop, and the forest was my beat. The statute that created the Maine Warden Ser vice in 1880 gave the governor the authority to appoint wardens “whose duty it shall be to enforce the provisions of all laws relating to game and the fisheries, arrest any person violating such laws, and prosecute for all offenses against the same that may come to their knowledge.” That legal description was accurate, but it didn’t remotely describe my job.
    For one thing, the duties change from season to season. Winter means game wardens must deal with ice fishing and rabbit hunting and hunting bobcats with hounds. It also means snowmobiling accidents, one of the fastest-growing law enforcement issues in the Northeast. In mud season—which is what Mainers have instead of spring—open-water fishing gets underway and dipping for smelts by night. Dogs chasing deer become a problem. And wardens begin enforcing boating laws on Maine’s 5,782 lakes and ponds, as well as all navigable rivers and streams. Canoes overturn; swimmers drown. Summertime brings ATV accidents in the woods. Wardens stumble upon secret marijuana gardens. And poaching—a yearround problem—gets worse as hunting season nears. Autumn is just plain crazy. Hunting and trapping of all sorts—bird, bear, raccoon, duck, moose, deer—keep wardens busy day and night. Investigating hunting accidents in Maine is the special responsibility of the Warden Ser vice. Then there are the four-season emergencies: deer-car and moose-car collisions, tracking escaped convicts, rescuing injured mountain climbers, searching for people lost in the woods.
    It’s a physically demanding job. A warden must be able to manhandle a dead moose into the back of a pickup truck using nothing but a come-along or be able to hike up a mountain in the night to rescue a camper struck by lightning. Mostly, it means spending a lot of time outdoors, alone, in all sorts of weather conditions.
    As a district warden, I didn’t report to division headquarters in the morning. Instead, I worked out of my house, setting my own schedule and assisting other wardens in neighboring districts on an as-needed basis. Most days, I patrolled my district by truck, boat, or snowmobile, issuing warnings, handing out summonses, and making arrests. Wherever I went in the woods, I traveled with the heart-heavy knowledge that I was alone and without backup, that the most apparently casual encounter could turn bad on me if I let down my guard, and that if I ran into trouble, I should probably not expect help any time soon.
     
    After leaving the Square Deal, I decided to drive north along Indian Pond. I swung past a couple of roadside turnouts—shady places along the bank of the pond where you could cast out into the weed beds for smallmouth or pickerel—but no one was fishing this early. Across the pond, though, I got a glimpse of the public boat launch. Someone in a black SUV was backing a big powerboat on a trailer down the ramp into the water. I decided to say hello.
    By the time I arrived at the ramp, the powerboat was already in the water. A boy who looked to be about nine years old stood on the shore, holding a nylon rope that kept the boat from floating off across the pond. The sport-utility vehicle, a new-looking Chevy Suburban with so much chrome it reflected the sun like a mirror, had pulled up the road to park. As my truck rolled to a stop at the top of the ramp, the boy gave a quick look in the direction of the SUV.
    I saw right off that there were no registration stickers on the bow of the boat. “Good morning,” I said.
    The boy didn’t answer or make eye contact. He was a scrawny, dark-haired kid, dressed in a T-shirt and a baggy bathing suit.
    I took a step toward him. “That’s a sharp boat you’ve got.”
    The boy glanced again up the road. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a man climb from the Suburban.
    I tried a new approach. “You going fishing this morning?”
    The boy nodded, almost imperceptibly.
    “Hey!” The driver of the SUV came walking up fast, holding a pair of spinning rods, one in each fist. He was dressed in a lavender polo shirt and white tennis shorts, and he wore a gold chain around one tanned wrist. His