“What’s it like to be a game warden working during Ohio’s deer gun season?” That was a common question during my years of patrolling the back roads and byways of northwest Ohio — one I’m sure other officers continue to answer. My usual response was one word, “Busy.”
Deer numbers were lower than today and killing does was often limited by controlled permits. Bow hunting was popular but was definitely overshadowed by the effort expended during the gun-toting seasons.
Allow me a few memories about how the year-long weeks worked for me — though the stories could number many more.
For me, gun seasons began during the opening day’s wee-morning hours. My goal was to try and catch anyone getting an early jump at a buck. This meant finding a hiding spot in an area where spotlighting deer had been reported.
One year, several weeks prior to the season, a landowner explained that people were shining deer on his property and driving in his fields. He gave me a tour of the area and suggested hiding up a farm lane and behind an abandoned windmill.
Following a tip
On the opener, I slipped quietly down that farm path, circling behind the aging mill’s framework. Sure enough, a pickup came weaving down the road, swinging its headlights right to left in hopes of spotting a trophy.
As I eased my Ford LTD around the windmill, there was a clunk and a slap that sounded like a gunshot. As I sped up to catch the culprit, they killed their headlights and began racing up the dark roads with only the moonlight to shine their way.
As one old cliché goes, “no good deed goes unpunished.” Something didn’t feel right in the steering and I quickly abandoned any thought of a pursuit. The landowner had forgotten my plan and, tired of poachers abusing his land, had placed a spiked board beside the windmill. Two out of four of my tires responded with a deflating hiss. With only one spare, I was finished until a local wrecker and tire shop could correct that problem.
Daytime adventures
Daytime patrol was always busy. Equipped with a radio that connected me with the sheriff department’s dispatcher and deputies, much of my activity was channeled through their agency. It made it easier for them to relay complaints and information. While not ignoring our own agency’s radio, that sheriff office’s dispatchers and deputies were infinitely more familiar with the county and its residents. In other words, they were my lifeline for help if the circumstances arose — and arise they did.
On one particular afternoon, two guys in a rusty SUV took some pot shots from the moving car’s window at a running doe; one slug landed in a yard next to a woman hanging out laundry. It hit so close that mud splashed onto her freshly cleaned sheets. She jumped in her car and chased the SUV a short distance to get the license number, right before the culprits skipped the ditch, ran through an old fencerow and drove across a field.
In short order, I spotted the car sitting with three other big four-wheel drive vehicles at a rural intersection — about 15 individuals huddled around them. I immediately recognized several and knew this could be trouble.
After taking copious notes, photos and a list of names, all those guys seemed to laughingly agree that nobody there was driving the vehicle. They volunteered that the owner, whose name they couldn’t remember, had loaned it to someone who might be named John, Andy or George something and that he lived in some other county.
He and his buddy had “just shown up” and asked to hunt with them. Of course, being such a gregarious group, they’d said, “Sure!”
There seemed to be a building aggression in several voices and things could have gotten dicey if it hadn’t been for a deputy showing up. Before long, another pulled up to monitor the situation.
Getting nowhere fast, I made a call to my office for permission to tow the rust-bucket. Their decision was to “let it go.” The gang laughed and waved — a few using all their fingers — as they took off, leaving the SUV behind.
Needless to say, that choice didn’t sit well with me or the very angry witness to whom I had to judiciously explain the circumstances. I slowly counted to 10 as I headed to headquarters to discuss the matter.
After explaining my frustration to a sympathetic ear, I returned to the rural roadways. A message from the dispatcher requested I meet some people at a rural location.
Waiting for me were two undercover drug task force members who handed me long-distance photos of me at the scene of the mishap along with closeups of the group. They wanted any names, hunting license numbers, gun types and vehicle plates.
They also asked if I could match names and faces; some, they said, were thought to be dangerous. It seems that karma was looking for a few of the folks in that group. Eventually, karma won.
Of course, the vast majority of people with whom I’d ever come into contact were honest folks out enjoying a hunt. Most of the enforcement and license compliance checks were uneventful, but a few did result in a summons. Most understood the situation — that’s not saying they liked it, but they understood. It was never personal for me and I always tried to leave them with that impression.
Much of the remaining time was spent answering questions, collecting harvest reports, visiting butchers, backtracking violation complaints and looking for the more deliberate law-breakers. Some were caught during the season, some afterwards, and many were nabbed by the division’s investigators and involved multiple violations to be solved months after the season’s end.
One of my favorite activities involved the agency aircraft. One night, while flying copilot (no, I can’t fly a plane — it’s just a great seat), we spotted a person spotlighting near Findlay, Ohio, south of a local scout camp known for its deer numbers.
The light-tossing vehicle was following a creek south. It would stop, cast the light and then move slowly as the light swept small areas. We were high enough not to be readily noticed, and I directed two wildlife patrols to converge from opposite directions.
Soon, they corralled the desperado — a sheriff cruiser shining his spotlight on construction sites in hopes of deterring theft and vandalism. That caused some friendly ribbing in several directions. But, what’s a job without having a little fun?
There was one guy who was a fixture at a local conservation club, and he always liked to have a little fun at my expense. He’d often announce, “You ain’t smart enough to ever give me a ticket!” Now, I’ll admit that I never really expected to, but you have to keep all options open. Driving by his house during the gun season, I spotted a nice buck hanging from a tree beside his driveway. I stopped, but nobody was home.
Walking over to the buck, I could see the legal temporary ownership tag on its antler; everything appeared to be in order. Walking back to my car, his words came back to me. The gauntlet had been thrown, the challenge accepted.
Using a voided summons, I carefully wrote out his name, including a fictitious charge of public prevarication or other impromptu line. I carefully folded it and stuck it deeply in the deer’s mouth, knowing the animal was destined for the check station at the Division of Wildlife’s district office.
Later that day, I stopped at the station and found out that he’d stopped in to check his deer and have it aged by the examination of its teeth. When the biologist opened the deer’s mouth, he curiously presented the gentleman with the ticket. Checkmate.
For me, it was the end of an especially long gun season. I walked into the district headquarters ready to go home. A supervisor working a late desk handed me several notes.
“Just got a call that somebody is advertising deer or deer meat for sale.” I took his notes and I was back in the car.
The day had started before 6 a.m., and it was well after 8 p.m. of the last day. I was tired, but this could turn out to be a good one. I carefully followed the directions and spotted the incriminating sign in the front yard.
I knocked on the door, knowing it would at least be good for a cup of coffee. I spent an hour talking to an older couple who both enjoyed crafts, Christmas and a good laugh. Upon leaving, I took a photo as a remembrance of that final day’s investigation. I couldn’t have ended the season on a finer note.
“The message is clear. It is not what is happening ‘out there.’ It is what is happening between your ears. It’s your attitude that counts.”
—Zig Ziglar
