The Bro hiked in to a little fly-fishing-only trout pond the other day and found that he had been preceded by meatheads who were also knuckleheads. On the shore he found a worm can, a plastic bobber, and several empty cans of Bud, the favorite beer of jerks who toss their empties out of their car windows and their motorboats, or dump them on the banks of otherwise beautiful lakes, ponds and streams. These macho men were able to carry in full cans of beer but didn't have the strength to carry out empty aluminum cans, probably because they were loaded down with their illegally-caught trout. Where are the wardens when these guys are doing their damage?

I'll tell you where the wardens are. They are desperately trying to cover far more territory than they possibly can. A recent article in Down East about poachers noted that there are only 95 wardens to cover a state that's bigger than the rest of New England. The problem with wardens is that there aren't nearly enough of them, and the State of Maine should do something about that shortage. The fish and game wardens are trying to protect the resources that draw great numbers of people (and dollars) to Maine, resources that generations of law-abiding Maine sportsmen and women have enjoyed and have tried to help the state protect. But there simply are too few wardens, too much territory, and too many knuckleheads bent on destroying the resource. The State of Maine is derelict in its duty by not increasing the size of the warden corps to the point where they can effectively counter the poachers. Every warden I have ever met has been dedicated to the cause of protecting Maine's fish and game -- dedicated, but also underpaid and understaffed to do the job properly. More wardens, I say.

The following story is true, near as I can ascertain, and was told to me by a member of the family of the angler in the story:

An English lord, a lifelong angler and shooter, was salmon fishing in a Scottish river. The lord was then in his 80s but still a keen fisherman. He was accompanied on the expedition by a Scottish fishing guide, called a gillie, a laconic fellow who was not too many years junior to the lord. The lord had waded into the river to cast for salmon, and so intent was he in his pursuit of the fish that he didn't notice how far out he had gone into the river's strong current until he suddenly realized he was in danger of being swept off his feet. His grip on the river bottom was tenuous. The current was relentless. The lord thought he was going to drown. He yelled to the gillie, who was nowhere to be seen, for help. The gillie did not appear. The lord continued to yell for help as he fought for purchase on the river bottom and began inching his way toward shore. Bit by bit, minute after minute, the lord fought his way across the current. The journey of a few yards took most of a half-hour. The lord finally reached the shallows, staggered to the bank and sat to catch his breath and gather his strength before going in search of the absent gillie, who was found standing a short distance up the river.

"Didn't you hear me calling for help?" the lord thundered.

"Aye," said the Scot.

"Well why didn't you come to my aid?" the lord demanded.

The Scot replied, "I can nae swim. I did nae wish to watch you drown. So I turned me back and lit me pipe."