As reported in past weeks, the Humane Society of the United States has thrown itself behind an effort to ban the hunting of bears by baiting or “hounding,” and to also ban the trapping of bruins in the state.

The petitions have been signed and you can expect the issue on your ballot in the form of a referendum next November.

Already, the PR machines of the opposing sides are gearing up. Leading the charge in favor of the status quo is the Sportsman’s Alliance of Maine, which made an interesting request this week in a letter sent to members.

SAM officials, as you may know, began making their feelings known months ago and predicted a tough battle. Those officials also said that defeating the referendum was their top goal in the coming year.

In the letter from SAM President Edye Cronk, the organization’s position is outlined succinctly … as is its commitment to the cause.

Cronk says that experts tell SAM that it will “need at least $1 million to win this fight, and that is daunting. We must raise $2,300 every day until voters render their judgement on this proposal on Nov. 2, 2004.”

How serious is SAM?

This serious: “Because we are so focused on this campaign, I have decided to set aside my annual President’s fundraising appeal so we can ask you to contribute as much as possible to this campaign to defend hunting and trapping,” Cronk wrote. “You will not receive another request from me this year.”

Cronk paints a desperate picture in her letter and says a SAM-commissioned poll on the issue was “sobering,” according to the pollster.

“I am asking you to give as much as you can afford to this campaign, and perhaps a little bit more than that!” Cronk wrote. “At the end of the campaign, we should all be poor. But hopefully, we will be rich in a hunting, fishing and trapping heritage that has been defended and sustained.”

On Thursday, I opened a can of worms by expressing the view that the addition of 15 minutes of legal shooting time during deer season – meaning hunters can down deer up to 30 minutes after sunset – was a bad idea.

Since then, as you imagine, many readers have told me exactly what they think of that opinion.

Many agree. Many more disagree. Vehemently.

Contrary to one popular opinion we ink-stained wretches hear quite often, the expression of opinion in column form is not done arbitrarily, just so readers will get riled up (“You don’t actually believe that,” several critics have told me in the past. “You’re just writing it to sell papers.”)

I’ll assure you of one thing: It’s hard enough to dodge the mudballs when you’re 100 percent committed to the controversial idea you shared with a couple hundred thousand of your closest friends.

Absorbing a verbal and e-mail barrage on a topic you dreamed up on the spur of the moment? Well, I don’t know many people in my line of work who’d sign on for that kind of unnecessary punishment.

Which is a long-winded way of saying this: Keep writing. You’re making good points, whether you agree with me or not. I’m reading. And I’m listening.

At some point next week, I’ll open up the mailbag and let you read some of the arguments – pro and con – that are being made.

For the past several weeks – ever since closing on our new home in late October – I have tried to convince myself that moving, all things considered, isn’t all that painful.

That’s what I said while trucking assorted boxes, bags, and piles of detritus from Bangor to Holden, then trucking assorted bags, boxes, and discarded goods back to Bangor for the trash man to pick up.

That’s what I said while logging mile after mile … and lugging appliance after appliance … and after tying knot after knot.

After all, I told myself as days of semi-serious moving continued, it’s not as if we have to do this all at once.

Until this week, that is.

This week, we finally had a deadline. New owners were taking over the Bangor house (not to be confused with The Bangor House, which is an altogether different entity). They (for some reason I can’t understand) didn’t want any of our junk … I mean, goods.

And we had to get serious.

This morning, I’m happy to report, the moving is over. Every last bit of it.

And this morning, I’m sad to report, I have no idea where most of the things I own are located.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I know they’re in Holden. In the basement … or in the garage … or elsewhere.

But if it’s not a food product, and you can’t sit on it, lie on it, sleep in it, or watch football on it … I don’t know where it is.

Unless, of course, it’s related to my job.

While it took me quite a while to take the whole moving thing very seriously, I take my job extremely seriously. Therefore, I pledged to stow … neatly … any object I may eventually need to do the rigorous tasks my boss demands.

And it was difficult.

Moving, I discovered (again) is painful. It’s complicated. And like anything else in life, it’s important to keep your priorities in order.

Eat. Sleep. And work. Can’t forget work.

And that’s why … if you were to walk into my garage (which I, along with OSHA, the Humane Society, and several government agencies, strongly discourage), you’d find an interesting phenomenon.

Look in the corners, and you’d see boxes stacked upon boxes. Picture Sam’s Club without the handy 20-foot-tall racks. Look in the middle, and you’d find trash bag after trash bag, filled with – we assume – valuable objects we can’t do without … though, at second thought, the 25 bags the trash man hauled away this morning may well have contained my underwear, winter clothing, and baseball cap collection.

And look along the edges … right next to the place a car would park … if, that is, we were able to squeeze a car in there … and you’d find my work equipment … stacked and aligned and hanging very, very neatly.

I may have told you that I have a great job. If I didn’t, here’s proof:

While chaos reigns in the rest of our own personal self storage, my work supplies are tidy and well-organized.

The fly rods are accessible. My waders? They’re hanging on the wall, right beside the float tube and flippers, just above the Coleman stove and lanterns.

The tents are thoughtfully perched on top of my “everything box,” which holds, appropriately, everything I need on a weekend camping excursion. Matches. Pans. Forks. Knives. You name it. I’ve got it … and (most importantly, I figure) I can find it.

My tackle boxes are nearby, as are the bait buckets I may need, should the boss decide I have to go ice fishing come January.

Camp chairs? Right there. Gas cans for the boat? Yup. Life jackets? No problem.

I can find it all.

But only (or so I try to convince my very smart and entirely unconvinceable fiancee) because the boss demands I keep my work equipment organized.

And even in moments of weakness, when I finally realize that being able to put my hands on my fly-tying vise is more important to me than knowing where I can locate a clean pair of skivvies, I realize that in some odd way, it’s OK that I know where all my outdoor equipment is.

I didn’t give up, after all. I just realized that time was running out … a moving deadline loomed … and I set my priorities.

My fiancee? Though she may not voice her agreement, I suspect she may understand my mindset quite well.

Doubt it?

Just ask her where all of her Longaberger baskets are.

I think you’ll find that not everything we own is unaccounted for … somewhere in the middle of the mountainous box pile.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.