Judging from what has been written and televised since the defeat of the bear referendum, it’s obvious that some people are having difficulty accepting the fact that the ballot initiative was rejected in 13 of Maine’s 16 counties. But rather than write a convoluted column describing the mixed relief and euphoria of sportsmen regarding that victory, I’ll borrow the late Jackie Gleason’s expression of profound pleasure and say: “How sweet it is!”

Simply put, the circumspection and sensibility of Maine voters, sportsmen and nonsportsmen alike, prevailed over the nonsensical, emotionally driven anti-hunting initiative sponsored by the Humane Society of the United States. In extending my sincere thanks to everyone who voted NO on Question 2, I say stand and take a bow. You are being applauded by sportsmen nationwide.

It can be said, however, that many of those votes would have been cast in favor of the referendum if not for the monumental efforts and accomplishments of the Maine Fish and Wildlife Conservation Council, the coalition formed to fight the ballot initiative. Equally outstanding were the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife’s unprecedented public opposition, the stalwart support of the Sportsman’s Alliance of Maine, and the substantial monetary contributions from organizations such as the Maine Professional Guides Association and the United States Sportsmen’s Alliance.

I would be less than forthright, though, if I refrained from saying that throughout the very controversial and often confrontational issue, the commitment of Maine sportsmen to defending and protecting their hunting heritage and the integrity of DIF&W’s bear-management program stood out like a pine among poplars. In a word, their tenacity and steadfastness were incredible. Thus, the message sent to HSUS and other anti-hunting organizations was clear: When sportsmen join ranks and march in one direction, their political efficiency is formidable.

With that said, I’ll gratefully get back to the business of writing about hunting and fishing and the outdoors in general, which makes a lot more sense and rests much easier on my mind.

I’ll begin by saying that duck hunters and other outdoors addicts whose activities require rummaging around in the dark know that things like stumps, holes, fences, rocks, trails, even markers placed as guides, have annoying habits of moving at night. This phenomenon occurs even more frequently and confusingly, of course, when the hours between dusk and dawn are woolly with fog. That was the case recently when my son, Jeff, his burly chocolate Lab, Kody, and I departed on a “blind date.”

At 5 a.m. the fog was thicker than smoke from a smudge. After driving at a snail’s pace along unlit rural roads, we stopped where a trail turned into the woods. “That’s not it,” said Jeff. “We’ve got a ways to go yet … I don’t think we went by it.” Eventually, we found the trail leading to the marsh, which, of course, was completely obliterated by the fog. “Good thing I came out here and marked the place where we go ashore,” I said. “It’s hard enough finding it in the dark, let alone this soup.”

With the double-ender boat loaded with bags of decoys, guns, pack baskets, portable blind, and an excited retriever, we shoved off. I operated the oars while Jeff manned the spotlight. As well as I know that marsh – having hunted there since the 1950s – following its narrow, winding channel in darkness is a challenge, let alone in smothering fog. For all intents and purposes the spotlight was useless. Its beam was, of course, reflected by the fog, but worse yet, each time Jeff turned the light on, its blinding glare struck me smack in the face. And so it went: “Shut that thing off!”

“I’m trying to see where we are.”

“I know where we are. I’ve been hunting here since before you were born.”

“Then how come we’re not in the channel?” Laurel and Hardy would have loved it. Eventually, though, after running aground on mounds of mud and getting the oars tangled in aquatic gardens of pickerel weed, moss, and spatterdock, the sprawling stand of cattails that was our destination loomed out of the fog. But could we find the strip of surveyor’s tape that I had hung there to mark our landing site? No way.

“Shine your light to the left, it’s got to be right here. Back to the right, slow … I don’t believe this. Where in hell is it?”

“I don’t know, but I know it’s starting to get light and we better get ashore somewhere and get set up.”

There’s nothing worse than a know-it-all kid, even when he’s a grown man. Directly we rigged the decoys, slogged ashore, set up the blind, and hid the boat.

Owing to the temperature change attendant to the arrival of dawn, the fog thickened. Thus, we were caught off guard when a flock of ringnecks, their wings ripping the air with the sound of a train rushing through a tunnel, roared over the decoys. We were ready, though, when minutes later a pair of wood ducks came scaling out of the swirling vapor. It has always amazed me how waterfowl can navigate in fog that grounds aircraft. Both ducks tumbled as the reports of our shots rolled across the marsh and into the surrounding hills, where the echo that lived there shouted them back again.

While Kody fetched the duck floating feet up, Jeff uncovered the boat and went to dispatch the other “woodie,” which was diving and swimming. Afterward, he rested the oars and called, “Hey, there’s that strip of tape.” It was concealed in a small cut about 20 yards to the left of where I stood. Things move in the dark.

My oldest offspring proved that again when we returned to the marsh a week or so later. While wallowing ashore in the predawn darkness, he stepped into a hole that had moved from where it usually lurked and went over the tops of his hip boots. Duck hunter that he is, though, Jeff’s spirits weren’t dampened in the least. After dumping the water out of his boots he pulled them back on and warmed to the waterfowler’s game of hurry up and wait.

Speaking of dumping: On a recent duck hunting trip to the Penobscot River’s gunning grounds, Jeff and I pulled onto a trail that petered out atop a steep bank overlooking the river. When the beam of my flashlight shone on trash dumped over the bank, I told Jeff to snap a leash on Kody. Rather than pay a dump fee, someone had backed in there and pushed a washing machine, rusted metal cooler, bed spring and mattress, a section of culvert pipe, and trash glittering with broken glass off the tailgate of a truck. Just what’s needed to slice open a dog’s foot in the wee hours, or any other time for that matter.

It’s deplorably obvious that the trashing of the outdoors has become epidemic. The Penobscot Salmon Club property overlooking the Bangor Salmon Pool is a prime example of it. Seldom do I stop by there without picking up Styrofoam food and drink containers left by people who have discovered that the property is a convenient and pleasant place to have lunch. Why they can’t take their trash with them and dispose of it appropriately instead of throwing it on the ground is beyond me. Small wonder roads are being chained off and land is being posted.

Here I’m reminded that the Citizens for Fair Bear Hunting, the group that put the bear referendum on the ballot, proclaimed that guides were trashing the woods with bear baits. To that I say take a look around. You’ll see more trash strewn along highways, roads, and trails than you’ll ever see left in the woods by bear guides. My longtime friend and hunting partner, Galen Ruhlin, who has guided bear hunters for 30 years, is a case in point. He picks up so much trash while traveling to and from his bait sites that he describes his truck as a Solid Waste Transfer Station.

From what I’ve seen and heard regarding bird hunting, it’s safe to say that sports shops haven’t been swamped with sales of shotgun shells loaded with No. 8s. Accordingly, throughout October my English pointer Bud and I plowed through covers thick with foliage and thin with birds. Early on I shot a few woodcock, but later on I wished I hadn’t. Overall, the grand little game birds turned out to be fewer and farther apart, as were partridges, at least in the covers I hunted. The consensus is that production in the wild poultry factory was poor last spring because of the cold, wet nesting season.

At any rate, bird hunting hereabouts is a far cry from what it was back when handy to opening day I’d buy a dozen boxes of Peters “true blues” 16-gauge No. 9s and use practically all of them. Admittedly, the season was longer then, the daily limit on woodcock was five, there were plenty of productive covers within a 20-mile radius of my house – and I was younger. Nevertheless, this year I bought two boxes of 20-gauge bird loads and I’ve yet to break open the second box. It ain’t what it used to be, that’s for sure, and it never will be again. The continuous loss of habitat ensures that.

Now that October’s infernos of foliage have burned down to November’s ashy grays, bird hunters and duck hunters are exchanging brush-brown shooting vests and camouflage parkas for jackets and hats bright with blaze orange. The first shots of deer season, the sport most symbolic of hunting in Maine, have been fired. A grand tradition, deer hunting. Challenging, exciting and infectious. So much so that in the next few weeks hunters from near and far will follow dawn-smudgy trails leading to clearings, crossings, and fields gauzy with ground fog and dented with tracks driven down to the dew claws.

It’s safe to say, however, that the most anticipated and enjoyable feature of the season at hand is the camaraderie known to hunters who for years, in many cases decades, have toted guns and grub to back-of-beyond deer camps. Suffice it to say, the bonds of family and friendship that are forged in those one-room retreats saturated with the smells of wood smoke and Hoppe’s No. 9 are unbreakable. Moreover, deer camps are educational and inspirational. Accordingly, hunters who have yet to shave follow the tracks of men they admire and respect, and hunters whose beards are gray bound from their bunks like boys when the camp awakens to a tracking snow.

A grand time of year, autumn and hunting season. Especially this fall, now that the bear referendum has been defeated and the hunting heritage symbolic of Maine is still intact. However, allowing that there are people who are not at all pleased with the outcome of Question 2, it’s a sure bet that sportsmen will be forced to join ranks again to fight what will become a ballot-box war of attrition. With that in mind, the Sportsman’s Alliance of Maine and the Maine Fish and Wildlife Conservation Council are aiming at establishing a constitutional amendment to remove the referendum process from deciding matters of wildlife management.

Granted, in some cases citizen initiatives makes sense, but it makes no sense whatsoever to place wildlife management decisions in the hands of voters who know nothing about such matters. John Adams saw the handwriting on the wall back in 1793 when, in referring to the referendum process, he predicted: “Mankind will in time discover that unbridled majorities are as tyrannical and cruel as unlimited despots.”

By all means, hunt safely, ethically, responsibly – and with respect for the landowner and his property.

Tom Hennessey’s columns and artwork can be accessed on the BDN Internet page at www.bangornews.com. Tom’s e-mail address is: thennessey@bangordailynews.net