Surely you’ve heard it said: “You can never find a cop when you want one.” Likewise, if you sign your name to hunting, fishing, and trapping licenses, it’s a sure bet that you’ve heard the same said of the game wardens who patrol Maine’s 33,000 square miles of woods and waters. That’s a lot of territory for only 94 wardens – the number currently on the force – to cover considering their 40-hour work week restriction and the many assignments that take them away from their primary purpose of enforcing fish and game laws. Nevertheless, the “woods cops” often are cursed for showing up when they’re not wanted. The problem, of course, is that game wardens, like all law-enforcement officers, put people’s names in newspapers – but not in the society sections.

For that reason disparagements such as: The best place to find a warden is in the town diner … Game wardens are afraid of the dark … They’d get lost going to the outhouse, continue ad nauseam. The men and women wearing the forest green uniforms, however, simply grin and bear it and go quietly about their business, as game wardens hereabouts have since 1880. So it is that, come March 11, the Maine Warden Service, the nation’s oldest conservation law-enforcement agency, will celebrate its 125th anniversary. The event will be held at Orono’s Black Bear Inn, located handy to where the trail marked I-95 cuts Stillwater Avenue.

Celebrants will include active and retired wardens, Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife Commissioner Roland “Danny” Martin, Deputy Commissioner Paul Jacques, department staff, spouses, and invited guests. Ceremonies including posting of the colors, honoring wardens who lost their lives in the line of duty, recognition of Legendary Wardens, Wardens of the Year, and presentations of annual awards will be held in the afternoon. Evening activities begin with a cash bar followed by dinner, a guest speaker, music, and dancing. Additionally, a raft of donated door prizes and raffle items that can all be described as “keepers” will be drawn. Among them, a handmade cedar-planked canoe, framed limited-edition print, hunting trips, firearms, and fishing tackle.

In light of the budget cuts that hit DIF&W and the Maine Warden Service with both barrels, and considering the controversial proposals to increase department revenues, it should be mentioned that the expenses of the 125th anniversary celebration are paid primarily out-of-pocket by the members of the Maine Warden Service Association. The costs of dinner and room reservations are the responsibilities of those attending.

Having received an invitation to participate in the celebration, I’ll begin by passing along a few thoughts and personal experiences regarding game wardens. First off, men and women don’t become game wardens to make a lot of money. Obviously, they’re not climbing the corporate ladder of a company with offices in several major cities. To the contrary, a game warden’s office is a pickup truck, his private parking space a woods road, and his bonuses and profit sharing amount to citations or perhaps a Merit Award for putting the arm on poachers. Clearly, the wardens who check your license or leave a note on your camp or ice shack are dedicated to upholding the standards for which the Maine Warden Service has long been respected and emulated by its peers, nationwide.

The way I see it, game wardens are ridiculed and criticized as much as outdoors writers and weather forecasters. Maybe more. Accordingly, it has been common practice in Maine’s rural communities to paint the local poacher as some kind of Robin Hood character and regard the game warden as the bad guy. Looking back – way back – I can recall stories I heard about the late Dave Mercier, who was the game warden in the South Brewer-Orrington area I tramped around in with a 16-gauge single-shot in one hand and a steel telescope fishing rod in the other. Every time Dave issued a summons to someone for jacking a deer or fishing or trapping without a license, whatever, the tongue-wagging in Foster’s Sport Shop, Cap Morrill’s, Southworth’s Spa, and Clem Verow’s store, which was the forerunner of Sam’s and Wal-Mart, began with, “Mercier would arrest his mother,” and went downhill from there.

On the other hand, though, respect for the warden was evident in comments such as, “Mercier will go into the woods after you, day or night.” Suffice it to say, Dave Mercier is listed among Maine’s Legendary Wardens. Let’s face it, when a warden steps behind his badge, he subjects himself to a lot of damned-if-you-do, damned-if- you-don’t situations.

Personally, I’ve never had a problem with a game warden. Truth be told, though, if not for the judgment calls of a few wardens, I’d have been written up several times. One such occasion involved the aforementioned Dave Mercier: On a sun-drenched late-winter morning, I was rabbit hunting near Swett’s Pond in Orrington. Owing to the spongy snow and ideal scent conditions, the hounds were running steady, off track, and with their heads up. Several times, though, the high-geared hare crossed the trail connecting the Swett’s Pond Road and the King’s Mountain Road without me getting a glimpse of it.

Handy to noon I returned to my station wagon to have a sandwich and a cup of tea from the Thermos. To keep my shotgun within quick reach I laid it on the hood of the wagon. Shortly afterward, along came Dave Mercier. Stepping out of his car, he said he had received a report that dogs were running deer out by Swett’s Pond. Seeing that all was well, and after batting the breeze for a few minutes, the warden turned to leave. But in doing so he paused, nodded toward my shotgun and asked, “Is that loaded?”

On answering that it was I thought I’d stepped into it for sure when he said, “That’s illegal. You can’t have a loaded gun on a vehicle or even leaning against it.” I said I knew it was illegal to have a loaded gun in a vehicle but didn’t know it was against the law to set one on it. A few seconds later I breathed easier when Dave Mercier, the game warden who would arrest his mother, turned and walked away saying, “Well you do now. See you later.”

Then there was the evening at Chemo Pond, when the late Carroll Soucie and I were netting shiners to supply Foster’s Sport Shop with live bait. Somewhere, Carroll had scared up a large piece of herring seine, which we had strung across the mouth of Sibley Brook. With Carroll tending the net, I moved a few yards upstream and thrashed the water with an alder branch, driving the fish toward the net. “Soose” would then draw the ropes attached to each lower corner, forming a bag that came to the surface shimmering with silver shiners, which were dumped into water-filled milk cans.

We weren’t there long before Mose Jackson showed up. Looking into the milk cans the now-deceased Legendary Warden said, “You boys must be going on quite a fishing trip.” When informed that we were catching bait for Foster Ellis, Mose nodded and then stuck around for a few minutes, passing the time of day, as they say. On leaving, though, he suggested that we check the regulations on netting bait. I don’t remember exactly what the problem was -size of the net, perhaps, or that we had the mouth of the brook closed off – but obviously Mose judged that a verbal warning would suffice. Thus, long before I became an outdoors writer, I learned there were two sides to every story, especially those told about game wardens.

As for wardens being afraid of the dark, don’t count on it. I’ve been on night patrols with wardens when they dispelled that disparagement by collaring poachers who had shot at a decoy deer. And if you think yelling, “game wardens,” and charging through darkness toward men holding rifles doesn’t take what’s referred to as “the right stuff,” think again. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen it written down that wardens can’t take a coffee break or have lunch in a diner or rural convenience store. Actually, the gabfests common to such establishments provide wardens with important tips and information. For the uninitiated, a game warden can eavesdrop on several conversations while engaged in one.

That’s not to say, however, that game wardens are paragons of propriety in dealing with sportsmen and the public in general. You may recall that during the 1990s the aggressiveness of a few young wardens striving to prove themselves put the warden service squarely in the sights of public scrutiny, not to mention sportsmen with axes to grind. As the BDN’s outdoors writer at the time, I attended the meetings held in Augusta to address the problem. Believe me, the discussions were interesting and enlightening. But thanks to the experience, insights, and advice of older wardens, the problem attitudes were adjusted.

Considering the anti-hunting, anti-trapping, and even anti-fishing initiatives that are creating unprecedented social and political issues for Maine sportsmen and the DIF&W, not to mention the department’s budgetary problems, I have to say that I’m worried about the future of the Maine Warden Service. Not that I expect the agency to fold its tent and head downriver. What bothers me is that the day may come, as it has in many other states, when the shoulder patches worn by Maine game wardens will be replaced by emblems identifying them as Conservation Control officers or Environmental Enhancement agents. Personally, I can’t imagine a more ignominious ending for the highly regarded law-enforcement agency that has patrolled Maine’s woods and waters for the past 125 years.

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; Web site address is: www.tomhennessey.com.