Windknot
06-29-99, 04:02 PM
My best friend introduced me to mountain trout fishing in the early '70's. His favorite area was Dicks Creek, just below its confluence with Waters Creek. Before my first trip there, he carefully explained something about what I was going to see regarding the DNR Ranger who lived there, Roosevelt Keyes.
He said that six or seven years before, while he was still going to Tech, his trout fishing practice was to catch 5 or 6, put them on a stringer, then keep only injured or badly hooked fish until he got tired or reached the limit of eight. He swore that he did not go over the limit, nor would he condone being around anyone who would poach. Ranger Keyes observed my buddy's rod bend many times, and clearly saw him bend over or squat down many times, but he must not have been able to see him release the excess fish. My buddy never knew where the ranger's vantage-point was, and he was never questioned on the stream.
In those days it was "check-in/check-out" in that area, and the "check-out" phase was the ranger's designated search time. He wanted cleaned, iced fish for the prosecution, not just semi-live fish on a stringer.
In those days my buddy drove a Nash Metropolitan. He said Ranger Keyes could remove the seats, door panels, hubcaps and air filter faster than the assembly-line workers who built it. The ranger never was ugly with my buddy, nor did he accuse him of poaching, but he was gonna have a look-see at anything my buddy touched. Tents and sleeping bags were unrolled, coolers examined, clothing bags and waders checked. Eventually, Ranger Keyes reached some type of truce and he stopped disassembling cars and going armpit-deep in coolers.
Six to seven years later, after the Marine Corps and a stint in New York, my buddy was back at Dicks Creek with me in tow. He told me that if Ranger Keyes was still in residence, we would be standing inspection just as soon as he was recognized. I thought he was exaggerating, but then he said, "Well, here comes the truck" while stepping out in clear view of the road.
Yes, I was surprised when I heard the sound of locked-up tires sliding on gravel! The next thing I know, a professional-looking ranger with a very commanding presence is walking into camp. He politely checked coolers and containers without a saying word. I was in position to watch his face as he walked into the camp, and it was kinda strange. He did not smile, exactly, but he looked at my buddy with an expression that said "Yeah, bud, I remember you!"
For years after that, as soon as Ranger Keyes learned what my buddy's new car or new camper looked like, we could count on a DNR truck sliding to a stop for an inspection at least once that weekend. He was always polite, never ugly or threatening, and gradually spoke to us more over the years. But he never missed an opportunity to creel-check my buddy (neither rain, nor sleet, nor dark of night, etc.).
We both had the hair on the back of our necks stand up frequently while we fished. I never knew if it was from being watched by a bear or Ranger Keyes. His retirement left us with mixed emotions, but I wish our sons had been old enough to enjoy the show, too.
Tight lines,
Windknot
He said that six or seven years before, while he was still going to Tech, his trout fishing practice was to catch 5 or 6, put them on a stringer, then keep only injured or badly hooked fish until he got tired or reached the limit of eight. He swore that he did not go over the limit, nor would he condone being around anyone who would poach. Ranger Keyes observed my buddy's rod bend many times, and clearly saw him bend over or squat down many times, but he must not have been able to see him release the excess fish. My buddy never knew where the ranger's vantage-point was, and he was never questioned on the stream.
In those days it was "check-in/check-out" in that area, and the "check-out" phase was the ranger's designated search time. He wanted cleaned, iced fish for the prosecution, not just semi-live fish on a stringer.
In those days my buddy drove a Nash Metropolitan. He said Ranger Keyes could remove the seats, door panels, hubcaps and air filter faster than the assembly-line workers who built it. The ranger never was ugly with my buddy, nor did he accuse him of poaching, but he was gonna have a look-see at anything my buddy touched. Tents and sleeping bags were unrolled, coolers examined, clothing bags and waders checked. Eventually, Ranger Keyes reached some type of truce and he stopped disassembling cars and going armpit-deep in coolers.
Six to seven years later, after the Marine Corps and a stint in New York, my buddy was back at Dicks Creek with me in tow. He told me that if Ranger Keyes was still in residence, we would be standing inspection just as soon as he was recognized. I thought he was exaggerating, but then he said, "Well, here comes the truck" while stepping out in clear view of the road.
Yes, I was surprised when I heard the sound of locked-up tires sliding on gravel! The next thing I know, a professional-looking ranger with a very commanding presence is walking into camp. He politely checked coolers and containers without a saying word. I was in position to watch his face as he walked into the camp, and it was kinda strange. He did not smile, exactly, but he looked at my buddy with an expression that said "Yeah, bud, I remember you!"
For years after that, as soon as Ranger Keyes learned what my buddy's new car or new camper looked like, we could count on a DNR truck sliding to a stop for an inspection at least once that weekend. He was always polite, never ugly or threatening, and gradually spoke to us more over the years. But he never missed an opportunity to creel-check my buddy (neither rain, nor sleet, nor dark of night, etc.).
We both had the hair on the back of our necks stand up frequently while we fished. I never knew if it was from being watched by a bear or Ranger Keyes. His retirement left us with mixed emotions, but I wish our sons had been old enough to enjoy the show, too.
Tight lines,
Windknot