Confessions of a bass poaching daddy

"Why?" you say.

"Because I take my 3-year-old daughter fishing."

"No, no," you say. "That's not bad at all. It's a good thing to have that kind of bonding time between father and daughter."

"But," I say, "the place where I take her fishing is private property."

"Oh," you say.

"Yes," I say. "The place is owned by some tri-staters who never ever even come up here to visit."

"Well," you say, "that still doesn't make it right."

"I know, I know," I say. "But it's the best little pond ever, and it's just loaded with big bass."

"Oh," you say. "I see."

"I mean 'Loaded.' I've pulled many fat fish out of there. Nothing to shake a stick at."

"My, my. That is a big fish. But," you say, "you're teaching your daughter a terrible lesson about other people's property."

"But," I say, "I am also teaching her how to catch lunker bass."

"That's true," you say.

"And, I'm also teaching her about cleaning up the environment, too. For instance when we go fishing, we pick up all the trash that's been left there by other fishermen. Styrofoam worm containers, hooks, line, wrapper, fish guts. That's good, isn't it?"

"True. But keep in mind that you're trespassing, and essentially poaching."

"Poaching? But we catch

"I don't care. How would you like it if someone went into your yard every weekend for some kind of outdoor recreation like hunting or fishing. They could be varmint hunters, out for a beltfull of squirrel. How would you like that?"

"Well, not very much. Never did care much for squirrels. But ..."

"But nothing. What if those tri-staters came home when you were there casting about? What if the game warden or the state police came out there? How would you explain that to your daughter?"

"Yes, but ..."

"How do you think she'd feel if you got into a big wrestling match pondside with a platoon of Fish and Wildlife guys and the state police, got Tasered and had to wear the ol' silver bracelets on your way to jail? How would you feel if your daughter got carted off by the Department of Children and Families and put into foster care as the abandoned child of a bass poacher?"

"Now hold on a minute ..."

"No, you hold on a minute. What about your wife? You told her that you could take care of the kid? You call cuffed and stuffed for trespassing, poaching, assault on an assistant game warden and resisting arrest 'taking care of the kid'? What kind of scum are you?"

"All right, buddy," I say. "I've heard about enough out of you." Baddabing, hey, ho, smack, crash.

You see, dear readership, as my imaginary dialogue shows you, I am a bad father. I somehow can turn something as wholesome as a daddy-daughter day of fishing into a felony. I deserve nothing less than the worst.

I know that I should take responsibility for my actions. But, I won't.

Instead, I'll blame Vermont. Not the state, but the culture.

Here's why: When I moved here eight years ago, I went to the North Bennington Post Office and saw somebody in his bathrobe and his slippers, nonchalantly getting his mail. Soon after, a local friend of mine explained: "In Vermont, you do what you want."

It took years for me to comprehend. (When I looked down at myself one day while at the Post Office a few years ago, and saw that I was wearing my pajamas and moccasins, I think I finally got it.)

We're a Republic of poachers and scofflaws, all woodland jihadists to the bone. Just the other night I saw some guy in camouflage shining a flashlight into the woods, looking for the deer he had just jacked. I'm not sure if he ran it over or shot it, but he was searching for blood spoor nonetheless (on private property, too).

It's the Vermont spirit, the soul of Ethan Allen and the Green Mountain Boys. We're a bunch of savages, bloody savages.

However, for all of our foibles, our kids know how to catch lunker bass. Boo-yah!

Noah Hoffenberg is the secretly felonious editor of the Banner. Also, this column is entirely fictional and cannot be used against him in a court of law (unless you have video of me in the act, don't even try to prosecute). E-mail to nhoffenberg@benningtonbanner.com.