Karen Proudly Called Wildlife Officers on My Fishing — Her Face Dropped When They Shook My Hand
Chapter 16
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"Mr. Mercer, I want to start by apologizing. What Brenda did was wrong. The entire board failed to supervise her, and we're all responsible for that.""I appreciate that, Susan.""I also want you to know we've terminated the Green Edge contract. We've hired a licensed environmental engineer to complete the stormwater system, and we've switched to organic landscaping products.""That's a good start."She paused. "Mr. Mercer, some of our residents, especially the families with children, have asked about lake access. Not as a demand—as a request. Is there any arrangement that might work for you?"I thought about it. I thought about Connie, who loved kids more than anything. I thought about Jason from the commissioner's office, whose daughter wanted to be a wildlife biologist. I thought about the fact that good neighbors aren't born; they're built one honest conversation at a time."Susan, let me think on it. Come back next Saturday."She did. And I had an answer:I granted Ridgewater Commons a limited recreational easement—not a right, but a revocable license for supervised catch-and-release fishing on designated weekends during the summer. Families only. Children under sixteen had to be accompanied by an adult. No motorized boats, no alcohol, no chemical bait, and every participant had to attend a thirty-minute conservation orientation that I designed and taught personally.The first session was in June: fourteen kids and nine parents showed up at the dock.I taught them how to read the water: where the bass hold in the morning shade, where the trout rise at dusk, how the herons hunt by standing still and letting the fish come to them. I showed them the brook trout, the same strain I'd spent eight years restoring in the Little Pigeon watershed, and explained why cold, clean water matters.A girl named Sophie, nine years old, gap-toothed, wearing a volunteer's cap three sizes too big, caught a fourteen-inch rainbow on her second cast. She screamed so loud the bishops scattered from the sycamore. Then she held the fish up, looked at me, and said, "Can we put him back so someone else can catch him?"I looked at Connie's dock. I looked at the bishops resettling on the far bank. I looked at the clear water and the clean gravel and the trout shadows moving in the shallows like dark arrows."Yes, Sophie. We can do that."Kyle Neely called me that evening. "Captain, the TWRA annual awards dinner is next month in Nashville. The director asked if you'd present the conservation stewardship award.""Who's receiving it?""You are, sir."I sat on the dock for a long time after that call. The sun was setting behind the ridge, turning the lake copper and gold. One of the bishops, the tall one Connie always said looked like a deacon, stood in the shallows on the north shore—still as a statue, patient as stone."We're okay, sweetheart," I said. "The lake's okay."The water held the light for one more minute. Then the stars came out.