Karen Proudly Called Wildlife Officers on My Fishing — Her Face Dropped When They Shook My Hand
Chapter 4
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I pulled every sign down with a pry bar and stacked them in my truck bed. Then I drove to the Ridgewater Commons clubhouse.Brenda was in the main room, sitting at a long table with four board members and a stack of folders. She saw me walk in carrying one of her signs and didn't flinch."Mr. Mercer, this is a private HOA meeting.""And this is my fence post." I set the sign on the table. "You sent workers onto my property to bolt signs claiming authority over my lake. That's trespassing, and the signs are fraudulent. You have no jurisdiction over my water."She smiled. The board members looked at their folders."The lake is a shared natural resource, Mr. Mercer. Our environmental consultant confirmed it falls under riparian community access provisions. We're simply posting notice.""You don't have an environmental consultant. You have a bylaw you invented. And riparian community access provisions don't exist in Tennessee property law. I checked."Her smile didn't move. "We'll let the county sort that out."I left the sign on the table and walked out. Behind me, I heard Brenda say to the board, "He's bluffing. He's just an old fisherman with a temper."But the signs were just the opening move. Within two weeks, Brenda had launched the campaign:She stood up at the monthly HOA meeting and told sixty-two households that I was commercially overfishing a community waterway, that I was depleting native fish populations, and that my fishing operation posed an ecological threat to the entire watershed.She created a Ridgewater Commons Facebook group and posted photos of my dock taken from the ridge above with a telephoto lens, with captions like:One man hoarding nature and Is this what Tennessee stewardship looks like?She organized a petition—forty-seven signatures demanding the county investigate illegal fishing activity on Blackwater Lake. She hand-delivered it to the county commissioner's office with a cover letter on gold-embossed letterhead.The commissioner's office called me three days later: a young staffer named Jason, polite and clearly embarrassed. "Mr. Mercer, we received a petition regarding fishing on your property. We're required to log it, but I should tell you we pulled your deed, and the lake is clearly private. There's no regulatory issue.""I know," I said. "But I appreciate the call, Jason.""Sir, if you don't mind me asking, are you the same Dale Mercer who ran the brook trout program on the Little Pigeon?""That's me."He paused. "My daughter did a school report on that program last year. She wants to be a wildlife biologist."I smiled for the first time in weeks. "Tell her to call the Gatlinburg field office when she's old enough. They'll take care of her."I hung up and looked out the window at the lake. The bishops were standing in the shallows, still as fence posts, watching the water for movement. Connie would have laughed at this whole mess. She would have said,"Dale, just let the woman tire herself out."