They pulled into my check station while I was busy with other hunters. And waited patiently as I finished.

Five adults crowded in an extended cab pickup, pulling a large horse trailer. Full of ATVs and camping gear. And one cooler with the meat from one deer.

I know where they've been hunting, and know the hunting was hard. Our folks in that country have been actively warning people about the poor condition of their deer herd. After a severe winter followed by three years of drought that are statistically worse than the Dust Bowl era of the 1930s.

I tell them that I already had a party of six hunters from the same area that are going home skunked. The lone successful hunter feels a little better about his small buck as I hold the small antlers in my hand. The meat quartered and on ice in the cooler.

I hate to ask the next question, since I think I already know the answer.

Did you keep evidence of sex?

They are genuinely surprised by the question. They have kin near where they hunted, and kept the carcass intact until back at his house, when they prepped it for the long drive back to their prairie state.

And their relative kept the scrotum. The eldest man tries to discretely tell how he makes a taxidermy knick-knack out of them.

Discretely, as there is a lady present, the matriarch of the clan, 80 years old if she's a day. But vigorous, looking like Minnie Pearl without the accoutrements. And with a gravely voice and twang that reminds me so strongly of my own prairie aunts.

So, we technically have a violation. One I have been encountering several times a day (literally) since so many took notice of chronic wasting disease, and want to come home with only deboned meat and antlers.

And most of the others got by my station with just a verbal warning, so long as they have some proof of the sex of their prey, and I decide to do the same here.

Then they mention the successful hunter. That he is a highway patrolman in their home state.

His face falls with shame at his kin's indiscretion.

So I give them all the 50-dollar lecture about reading the regulations on any hunt, but especially when hunting out-of-state. And turn to the patrolman.

You especially should know that.

You can tell he would prefer to get a ticket right now, just to end the humiliation. To chastise him, as he is chastising himself.

An old warden told me about people like this. Folks that really truly feel shame for what they have done, and want the punishment to clear their conscience. Who suffer more if they don't get the ticket.

I eased his conscience a little by letting him know how common his mistake has been this year. And how others have gotten the same break as he.

It isn't anything special.

And sent them down the road.

One of the wardens stopped by in the afternoon, and got waylaid by a neighbor who saw him here. So they stayed and visited for a couple hours.

A man in a little silver car came into my pullout from the south, from town, and then parked. Staying in his car, parked at an angle to us, as far away as he could get in the pullout.

And stayed.

And stayed.

Three hours later, at sunset, he was still there, reading his paperback book. (I have binoculars, you know.)

I had asked the warden, before he left, why would anyone drive out of town to read a book?

"Maybe it's something he can't read at home," was the response.

The reader left, back to town, just as it got too dark to read. Just as I decided to shut down for the day.

Weird.