A Murder of Crows

“Did you know there is a bounty on crows?” Clay mentioned offhand as he tied a small Deadly Dick to the end of his line.

I looked up from under the brim of my cap, “Really?”, my mind already spinning with the thought of easy lucre.

You see, as idyllic as our life was in Oyster Bay, money was always in short supply; money for Cokes, or chips, or even the odd pack of Export A if they forgot to ask you for ID at the store. Our usual source of revenue was walking the ditch along Iron River in search of pop bottles, each grubby find worth 10 Mojo’s or a good start on the small bag of Old Dutch Salt and Vinegar chips. On a good day we might score a half dozen or even a dozen bottles in the mile and a half between my place and the store.

But the thought of a bird bounty, now that was taking finances to a whole new level! Imagine a box of 200 pellets was about 3 bucks in those days, why that would be at least 100 crows, at maybe $5 a pop!
Clay nodded, “Larry told me a while back when he was down from Sayward.” – Larry being Clay’s almost mythical older brother who appeared with wife and children in tow for a short visit every so often before zooming off to Vancouver or wherever.

I pondered for a bit, wiggling my toes off the edge of the raft into the cold water. Deep in thought I probably had already spent my share of the booty; a new banana seat for my bike, maybe a better ball mitt or even a transistor radio I could listen to CKLG on at the beach. It was tempting.

Now it is probably a good time right here to mention that I am not a hunter, firmly believing that the only way you could call it a sport would be to teach the moose how to shoot back. I do like to fish, but that is a game of strategy, often returning home at the end of the day with an empty bait bucket and nary a fish to show for it. I don’t like moose calls or fish finder sonar and frankly I know far too many people with 4X4 boony basher monsters that have never set foot outside the city! On the other hand, having lived in the North, shooting a moose or setting up a fish weir to feed your family is an entirely different thing.
For a week we scouted out our hunting ground, scanning deep into the dense Douglas Firs that lined the west side of the highway, comparing what trees the crows congregated in in the morning and where they went for morning breakfast. Along the shore we watched the high tides closely, did the crows eat dead crabs or dogfish? It was a well organized plan of attack.

Finally the day of the big hunt arrived. Clay had polished his .22 pellet rifle to a high gloss and my Slavia .177 was cleaned, oiled and ready. Snacks were packed, along with the obligatory ball caps and bug repellant.
Over a quick breakfast of Honeycomb I looked at Clay, “I wonder how much the bounty is on crows?”.

Between mouthfuls Clay shrugged, “Mmurphcall em.”

“Who?” I countered.

“Fish and game,” came back in a spray of milk, “they’re offering the bounty.”
While Clay tucked into the third bowl of a quick breakfast I padded into the back hall and called the local fish and game authority.

“Good morning, Fish and Game.” said a bright voice at the other end of the phone.

“Hi, how much is the bounty on crows?” I asked, trying to sound as adult and mature as possible.

“Bounty?” came back a slow reply. “There is no bounty on crows. That was last year. This year they are protected and it is a $50 fine for shooting them!”.

“Ohhh, that’s good to know!” I replied softly, “Thanks for the information!”, and hung up quickly.

“Hey Clay, want to go fishing instead?”