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The recent rains have released every noxious weed known to man in our manicured lawns. Late season herbicide applications should be on hold until the upcoming fall treatments that will hopefully keep our turfgrass weed-free until February. However, we have had to hit a few trouble spots one more time with the increased pressure before we get the last lick in for winter. This past week, I was checking on a post-treatment for Green Kyllinga to see how we did on it. The nutgrass was turning and the Green Kyllinga wasn’t feeling too sporty after receiving one of our “cocktails.” 

Harvey and Judy Green saw me “wading” around in their backyard, and invited me in for a chat. For a few minutes we talked about grass, rain, weeds, rain, upcoming treatments, and yes….rain. Harvey is a big outdoorsman and soon the conversation began to lean towards putting up peas, pear preserves, and of course, the outdoors. I think this is about the time Mrs. Judy lost interest. It was then when Harvey asked me, “Jeff, did you know Jim Pilgreen?” I replied that I did, and he then told me that Jim had passed away the day before. I immediately thought back to the days when I was around Mr. Jim and the stories that revolved around him. I knew what my next article would be about. 

Jim Pilgreen served with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service for 32 years as Special Agent 279. I knew Jim from two different venues. One was by being checked by him on more than one occasion while duck hunting in the Mississippi Delta, and the other was by being around him at our hunting camp where he often visited as a guest. I thought it was only fitting to share some of the iconic stories that I have been made aware of either through personal accounts, those by fellow hunters, and by Jim, himself. I will keep names out of this article for the sole purpose, as Joe Friday used to say on the series “Dragnet,” “to protect the innocent.” Maybe I should say the “not so innocent.” Either way, some of these stories can be classified as “hearsay” so for you high “falutin” lawyers, use this for entertainment purposes only and enjoy the read.

Legend has it that there was a prominent farmer, landowner, businessman, and who knows what else, who owned some of the best overwintering waterfowl habitat in the south. Additionally, this landowner was obsessed with duck hunting. Stories abound how Jim tried to check and catch the hunters on this piece of property that was fortified and guarded by “employees” stationed on every road leading to the flooded fields and timber where duck guns volleyed and echoed every morning. It was almost impenetrable by the federal warden. Jim was smart though, and figured out an angle. 

Each morning around 2-3 a.m., a freight train made its way through the heart of the delta, and it so happens, these tracks also went through this mecca of waterfowl country. I can’t remember exactly if Jim called the railroad and told them he wanted that train to stop at a certain time and at a certain place or if he flagged the cruising locomotive down during the pre-dawn darkness. Either way, the train stopped, Pilgreen boarded the iron horse with a canoe, and was dropped off at a predetermined location. He then paddled in to await the still sleeping hunters.

From what I have been told, the duck shooting was intense that morning, and the pile of mallards soon filled the blind. Again, I don’t know when Jim made his move, but as stated earlier, “legend” has it that he began paddling towards the unsuspecting hunters wearing a Santa Claus hat while singing all the way to them, “Here Comes Santa Claus.” From what I understand, the judge that heard the case made an example out of the hunters. I bet this made for an interesting conversation at the local café the next morning! You’ve got to give him credit though, for thinking outside the box. Necessity is the mother of invention, I suppose.

Back in my college days, and through the early nineties, mallards would fight each other to land in flooded timber in the delta. I don’t see this like I used to, at least where I hunt, that is. Back in the day though, flooded timber hunting was unprecedented and epic. I remember listening to rising waterfowl just before dawn that sounded like fighter jets taking off from carriers. I’m not making this up either. It was eerie, what a half-million mallards sounded like back in the day. I remember vividly a particular hunt when we had been working on them pretty good for a few days, and the last morning we hunted this hole, we commented that we were probably going to be checked this day. We had been listening to a truck in the distance back and forth on a remote delta road and figured “they” had been listening to our magnums for the past few days. We picked up decoys and had about a half a limit and waded out of the swamp. Sure enough, we saw the vehicle headed for our jeeps and Jim was waiting for us when we walked up. Have you picked up on the fact, that we had no four wheelers, or side-by-sides, back in the day? We walked and waded everywhere we hunted, but back to the story. 

He looked at our stringer of ducks, and checked each of our licenses. He looked at mine and then looked at me. Not to worry, stamps were signed, and license was current, but he asked me, “do you know Robert North?” I said yes sir, and I already knew he knew my dad. We laughed when he asked me if “Pop” still killed turkeys in the city limits of Brandon. You know, we didn’t have our ducks separated and he didn’t even check for plugs in our guns. He just asked if they were plugged. He did let us know that he had been listening to us in there for a few days. I guess he could tell when we quit shooting each morning that we were “behaving.”

I am reminded of another story where a group of “unnamed” hunters were wearing the ducks out one cold, December morning. Pilgreen had been listening to their canon fire all morning when he and another “Fed” made their way in for the kill. These hunters were savvy and were hiding their limits under the water by tying them off to roots of trees. I was told there were empty hulls floating all the way down the brake and when he checked their limits, they were still legal. I bet Jim knew something was up when the duck hunters told him they weren’t shooting very good, and the ducks were picking up with the wind right before they cupped wings for the decoys. Casual conversation lingered for a few minutes until one of the stringers was bumped and the entire stringer floated up. When the hunters were asked about this, I think the only reply they said was “calf-rope.” I do know the impression was lasting, for never again did they overshoot their limit.

This one is hilarious. I was at the camp with a couple of my friends, and it so happened Jim was also at the camp hunting as a guest. We didn’t have any charcoal for the grill, but we did have a campfire burning and the firepot held enough red oak coals to meet our needs for the steaks that were marinating. Our dilemma, however, was how to transfer the smoldering coals to our grill. Remember, to protect the “innocent,” I won’t mention names. One of our members started scrounging around in the bed of Jim’s truck and found a dipper of some sort with a long handle and a screen. Perfect, for transferring coals, or so we thought. Barely had the coals been lifted and carried towards the grill when they burned through the mesh screen. 

Better to hide the evidence, so the apparatus was thrown through the swamp into the darkness. The better part of valor prevailed, so the apparatus was retrieved, and we came clean about what we had done when Jim came back from his evening hunt. He proceeded to inform us that he used that “dipper” to check for baited duck holes. He referred to it as “panning for gold.” He also informed us that he had been using that same dipper for over 20 years. We gave him a 10-dollar bill for his loss, and he pocketed the money and I’m sure repaired his device with new mesh. If that dipper could talk, what tales it could tell. We still laugh about this today.

I remember Jim pausing while in the camp yard and listening to distant gunfire from duck hunters. I’ll never forget him saying one morning, “I know right where that is.” The next morning, he would be on his way in that direction. Jim Pilgreen took his job serious. He was on the side of the game and fish and ultimately, on the side of the sportsman. If you were on the other side, you might not think so, but if we did everything by the book, there was no need for worry. To him, there were the “caught” and the “uncaught.” He always gave a slight grin when he said this and come to think of it, with his mustache and reddish-beard and hair, he did resemble Santa Claus. 

No matter what experience you may have had with him, we do know that he worked hard, took his son Jim Tom hunting, loved his family, and loved the outdoors. I think that says it all. Thank you for your efforts, Mr. Jim, and thank you for the stories that we’ll tell around the campfire for years to come. Rest in Peace! Until next time enjoy our woods and waters and remember, let’s leave it better than we found it.  

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