Police encounters of another kind

How a fisherman was stopped by police, twice, in the space of 10 miles and 15 minutes

Like a lot of hunters and anglers and wildlife photographers I spend a fair amount of time driving around rural parts of the state. Sometimes I’m scouting, sometimes I’m just enjoying seeing parts of the state I haven’t seen before, sometimes it’s a combination worked into a circuitous route back home.

I usually have a small cooler and a bedroll in my truck, along with the laptop and a hotspot. If I need to stop and work or stop and sleep. I do. Wherever. Whenever. That’s just how I work.

I have rules for driving through small towns. I grew up in one and have a lot of respect for folks who keep them going. I am mindful of my status as a guest. I mind the speed limits through small towns and if it’s a choice for a meal, coffee or a fill-up at the nearest city or the corner store, I’m at the corner store every time.

While I’m out there I represent myself, first and foremost, but my fishing rods and shotguns and Labrador and camouflage or blaze orange tell folks I’m a hunter and an angler as well. I’m carrying around more than one reputation.

In the wee hours Thursday morning, traveling U.S. Highway 75 north from the Blue River to my home in Bixby, I experienced two things I’ve not experienced in a small town since I was in high school.

I got pulled over by city police—twice.

The first was in Wetumka and the second was, literally, 10 miles later, in the town of Weleetka.

The officer in Wetumka had me fair and square. I knew the speed limit dropped from 45 mph to 35 to 25 headed into town. I saw the buildings of the main drag ahead and knew it was 25 mph there, but apparently I didn’t see that first “Speed Limit 25” sign and passed it going 36 mph, according to the radar.

As the officer approached I had my window down, engine off, license, registration and insurance in my hands, and both placed atop the steering wheel. I greeted the officer with “good morning” and asked how I might be of service this fine 4 a.m. hour of the day.

He told me about the speed limit and probably sensed my genuine disappointment at having missed the sign. I was a little surprised I’d missed it, but since he had me pulled over I might have guessed speeding as the possible reason.

Then he informed me my tags were expired too. Now, that was a surprise!

I still had my registration in my hand, read the expiration date with his flashlight trained on it and cussed like I was standing in front of my mother—lots of “dang-its” and maybe a “well crap!” or an “I’ll be damned!”—I don’t remember exactly.

I really could not believe I had somehow missed the renewal notices. To boot, the registration on my wife’s car had expired on the very same day and we had renewed hers but not mine.

The officer took my information and, I assume, checked out some background while I sat there, kicked myself and estimated what my tab might be to the City of Wetumpka.

But he let me go with a verbal warning, told me to be careful and get those tags updated right away. I was very appreciative of that leniency and told him I’d get that remedied immediately.

There was no way to get it fixed fast enough for my next police encounter, however. That came just about 15 minutes later when red and blue flashing lights hit my back window for a second time.

I knew damned well I wasn’t speeding this time, so this was a real head-scratcher and he caught me a little unprepared as he approached. I had the window down but forgot to turn off my engine and hadn’t found my danged wallet in the dark yet.

“Sir, do you know the tag lights are out on your vehicle?” he asked.

“My tail light? Wait, my what?” I answered.

“No sir the tag lights, the ones that light your license plate,” he explained.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “No,” I said. “But the officer that stopped just stopped me in Wetumpka informed me that my tags are expired.”

He laughed a little and said he hadn’t noticed that yet.

“I suppose that’s what those lights are supposed to help you see, eh?” I chuckled.

I had to further apologize to the officer because I couldn’t remember where I’d put my wallet after I took it out for the previous stop.

“If it’s OK with you I need to turn off my car like I’m supposed to here and use my dome light and look around for my wallet,” I said. “I have no firearms with me today but I don’t want you to worry about me reaching around. All I’m carrying are cameras and fishin’ poles.”

He took a few steps back, said he appreciated that information and to please go ahead and take my hand off the steering wheel to find my wallet. I found the wallet tucked into a spot in the dash, removed the license, put my hands back atop the steering wheel and told him we were good to go and he approached.

He too let me go with a warning to get those lights repaired and a written warning to get that registration updated. He told me to be safe and have a nice day and I wished him the same.

I thought a fair amount about those men on the drive home and the service they provide. Making stops on a U.S. highway on the outskirts of a small town in rural America at 4:30 a.m. is not always a pleasant experience, I’m sure.

There’s a reason they’re stopping folks for license plate illumination and going 35 in a 25 on the outside edges of these towns. Their relaxed demeanor and speedy dismissal of my presence once they had me figured out probably means it’s not to worry about guys like me.

I’m glad my stops were easy for them and that we parted with mutual wishes to be good out there and to be safe.

They each got a little chuckle from my absent mindedness and early morning humor and I walked away with a story to tell about the time the fisherman was pulled over twice by police from different towns in the space of 10 miles and 15 minutes.