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Memories of Fish and Wildlife Warden Normand Moreau: From Both Sides of the Law

by Scott Wheeler

Poaching walleye was an illicit rite of passage for many of us who grew up alongside the Clyde River in Newport. Each spring when countless thousands of walleye swam the river up out of Lake Memphremagog to lay their eggs, many young, and not so young, poachers anxiously awaited their arrival. Those were the days when few of us who lived and/or fished there, thought the walleye run would ever run dry. Armed with one of several poaching tools ranging from gaffs, frog spears, treble hooks, and often our bare hands, we caught ourselves many meals of walleye. Some of us, me not being one, fell victim to a man who could appear out of nowhere—Normand Moreau.
Normand Moreau of Irasburg was most likely one, if not the most, wily warden ever to wear the uniform of a Vermont Fish and Wildlife warden. He was able to outsmart some of the best poachers in the business. In his 30-plus years patrolling Orleans County, the now retired warden went from a stranger to these parts, to a living legend to many of its hunters and fishermen. This month’s feature story is about Normand—a man I respect immensely.

Before I go any further, let me say that when I say that I poached walleye, I am not boasting. I’m stating a simple fact. In reality, looking back, I find the general public’s acceptance (including my own), or at least indifference, to poaching on the Clyde during earlier decades, quite amazing. Many of us poached in full view of the general public with little concern of capture or public condemnation. The men and women who poached on the Clyde came from all walks of life. Most were good, hard working people. There were laborers, tradesmen, businessmen, and I even recall a doctor who was quite adept at poaching. A lawman or two were rumored to have a taste for illegally taken walleye. But put it plain and simple, we were wrong. Ironically, though, many of the former poachers are now the strongest advocates of the river—the entire river and all of its fish, not just one species of fish that we choose to raise above the others. No one species of fish is any more important than another. Maybe our dedication to the river is our subconscious way to give back to a river that we took so much from in earlier years. We also saw firsthand what can happen to a river when its mismanagement goes unchecked.

Normand was hired to patrol Orleans County in 1962, three years before I was born. I don’t ever remember not knowing Normand. He arrived each spring in our neighborhood two or three weeks ahead of the big walleye run, posting signs that informed fishermen when the river opened. The fish run and Normand also brought excitement to the neighborhood, at least it was excitement for a kid. We had a chance to watch “Old Norm” prowl toward the river, hunting for a poacher or two. At times he returned through the field with a captured poacher in tow. Other times he returned in hot pursuit of poachers more interested in giving Normand a run for his money.
People can’t be in two places at once, right? Well, if you think that statement’s true, you’ve never matched wits with Normand back in the days when he was a warden. When passing the Black River in Coventry, heading toward Newport, one might see him checking licenses and chatting with fishermen along the riverbanks. A few minutes and several miles later, passing the Clyde River in Newport, there would be “old Norm” checking licenses and chatting with fishermen. How did he do that? Normand was a virtual ghost, able to suddenly appear in one place or another at whim. That was great for the law-abiding sportsmen, but not for those of us who occasionally dabbled on the wrong side of the fish and wildlife laws (in my case, only with the walleye). One never knew when or where he would appear. Along the riverbank Normand could suddenly materialize out of a patch of riverside pucker brush, or apparently transform himself from an old stump into a warden just at the wrong moment, or right moment, depending on which side of the law one was operating on. Many hunters tell stories of being back in the woods where few hunters dare venture, only to have Normand suddenly, and quietly, appear out of nowhere.
Whether you were Normand’s friend or adversary, or, as many people were, both at the same time, most people respected Normand’s ability to outsmart the outlaw. As sly as a fox, Normand was an officer from the old school who believed in doing his job, while at the same time treating the lawbreakers with respect. He wasn’t one of those gung-ho lawmen with the combat style of haircut and out to inflate his own ego—he was just doing his job protecting Vermont’s fish and wildlife. He gained many more friends and caught many more lawbreakers because of this attitude. Many young lawmen could learn much from Normand. Recently I had the opportunity to sit and chat for several hours with Normand and his wife, Shirley. We laughed and joked about the old days. And, yes, I fessed up to all the times that he “almost” caught me when I was up to no good on the banks of the Clyde. But most interesting of all, Normand shared some of his secrets that helped him catch his man—secrets that helped transform him into a living legend, at least to those of us who knew him.
Thanks, Norm, for your service to the state’s fish and wildlife, and thanks for putting a scare into me more than once, scares which set me on a straight path of a law-abiding sportsman and conservationist.

The above article was the kick off for a three part series about Normand Moreau, the infamous warden of Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom. To purchase the three issues contact the Northland Journal.