I've only had one game warden ask me for my license and he was the most impressive game warden imaginable. I was fishing a lake in northern Ontario, miles down a fresh cut logging road. To reach the lake, you had to run four sets of rapids on four miles of river. Who would ever think a game warden would do that, much less a 70-something game warden, as lean and chewy as beef jerky. And he did chew me, chastising me for a dead walleye in my live well made of rocks forming a corral in the river.
"I'll eat it," I said, telling the truth.
"No, you won't," he said.
"Okay, I'll toss it in the woods," I said.
"No, you won't," he said.
"Okay, I'll toss it in the river," I said.
"No, you won't."
"Well, if I can't eat it and I can't toss it in the woods and I can't toss it in the river, what do I do?"
"That's up to you to figure out!"
Yeah, that two-legged beef jerky chewed me up and spat me out. No ticket though.