OPINION: In the woods, zombies can be the least of your problems

Those wacky folks at the Missouri Department of Conservation are catching some flak these days. It seems the department issued an “invasive species alert.” For zombies.

I have had issues with the conservation department over the years. Number one, it’s too hard on catfish noodlers, those intrepid souls who, armed with nothing but their bare hands and coolers full of beer, dive into the state’s rivers to pull out giant catfish.

I personally believe that catfish noodling should be Missouri’s Official State Water Sport, but anti-noodling forces say it disrupts the spawning season. For the catfish, not the noodlers.

Also: The conservation department is soft on bears. In 1958, the geniuses in Arkansas imported some black bears and turned them loose. They started reproducing like crazy, no doubt encouraged by Bill Clinton’s election as governor, and now they’re leaking into Missouri. They’ve been spotted in St. Charles and Jefferson counties, making them a far bigger threat than zombies.

Except for noodling and bears, the conservation department is probably the best-run state agency in Missouri. Since 1976, it has had its own dedicated 1/8th-cent sales tax, which brings in $103 million a year. Unlike the rest of state government, the bait-and-bullet people don’t have to worry about legislators who think that starving the government of revenue is the path to prosperity.

So if the conservation department wants to issue an alert about zombies for Halloween, it doesn’t have to worry about retaliation from some chuckle-headed legislator. It doesn’t have to worry about humor-impaired people on Facebook. One of them responded, “Is this a joke?” Another wrote, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought conservation was about preserving our natural resources (land, animals, fish, etc.) not pretending to be in some morbid fantasy land.”

Besides, how often is state government in Missouri funny? On purpose, I mean.

“The zombie invasion is like the feral hog problem in parts of Missouri, and its management is similar,” the post on the Fresh Afield blog reads. “We do not encourage organized zombie hunts since that may encourage the intentional release of zombie swarms. It can also disrupt wildlife and hunting opportunities for the more than 500,000 living Missourians who enjoy hunting.”

The warning goes on to suggest that hunters “avoid cauliflower fields. Since cauliflowers appear brain-like, they often lure zombies.”

Also, if you’re hunting ducks or geese, “consider wearing a shark suit or other body armor over your waders to prevent zombie bites from breaking through both your waders and your skin.”

Some people aren’t going to get it. You write a piece like this, it almost has to have a “CAUTION: SATIRE” headline on it, which ruins the joke.

Some people will hear second-hand about a zombie warning and believe it. They will lock themselves in their homes, watching Fox News and waiting to hear Sean Hannity blame the zombie invasion on President Obama.

There is absolutely no chance you’re going to meet a zombie in Missouri this fall. Which is something you can’t say about bears.

Besides, the conservation department is using the zombie hook for a program it’s putting on at the Busch Conservation Area in St. Charles County next Friday night. “Survival Skills 101: Zombies!” will teach the skills necessary for anyone who finds himself lost in the woods at night.

It can happen.

Some 20 years ago, I found myself living in a house adjacent to the conservation department’s Rockwoods Range, 1,440 acres of woods and trails. One late afternoon, one of my kids and his friend took off on horseback onto one of the trails. It began getting dark and they hadn’t returned.

So off I went, on foot, to find them. My woodlore is limited, but being no fool, I took with me a flashlight and extra batteries, plus a Labrador retriever. No compass, of course, and this was the pre-cell phone era. Darkness descended. I took several wrong turns. The flashlight flickered out so I unscrewed it to change the batteries.

“Sproing!” went the flashlight as it came apart. The bulb flew off into the dense leaves underfoot. Now I was lost. In the dark. With a useless flashlight and a useless, but happy, dog.

I would learn later that the horses were smarter than the dog and me combined. They had easily found their way home with the kids. Me, I stumbled up and down ravines for hours. My wife reported me lost.

Finally I heard traffic on Interstate 44, so I headed toward the sound, tripping every 20 feet. I emerged four miles from home, about a mile from a gas station. I took off my belt to leash the dog, walked to the gas station with my pants falling down and called home. This never happens to Mark Trail.

So here’s my advice: If you find yourself lost in the woods at night, don’t sweat the zombies. Your biggest problem is yourself. Also, take a leash with you.

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