Steve Ferguson was born to be a game warden. His father was a game warden, his uncle still is. When he was in the sixth grade, Ferguson wrote a school paper on what he wanted to be when he grew up. Guess what he picked.
Ten years later, his ambition was realized when he completed eight weeks of game warden training following 16 weeks at the Police Academy. “We have so much more equipment and so many unusual situations we end up in, so we need extra training,” Ferguson says.
 He’s got game: With his Glock by his side, game warden Steve Ferguson tours the countryside for pot-smokin’ picnickers and amorous motorists. |
Now, he is one of two conservation police officers (the newly adopted title for game wardens in Virginia) in a district that covers four counties, including Albemarle. Ferguson performs his job in two-week cycles and an average day might be like the Saturday morning we spend together, driving in his Chevy Tahoe across western Albemarle to stop at places like Lake Albemarle and Sugar Hollow.
“This time of year we check mainly fishing licenses and creel limits,” Ferguson says. For instance, you can only catch five bass a day, and six trout. In the winter, hunters are the main target of inspection.
Spontaneity is obviously a main element of a game warden’s life, since he spends much of his time exploring back roads and inlets. “Every day is different,” Ferguson says. “You never have two days that are the same.” We pull down a winding dirt lane by Lake Albemarle and arrive in front of a picnic table. “Last year, I got four people at that table for smoking dope,” he says.
Game wardens are, in fact, licensed police officers. Ferguson has a Glock pistol strapped to his waist and a machine gun in his SUV that he affectionately calls “Charlene” (an homage to Full Metal Jacket).
“A lot of folks come out here to fish, they’re out in the middle of nowhere, and they don’t think anybody else is around,” he says. “They light up a bowl or smoke a joint. Lo and behold, the game warden is standing behind them.”
As such stealth implies, voyeurism is also part of a game warden’s daily existence. On more than one occasion, Ferguson edged over to the side of the road and pulled out his binoculars or a spotting scope to spy on unbeknownst fishers. He has also frequently come across people in the process of having sex.
“I don’t know why people think nobody else is around in the woods,” he says, cackling.
“What do you do in those instances?” I ask, chortling myself.
“I usually just clear my throat real loud so they know somebody’s there and they scramble,” he says. Reassuringly, in such instances, Ferguson checks to make sure both partners are safe and there of their own volition.
“We’re not out to try to write somebody a ticket,” he says. “I don’t get any personal pleasure out of it. It’s my job and I raised my hand and swore to do it.”
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