The next morning, Henry showed up early for his ornithology lecture in hopes of catching Anne alone and asking for an explanation. It was about ten minutes before class time when Henry heard laughter in the hall. Through the open doorway, he spotted Anne talking to a towering, dark-haired student wearing a red-and-white Chico State letterman’s jacket. Fearful that Anne would see him watching, Henry looked away. I’ve seen that guy before, thought Henry, taking another quick peek.
The subject of Henry’s consternation was none other than Len Sharp, better known to Chico State basketball fans as “The Sharpshooter.” Thoroughly disillusioned, Henry again looked away. It figures that a beautiful girl like Anne would have a big-time jock like Len Sharp for a boyfriend. What in the world was I thinking?
Entering the classroom, Anne and her best friend, Sara Nichols, took seats in the front row. As the instructor was about to begin, Anne turned and scanned the room behind her. Spotting Henry in the middle of the back row, she made eye contact, smiled, and directed her attention to the front.
When the lecture was over, Henry picked up his books and, with his head down, traversed the narrow aisle to the door. “Were you going to leave without talking to me?” came a female voice.
“I didn’t think—”
“I saw you watching my cousin and me.”
“Your cousin? I—”
“I’m Anne Sharp. I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”
“I’m Hank Glance,” said Henry, squeezing her warm hand as if it were a baby robin that had fallen out of the nest.
“Anne, are we still going to the baseball game this afternoon?” said Sara, walking out the classroom door and finding herself engulfed in a stampede of students on their way to the next class.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” shouted Anne. “I’ll meet you at three, like we planned.”
“Do you like baseball?” said Henry, as Anne returned her attention to him.
“I do. We have a new catcher who hit the farthest home run I’ve ever seen, last week against Humboldt State.”
“I heard about that,” said Henry. He didn’t let on that Chico State’s new catcher was his longtime friend and roommate Larry Jansen. Larry had begun the baseball season playing second string, but after throwing out two base runners and hitting a towering home run against Humboldt State, the permanent position behind home plate had become his for the taking. “Anne, were you going to explain how you knew I had applied for a job in the dining hall?”
“I’d love to, Hank. Is that your real name?”
“My real name is Henry, but everyone except my mother calls me Hank.”
“Would you mind if I call you Henry?”
“Not at all. You can call me anything you want.”
“Henry, I only have ten minutes to get to my next class, so we’ll have to talk another time.”
“No problem. I better head for Craig Hall, anyway.”
“That’s right!” said Anne, smiling as she walked out the door. “You don’t want to be late on your first day at work. Good luck, Henry.”
“How’d ya do?” said Henry, as Larry entered their room on a Friday evening after his home game with San Francisco State.
“We lost again in the last inning. Our starter ran out of gas in the eighth, and we don’t have a closer who can come in and shut ’em down. Tommy Glazer threw San Francisco’s number-four hitter a big roundhouse curve, and he hit a two-run dinger to win the game.”
“How did you do?”
“I just told you.”
“No, I mean how did Larry Jansen do?”
“Oh, I hit a line-drive double off the fence and walked twice. You normally don’t wanna know about the games. What’s up?”
“I know you have a doubleheader tomorrow, but would you mind playing catch with me on Sunday?”
“No problem. Do you mind if I ask what prompted this?”
“I don’t know,” said Henry, not wanting to divulge the real reason for his change of heart. “Maybe it’s the spring-like weather.”
Larry arrived back at the room about 5:00 Saturday evening, after the day’s doubleheader with San Francisco State. Tossing his catcher’s mitt on the bed, he said, “I’ll be right back.” When Larry returned, Henry was still seated at his desk, agonizing over a quantitative-analysis problem.
“Hey, buddy, we need to talk,” said Larry, flopping on the bed and placing his hands behind his head. Henry didn’t answer. “Hank! Did you hear what I said?”
“Just a minute, Larry. I’m trying to figure out this last problem.”
“Sorry.”
“Okay, tell me all about it,” said Henry, turning around in his chair. “How’d the games go?”
“We split the doubleheader, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Walking back to the locker room after the second game, I caught up with Coach Hall and asked him about the possibility of your coming out for the team. He remembered what I’d told him earlier about your being a great left-handed pitcher and getting hurt.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He said at this late date, the only way you could make the team is as a pitcher. He’s already got two first basemen and plenty of outfielders, but the team could use a good left-handed relief pitcher. His exact words were, ‘If your friend can pitch half as well as you say he could before he got hurt, I’ll find a spot for him on the team. If not, tell him not to waste his time or mine by coming out.’”
Deep in thought, Henry sat on the edge of his wooden chair. Now what do I do? I started all this by asking Larry to play catch with me. Without normal flexibility in my wrist, I may not be able to pitch at all. A week ago, I had finally made peace with myself about not playing baseball. Now I’m just as tormented as ever.
The northern Sacramento Valley was socked in with a system of low clouds when Henry and Larry walked across the street to the school playground that Sunday morning in mid-February 1968. Henry wore sweatpants and a gray sweatshirt with the words RIVERSIDE CITY COLLEGE BASEBALL stenciled across the front.
“I was wondering if you brought your glove along,” said Larry, tossing a baseball in Henry’s direction.
“Yeah, I think I threw it in my suitcase out of habit. I’ve had this old rag for so long, there’s not an ounce of padding left in it. Where’d you get this new ball?”
“That’s the one I hit out of the park last week. A pretty girl retrieved it and gave it to me after the game.”
“Oh, wha’d she look like?”
“About five-seven, long brown hair, beautiful smile.”
“By any chance, was she wearing a light blue sweater?”
“Yes! How’d you know?”
“A little bird must have told me. How ’bout we move back to sixty feet and see how it goes?”
After fifteen or twenty minutes of playing catch to warm up, Henry decided it was time to test his wrist.
“How’s it feel?” said Larry, from the catcher’s squat position.
“So far, so good,” said Henry. “I’ll see if I can put a little more heat on the ball.” Throwing three-quarter speed, Henry’s arm became fatigued and his wrist began to ache.
“Hank, you look like you’re hurting,” said Larry. “Maybe we should stop.”
“Let me try a curve.”
“Go ahead, but with your wrist the way it is, you’re probably not gonna be able to put much spin on the ball.”
Larry was right. Henry’s attempts to throw a curve were met with little success and excruciating pain.
“We’re studying pitching and arm movement in my kinesiology class,” said Larry. “See how I can bend my wrist backwards almost ninety degrees? The backwards motion in your wrist is zero.”
“You’re right, Larry, but I had to try.”
“What’s that?” said Henry, tossing Larry the ball.
“First, either forget about this girl you’re trying so hard to impress, or ask her out.”
“How’d you know about that?”
“You must be kidding! I’ve known you for twelve years and haven’t seen that look on your face since you had the crush on Connie Chase in the fifth grade.”
“I didn’t know it was that obvious.”
“Second, you love nature, and you’ve wanted to be a game warden ever since we caught those guys shooting the goose. Isn’t that why you majored in biology? Once and for all, man, forget about being a baseball player and follow your real dream.”
By late February, temperatures had begun to rise, and with them, Henry’s spirit. Intermittent rainstorms had turned the bone-dry fields around Chico into landscapes of emerald green. Bright-yellow tidy tips and purple lupines blanketed the hillsides, and all the almond orchards were adorned with magnificent pink-and-white blossoms.
While Henry labored through quantitative analysis and organic chemistry, he embraced ornithology, mammalogy, and ichthyology with the same energy he’d once devoted to baseball. Every field trip into the lands and waters of Butte and Glenn counties was a new adventure for the young man from Temecula. No longer plagued by obsessive thoughts of what might have been, Henry’s path was now clear. He would become a California Fish and Game warden and devote his future to the protection of wildlife.
FOURTEEN
Not long after Henry’s and Larry’s heart-to-heart talk on the Chestnut Street playground, Henry took Larry’s advice and conjured up the courage to ask Anne out. He wasn’t excited about the movie currently playing at the El Rey Theater, so Henry asked Anne if she’d like to take a drive in the country.
“I’ve heard that the Sacramento National Wildlife Refuge has lots of waterfowl this time of year,” said Henry. “Would you like to check it out Saturday morning? If you don’t have other plans, maybe we could make a day of it and have dinner afterwards.”
“That sounds like fun,” said Anne, not letting on that she’d grown up in Chico and visited the refuge many times with her mother. Anne and June Sharp were avid bird-watchers and proud members of the Altacal Audubon Society.
“Great!” said Henry, relieved and surprised by Anne’s quick response. “I’ll bring my binoculars.”
It was 6:55 a.m. when Henry pulled up in front of a 1920s-era, two-story Dutch Colonial house across the road from Bidwell Park. Peering through the windshield, he marveled at the wooden stairway leading to a covered porch that extended the entire length of the house. At the east end of the porch hung an old-fashioned loveseat, next to two Adirondack chairs. An eye-popping pink dogwood partially obscured Henry’s view of the west side of the porch. “I see a light on,” Henry mumbled to himself. “Better wait ’til seven before I knock.”
Henry climbed out of his VW Beetle and headed up the narrow cement walkway toward the front porch. He had just reached the first step when Anne opened the front door. “Good morning, Henry,” she said, holding a coat in one hand and a wicker basket in the other. “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”
“I just got here,” said Henry, his heart skipping a beat. “What a beautiful house. May I carry that basket for you?”
“Thank you. I thought I would bring along a couple sandwiches and something to drink.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s no problem at all. Maybe we’ll have a picnic at the refuge.”
“I would really enjoy that,” said Henry, opening the passenger door.
“Why thank you, kind sir.”
Henry walked around to the driver’s side of the car and was about to open his door when he looked up and saw two young ladies dressed in bathrobes, staring at him through the house’s picture window. Smiling, he raised his right arm above the roof and waved. The younger of the two giggled and smiled back; the older one shyly turned and walked away.
“How old are your sisters?” said Henry, pulling away from the curb and heading in the direction of 8th Street.
“Joanie is fifteen, and Monica’s eleven. How did you know I had sisters?”
“I saw them watching from the window.”
“Did they wave to you?”
“Monica did.”
“That figures. Joanie’s at that age, if you know what I mean. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No, it’s just my parents and me. My dad works for the County of Riverside, and my mom’s a housewife most of the time. She occasionally acts as a Spanish interpreter for Riverside County Courts. How ’bout your parents?”
“My father’s a supervisor with the local power company, and my mother teaches kindergarten. I love watching my mother teach her class. Those kids can be so funny. At the end of every school day, she puts on music and the kids start dancing. It’s hilarious. My mother is also very much into nature. She and I have gone on bird walks with the local Audubon group since I was little. If you think I know my birds, you should see her.”
For the next several hours, Henry and Anne learned each other’s life stories while traveling through some of the most fascinating country Henry had ever seen. Taking Dayton Road south from Chico, Henry followed Ord Ferry Road to 7 Mile Road before turning south again and traveling through mile after mile of flooded rice fields.
“This is incredible!” said Henry, enthralled by sightings of waterfowl, shorebirds, and various raptors.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, Henry.” Anne had seen it all before but found her own love of nature energized by Henry’s enthusiasm.
“I’ll say!” said Henry, pulling over and training his binoculars on a large, light-colored bird perched at the top of a bare willow tree. “This is a new one for me, Anne. Can you tell what it is?”
Anne had brought along her own binoculars and easily identified Henry’s mysterious bird as a female ferruginous hawk. “She just took off and spooked that flock of shorebirds,” said Anne. “Isn’t she something?”
No longer watching the hawk, Henry had become mesmerized by the wholesome, natural beauty of Anne’s face. “She sure is,” he replied.
Having arrived at the Sacramento National Wildlife Refuge, Henry and Anne were at the midway point on the auto-tour route when Anne suggested they stop and have a bite to eat. With windows rolled down, they reveled at the sights and sounds of passing waterfowl while talking away much of the afternoon.
“What do you plan to do when you graduate?” said Henry.
“I’ll probably teach, like my mother.”
“What subject?”
“Science, I guess. I’m majoring in biology, but right now I’m finishing up my general education classes.”
“Do you plan on teaching here in Chico?”
“That would be nice, but I wouldn’t mind seeing what the rest of California has to offer.” Anne handed Henry an apple. “Let’s talk about you, Henry. What are your career goals?”
“I’ve been seriously thinking about wildlife law enforcement.”
“You mean like a game warden?”
“Yes, either a state wildlife officer or a federal agent. I’ve done a lot of research, and a state game warden I met several years ago has given me several books on the subject.”
“Really?”
“You sound surprised, Anne. What did you think I’d be interested in?”
“You look like an athlete. I figured you for a future coach or something like that.”
“Larry, my roommate, is planning to be a coach. He’s the guy who hit that towering home run you were talking about a few weeks ago.”
“He’s your roommate?”
“Yeah, we’ve been best friends since the second grade.”
> “Are you a baseball player too?”
“Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a long story,” said Henry, starting the motor. “Right now, I’m enjoying myself too much to spoil it by talking about that subject. I promise to tell you the whole story some other time. Whaddaya say we see what’s around this next bend?”
“There should be a peregrine in that row of cottonwoods up ahead.”
“Oh, and how would you know that?”
“Uh . . .”
“Never mind,” said Henry, laughing. “I already guessed that you’d been here before. How could you and your mom belong to the Audubon Society for all those years and not know about this place?”
It was approaching 4:00 when Henry and Anne headed back across the valley. When they had traveled about twenty miles, Henry began talking about the rapid rate of land development back home in Riverside County. “It used to be mostly farmland and open space south of Riverside,” said Henry. “Then developers bought up half the countryside and began building houses and shopping centers. My parents are worried it will spread as far as Temecula.”
“Chico has grown too,” said Anne.
“Who’s this Blake Gastineau? We’ve seen ten Gastineau Land Company signs since leaving Chico this morning.”
“It’s interesting that you would ask that,” said Anne. “Blake Gastineau has been a concern of the conservation group my mother and I belong to for some time now. Ralph Gastineau, Blake’s father, owned several thousand acres of mostly farmland between Chico and Gridley. Before he passed away, Ralph protected much of that land from development by placing it under a recently passed law called the Williamson Act.”
“What’s the Williamson Act?”
“People call it the Williamson Act, but it’s really the California Land Conservation Act. The basic idea is to preserve open space and agricultural land by giving landowners a tax break. As I understand it, the landowner signs a ten-year contract to voluntarily restrict his land use and not develop the land.”
The Case of the Missing Game Warden Page 10
