“What I don’t understand is the mentality of these poachers,” said Henry. “Do they think these ducks grow on trees and there’s no end to them? Look at what happened to the passenger pigeon. At one time, it was the most abundant bird species on Earth. There were billions of them, and those commercial hunters completely wiped ’em out. Sorry, but I get emotional when I think about it.”
“No apology necessary, Hank. That’s why I became a game warden. Have you thought about taking the warden’s exam?”
“It’s interesting that you ask that. When I was eleven, I talked to a warden down in Temecula, and he asked me the same question.”
“Oh, who was that?”
“Ned McCullough. Do you know him?”
“Ned and I went through the academy together. I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Warden McCullough even gave me some study material. I plan on taking the exam next fall, when I turn twenty-one.”
“How long before you graduate from Chico State?”
“Two more semesters after this one and I should have my degree in biology.”
Coming to a stop in front of Mrs. Iverson’s boarding house, Austin handed Henry his business card. “Here’s my number. Call me if you ever want to go on a ride-along.”
“That would be fantastic. I would jump at the chance to ride on patrol with you.”
“I tell you what,” said Austin. “Next Wednesday, I’m supposed to go up and work the Blairsden area while the district warden is off. It’s gonna be a long day, but you’re welcome to come along.”
“Count me in,” said Henry. “Where’s Blairsden?”
“It’s up off Highway 70, east of Quincy. We’ll patrol up the Feather River Canyon. You’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven when you see the river.”
Henry had no idea where Quincy or the Feather River Canyon were located, but he intended to look them up on the map rather than reveal his ignorance to Warden Austin. “I can’t wait! What time will you pick me up?”
“Five o’clock.”
“I’ll be waiting out here in front,” said Henry.
SIXTEEN
Henry’s alarm clock went off at 4:30, giving him just enough time to shave and brush his teeth before Tom Austin arrived at 5:00. Having notified his supervisor at the Craig Hall Cafeteria that he wouldn’t be at work that Wednesday in early May 1968, his conscience was clear. Henry figured an all-day ride-along with a California Fish and Game warden more than justified his skipping classes for the first time since he’d been a student at Chico State.
Driving south from Chico on Highway 99 with Henry in tow, Warden Austin turned east on Highway 70, passing the town of Oroville and reaching the Feather River Canyon as the sun peeked over the mountain.
“This is incredible!” said Henry, looking down at the river below. “Do they catch a lot of fish in the Feather River?”
“That’s a sad story,” said Austin. “The river you see down there was once a premier salmon- and steelhead-spawning stream. That changed when they built all those dams.”
“You can’t stop ’em from building dams, but you can play an important role in the protection of our fish and wildlife,” said Henry. “That’s the great thing about being a Fish and Game warden.”
“Where did that come from, Hank? Sounds like you’re still trying to make up your mind.”
“I’ve pretty much made up my mind, Tom. This is what I wanna do.”
“Smart man,” said Austin, smiling. “When we get to Quincy, I’ll buy you breakfast.”
A mile or so past the tiny outpost of Merlin, Austin pointed out the mouth of Rock Creek. “The water flowing over those granite boulders is so clear, you can see the trout swimming around, ten feet under water.”
“I’d like to check that out sometime,” said Henry.
“I’m surprised you haven’t been up here already. Rock Creek has always been a favorite swimming spot for the college students.”
“Until recently, I haven’t done much of anything except study and work at the dining hall. A couple months ago, a friend and I spent the day at the wildlife refuge over in Willows.”
“Was this one of the guys I met the other day at Bidwell Park?”
“No, it was actually a young lady from my ornithology class.”
“Oh . . . a girlfriend?”
“I’d sure like her to be my girlfriend, but so far we’re just friends.”
“What’s her name?”
“Anne Sharp. She and her family live here in Chico. By the way, where do you live, Tom?”
“We have a couple acres out north of town, off Cohasset.”
“How long have you lived there?”
“I spent most of my career in Greenville, before transferring to Chico in 1963. We bought the place a month or so after I transferred.”
“Chico is such a great town. Why’d you wait so long to transfer?”
“You’ll learn the answer to that question when you become a warden yourself. The best warden’s districts are hard to come by. Some of these old-timers put down roots and never leave. The warden whose place I took occupied the Chico patrol district for thirty years.”
“Don’t these wardens want to promote?”
“Would you if you could spend the rest of your career getting paid to patrol beautiful places like this?”
“I’m beginning to understand,” said Henry.
“Unless you’ve got an influential uncle in Sacramento, you’ll probably begin your Fish and Game career in one of three places: LA, the Bay Area, or down in the desert somewhere. Nothing wrong with that. Those are great places to learn the ropes.”
“It all sounds great to me. I don’t care if they send me to Blythe. I’ve read there’s lots of fish and wildlife down along the Colorado River.”
“Sounds like you’ve been doing your homework,” said Austin. “Here’s one of those hydropower dams I was telling you about.”
Continuing southeast on Highway 70, Austin and Glance passed the intersection with Highway 89. Ten miles up Highway 89 was the picturesque mountain village of Greenville, where Tom Austin and his family had lived for many years. During the Greenville years, Austin had frequently patrolled the Portola warden’s district when Clyde Mathers was on vacation. On one occasion, Austin had worked with State Park Ranger Ron Travers on a bear-poaching investigation inside Plumas-Eureka State Park. Since then, Austin and Travers had remained good friends.
“Here’s what I have in mind for today,” said Austin, continuing east from Quincy after a hearty breakfast. “Clyde Mathers called me last night and said there’s a bunch of outlaws out of Oroville camped in the little Forest Service campground east of Long Lake. Clyde’s gonna be out of commission for a couple weeks with a bad back, so he asked me to go up and check on these guys. I’d like to stop and see a friend of mine on the way.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Henry.
Arriving at Plumas-Eureka State Park headquarters, Austin introduced Henry to his friend Ranger Ron Travers. A competitive weightlifter, thirty-six-year-old Travers was decked out in his Class A state-park-ranger uniform and Smokey the Bear hat.
“What’s the occasion?” said Austin.
“Some bigwigs from Sacramento are supposed to come up today,” said Travers. “Jack wants everyone to look sharp.”
“Do you have time to explain a little bit about the park to my young friend here? He’s a junior down at Chico State and plans to become a Fish and Game warden or a park ranger when he graduates.”
Travers explained to Henry that in addition to the park’s many natural features, including Jamison Creek, it offered a look back into California’s mining history.
Henry focused on the natural beauty that had been preserved in the park, rather than the environmentally destructive gold-mining period. “What a wonderful place to work
and spend the summer,” he said.
“What are you studying?” said Travers.
“I’m a third-year biology major.”
“I graduated from Chico State,” said Travers. “Four of the best years of my life.”
“I hear that from a lot of people,” said Henry.
“As a matter of fact, we just signed up two young ladies from Chico State to work in the visitor center this summer.”
“I envy those girls,” said Henry. “I guess I’ll be bagging groceries in Temecula again.”
“We hire three other seasonals to help our maintenance crew during the summer months. Two of ’em live here in the area, and the third one just informed me that he isn’t coming back. If you’re interested in the job, I’d encourage you to fill out an application while you’re here.”
“I’ll say I’m interested! My only concern would be finding a place to stay. I have to save every penny I can to pay tuition and living expenses at school.”
“Follow me, and I’ll show you our accommodations for seasonals who don’t live in the area.” Henry and Tom followed Travers down a path south of the visitor center to two modest, cedar-framed cabins. “The one on the right sleeps two. This is where our two female seasonals will stay. The other cabin is pretty small, as you can see, but it does have a loft where one person can throw a cot and a sleeping bag.”
“This is luxurious compared to my room at school,” said Henry.
“Make sure you leave your phone number on the application,” said Travers. “I’ll call you in a week or so and let you know if you got the job. Jack, our head ranger, will have to make the final decision. He’s down in Sacramento this week.”
“All I have is a pay phone in the hallway,” said Henry. “If I’m not there, one of the other guys will take a message. I’ll also leave my parents’ home phone number in Temecula.”
“We usually send out an official notice,” said Travers. “The starting date this year is the first Monday in June.”
It was approaching 10:00 a.m. when Austin and Glance reached the community of Graeagle and climbed the steep mountain road toward Gold Lake. Halfway up the mountainside, Austin turned off the pavement and headed east on a narrow dirt road fraught with sharp rocks and fallen tree branches.
“When we come to a point where the road drops down into the campground, we’re gonna stop before we reach the overlook,” said Austin.
“Is trout fishing good in Long Lake?”
“Clyde doesn’t think the outlaws out of Oroville are fishing in Long Lake.”
“Where are they fishing?”
“It’s a well-kept secret, but there’s a one-mile hiking trail from the Long Lake Campground past the east shore of Long Lake to Silver Lake. Every year, about this time, trout congregate at the mouth of a stream that runs between Long Lake and Silver Lake. Clyde’s informant said these guys from Oroville have been hiking up there early each morning and returning to camp about noon, with stringers of fish.”
“How many trout can they have?”
“That reminds me,” said Austin, turning off the ignition and reaching into the back seat. “I brought you my old copy of the California Fish and Game Code.”
“Are you sure you want to give me this?”
“I’m sure. They just sent me a new edition this week.”
“Thank you so much,” said Henry, thumbing through the book.
“You’re welcome. As you read it, you’ll learn how the system works. California’s fish and game laws are passed by the state legislature and published in the Fish and Game Code. The legislature authorizes the Fish and Game Commission to set regulations based on those laws. Regulations set by the commission are published in Title 14 of the California Administrative Code; they typically deal with things like hunting and fishing seasons, bag and possession limits, methods of take—things like that. To answer your question, the bag and possession limit for trout here in the Sierras is ten fish per person.”
“I can’t wait to read this,” said Henry.
“It’s a real page-turner,” said Austin, laughing. “Once you start reading it, you won’t be able to put it down. Before we get to the campground, I’m gonna teach you two important rules that every successful game warden must follow.”
“What are they?” said Henry.
“Rule number one: When you exit a vehicle, do it quietly and never, I mean never, slam the door behind you. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had investigations blown by some thoughtless jackass who climbed out of the car and slammed the door. Rule number two: Whisper. Always whisper when you’re involved in a situation like the one we’re about to tackle. That’s especially important up here in the mountains where our voices carry. I’ve been sitting on one side of a lake and clearly heard conversations over a quarter mile away. It’s hard enough to catch some of these hard-core violators without announcing our arrival.”
“Those are lessons I’ll never forget,” said Henry.
“Good. Here’s an extra pair of binoculars.”
As Clyde’s informant had described, the primitive Long Lake Campground was occupied by one large camp. It contained two camp trailers with pickups attached and one light-blue Chevy pickup with a full-sized camper mounted in the bed. The vehicles and trailers had been arranged in a circular fashion, with the Forest Service table and fire pit in the center. “Looks like there’s six of ’em,” whispered Austin, from a hidden vantage point on the hill above.
“How do you know?” said Henry.
“Count the lawn chairs around the campfire. From the looks of all the beer cans, these guys enjoyed themselves last night. I see a couple tackle boxes, an empty worm box, and what looks like a package of marshmallows on the table.”
“Do ya think they roasted marshmallows last night?”
Austin laughed. “My guess is they’re using the marshmallows to keep their worms up off the bottom. It’s an old bait fisherman’s trick. Speaking of bait fishermen, I hear voices.”
Six middle-aged men appeared on the trail beyond the campground. All six were carrying fishing gear. “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” whispered Austin, gesturing for Henry to follow him back toward the patrol car. “You’re gonna stay right here on this hill and watch every move these guys make for the next hour. I’m gonna drive down the hill and into camp to make a routine contact. If I don’t find anything wrong, I’ll climb back in my car, head up the hill, and let them see me drive away. When I’m out of earshot, I’ll tuck the car back in the trees and wait.”
“Then what?” said Henry.
“If my hunch is correct, these gentlemen will have a couple ice chests stashed outside of camp somewhere. It’s your job to watch and find out where.”
With Henry back in position, Warden Austin drove into the suspects’ camp as the six fishermen approached. “How you fellas doin’?” said Austin, flashing a friendly smile. “Looks like you had some luck.”
“We did,” said a heavyset man carrying a fishing rod in one hand and a stringer of rainbow trout in the other.
“That’s a beauty on the end of your stringer,” said Austin. “Where you guys from?”
A bearded man carrying a fishing rod and a heavily laden canvas creel answered, “I’m from Palermo, Pete lives in Richvale, and the rest of these hooligans live in Oroville.”
“Jimmy doesn’t live in Oroville anymore,” said Pete, chuckling. “Ever since his wife threw him out, he’s been livin’ in that silver trailer over there. It’s usually parked out behind my barn, plugged into a fifty-foot extension cord.”
“Before you fellas settle in for the rest of the day, I’d like to take a look at all your fish and your fishing licenses,” said Austin.
“No problem,” said a tall, slim gentleman wearing a green fishing vest. “We figured that’s what you were here for.”
As Henry watched from abov
e, Austin carefully counted sixty freshly gutted rainbow trout, all of them inside creels or hanging from stringers, and checked six valid California fishing licenses. “I see that all of you limited out today. Are there any other fish in camp?”
“No,” said Pete. “You’re welcome to check our ice boxes, but all you’re gonna find is beer, some steaks, a couple cartons of eggs, and two pounds of baloney.”
“Okay,” said Austin, “I’ll take a quick peek and get out of your hair. You fellas are probably hungry.”
Escorted by members of the group, Warden Austin examined every ice chest and ice box in camp. When finished, he asked if there were any other fish that he hadn’t checked. Some in the group shook their heads, while others replied with a firm “No.” Austin thanked the men for their cooperation and disappeared over the horizon in a cloud of powdery, red dust.
“Anyone ready for a sandwich?” came a voice in the crowd.
“Where’s that bag of chips?” came another.
Henry’s own stomach grumbled as he trained his binoculars on the picnic table where everyone sat for the next hour, drinking beer and eating baloney sandwiches. Finally, the taller man who’d been wearing the green vest stepped from the table and disappeared inside one of the trailers. Seconds later, he reappeared, carrying a large, clear plastic bag. He reached inside his creel, pulled out ten trout, and dropped them into the plastic bag. As he was leaving camp, he was called back by one of the other fishermen. Laying his plastic bag full of trout on the table, the taller fisherman walked back inside his trailer and came out with another plastic bag. The second fisherman took the bag and began filling it with fish from his stringer. When he’d finished, he handed his bag of fish to the taller man. The taller angler carried both plastic bags down a narrow path toward a swampy area overgrown with high grass and stunted willows.
Henry watched as the taller gentleman returned to camp without the fish he’d been carrying. During the next half hour, each of the four remaining fishermen carried plastic bags of trout down the same marshy path and returned empty-handed.
The Case of the Missing Game Warden Page 12
