The Case of the Missing Game Warden

by Steven T. Callan

  “Better wear long pants,” said Henry. “There might be mosquitoes. Don’t forget your fishing license.”

  “Are we going fishing?”

  “I thought we’d take along a rod and reel, just in case the lake looks fishable.”

  “This should be fun,” said Anne.

  Once at the trailhead, Henry reached into the back seat of his VW Beetle and pulled out a backpack, a two-piece fishing rod, and a Mitchell 300 spinning reel. Piecing the rod and reel together, he handed it to Anne and placed the backpack on his back.

  “Is this everything?” said Anne.

  “Not quite,” said Henry, popping open the trunk at the front of his car. Reaching inside, he pulled out a deflated, one-man raft rolled in a tight ball.

  “Are you planning to use that, Henry?”

  “I might. Depends on what we find.”

  “Where’s the paddle?”

  “Don’t have one,” said Henry, laughing. “I just lay the fishing rod in my lap and hang my arms over the side.”

  “Do you have a life jacket?”

  “A life jacket. What’s that?”

  “Henry, I hope you don’t plan on paddling out in the lake without a life jacket.”

  “Why, Anne, I didn’t know you cared.”

  “I care very much,” said Anne, taking Henry’s hand as they began the three-quarter-mile walk to the lake.

  As Henry and Anne strolled side by side, Anne pointed out the incredible wildflower display along the trail: purple asters, penstemon, lupine, and paintbrush. The buckbrush was in bloom, exuding a sickening-sweet aroma the native bees seemed to love.

  “You wouldn’t think there’d be so many beautiful wildflowers at this elevation,” said Henry. “And look at all the butterflies around that puddle up ahead. I see painted ladies, California sisters, checkerspots . . . over there is a tiger swallowtail. Anne, I feel like a kid in a candy store.”

  “How do you know so much about butterflies, Henry?”

  “When I was a kid, I was always playing baseball, exploring the hills near our home, or reading books about animals. My grandmother gave me a butterfly book when I was eight or nine years old. I read it so many times, the cover fell off.”

  “Speaking of your home, I thought you had a summer job lined up in Temecula.”

  “I did, but ever since they built that huge subdivision and shopping center, the mom-and-pop market where I worked has lost business. The owner said he couldn’t afford to hire extra help this summer. I felt sorry for my friends who work there but practically did summersaults when I found out I was gonna be able to come up here and be with you.”

  Anne stopped suddenly, reached up, and gave Henry a soft kiss on the cheek. Blushing from ear to ear and overcome with a sensation he’d never felt before, Henry reached out and gently pulled Anne close. “May I kiss you back?” he said.

  “You’re so sweet, Henry,” said Anne, staring into his eyes.

  Henry wrapped his right arm around the base of Anne’s neck and tenderly kissed her. Not knowing what to say when he released Anne from his embrace, Henry mumbled, “Anne, do you still wanna go fishing?”

  “I think we’d better. We still have a month and a half before school starts and I think it’s best we don’t let on how we feel about each other.”

  Still overcome with emotion, Henry took a deep breath. “Anne, I think you’re right, but it’s not going to be easy for me.”

  “Me either,” said Anne. “I have a confession to make.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The reason Sara didn’t come with us this evening is because I asked her to give us some time alone together.” Arm in arm, Henry and Anne continued down the trail toward the lake.

  “I think this is it,” said Henry. “It looks pretty shallow and overgrown with weeds, but I see a few open spots where we can drop a fly.” From his backpack Henry pulled a small box containing several plastic bubbles and an assortment of well-worn flies his uncle Roscoe had given him years before. “First, we tie this plastic bubble to the end of our line, then we tie three feet of number-four monofilament leader to the other end of the bubble.”

  “Fascinating,” said Anne. “So, which fly are we gonna use?”

  “How about this one?”

  “What’s it supposed to be?”

  “It’s supposed to resemble a mosquito. I’m not so sure about that, but, hopefully, it will fool the trout.”

  When everything was ready, Henry handed Anne the fishing rod and pointed to a circle of open water fifteen yards from shore. Much to Henry’s surprise, Anne hit the target with pinpoint accuracy, bringing a fourteen-inch rainbow to the surface.

  “You’ve got one, Anne. Keep your rod tip up, and don’t let him get away.”

  Anne’s trout finally tired, allowing her to pull the brightly colored fish to shore. Henry grabbed it by the lower jaw and gently removed the hook. “What would you like to do, Anne?”

  “Release him, Henry.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Good for you. This one will live to fight another day. Anne, I’m impressed.”

  “Why, Henry? My dad and I used to fish up at Butte Meadows every opening day. I once caught a six-pound German brown in DeSabla Reservoir. Did you think because I’m a girl I didn’t know how to fish?”

  “That thought did cross my mind, but I’m more impressed with your kind heart and concern for the resource. I think you and I may be kindred spirits.”

  “That’s so sweet of you to say, Henry. Now I want to see you catch a fish.”

  Eager to try his luck near the north shore, Henry began the arduous chore of blowing up the one-man raft. When he’d finished, he waded knee-deep in the lake, straddled the raft, and sat down. Reaching back over his shoulder, he asked Anne to hand him his fishing rod.

  “Henry, I’m concerned about your going out on the lake without a life jacket or a paddle.”

  “Don’t worry, Anne. I used to do this all the time when I was a kid.”

  “You were smaller then, Henry. Now you make that raft look like a postage stamp.”

  “I’ll just make a couple casts over there by that fallen log and head back. The mosquitoes are starting to get worse, so we don’t wanna stay too long.”

  Paddling backwards, Henry came to within fifty feet of the north shore and cast his fly into a six-foot circle of dark water next to a partially submerged log. While slowly working his bubble back toward the raft, Henry felt a mighty tug. “I think I’ve got a good one, Anne.”

  The trout swam toward the deepest part of the lake then turned and passed directly under the raft, bending Henry’s bargain-basement JC Higgins rod in half. Holding the rod in his right hand while paddling frantically with his left, Henry tried to keep the determined fish from reaching a morass of sunken logs and tangled branches. Believing his opponent had finally tired, Henry leaned to his left and reached down to grab its lower jaw.

  “Henry, be careful,” came a shout from the shore, just as the fish bolted for the bottom. Losing his balance, Henry fell headfirst into the drink. Scrambling to the surface with the rod still clenched in his right hand, Henry dog-paddled to a half-submerged log, grabbed a limb with his left hand, and pulled himself up. “Henry, are you all right?”

  “I’m okay, Anne. He’s still on the line.”

  With water streaming from his hair and into his eyes, Henry continued to play the trophy-sized trout until it finally tired. “This must be the granddaddy of the lake,” said Henry, holding the five-pound trout up for Anne to see. “What a gorgeous fish!” Gently removing the hook, Henry reached down and released his prize.

  “How are you gonna get back?”

  “That may be a challenge,” mumbled Henry, dressed in Levis, a T-shirt, and low-top Converse All Star tennis shoes. Removing t
he fly and bubble from the end of his line, Henry shoved the butt end of the rod, with the reel still attached, through the neck hole of his wet T-shirt and down his back. Sitting down on the log, he slid into the water and swam freestyle to the raft. After removing the rod and reel and tossing them into the raft, Henry held on and kicked his feet toward the south shore until he touched bottom.

  “Was it worth it?” said Anne, wading out to give Henry a hand.

  “Are you kidding?” said Henry, wiping water from his eyes. “I haven’t had this much fun since I was a kid.”

  “I’ve got news for you, Henry. You’re still very much a kid.”

  Henry laughed. “Anne, there’s a mosquito buzzing around your ear. Maybe we should head back before they get worse. I’ll take the raft and the backpack if you’ll carry the rod and reel. Boy, was that fun!”

  The next morning everyone was standing around the entrance to the visitor center when Harry Craddock asked Henry if he’d made the trip to Madora Lake yet. Jack Ketchum happened to be nearby and cocked his ear in Henry’s direction. “We did,” said Henry. “Anne and I hiked to the lake yesterday evening.”

  “Did you catch any fish?” said Craddock.

  “Jack was right. The lake was overgrown with vegetation, and the mosquitoes practically ate us alive.”

  One evening in mid-August, before Henry and the girls returned to school, Harry Craddock invited Henry, Anne, Sara, Ron Travers, and Ron’s wife, Brenda, to a barbeque at his home. A bachelor, Harry lived with his mother and two aunts in a Victorian mansion on a hill overlooking what Henry described as a “glorious” mountain meadow. “Harry, how fortunate you are to live in a place like this,” said Henry, sitting in a lawn chair around a 1920s-era, Olympic-sized swimming pool.

  “I guess somebody has to do it,” said Craddock.

  “Hank,” said Ron Travers, “have you thought anymore about becoming a state-park ranger?”

  “That would be my second choice,” said Henry. “Right now, I have my heart set on becoming a Fish and Game warden.”

  “You may want to reconsider,” said Travers. “Park rangers work in some pretty interesting places.”

  “I’ve always loved nature,” said Henry. “As a Fish and Game warden, I’ll be able to have a positive, tangible effect on our natural resources.”

  “You could do that as a park ranger.”

  “Yes, but park rangers are restricted to a single park. As a game warden, I would have the entire state to protect, including the ocean.”

  “Isn’t a game warden’s job dangerous?” said Brenda. “Everybody you contact is carrying a gun.”

  “Henry, tell Ron and Brenda about that game warden who disappeared,” said Anne. “The one you told me about.”

  “Anne, they may not be interested.”

  “I’m interested,” said Travers.

  “So am I,” said Craddock.

  NINETEEN

  The week after turning twenty-one in November of 1968, Henry skipped his classes at Chico State and drove down to the State Personnel Board in Sacramento. Eager to avoid the crowds, he was standing in front of the building when the doors opened at 8:00. Tacked to the bulletin boards inside were announcements for various state exams, each one listing the education and/or experience needed to qualify. Unable to find what he was looking for, Henry asked a female clerk for assistance.

  “If it’s not on the wall, it will be in one of these books,” said the clerk. “What is it you’re looking for?”

  “Information about the Fish and Game warden’s exam. I called earlier and was told it was coming up in March.”

  The clerk handed Henry a copy of the Fish and Game warden’s exam announcement and an application form. “You might be interested in this one also,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s called the State Service Entrance Exam. Several of the departments, including State Parks, use it to screen applicants.”

  “No kidding?” said Henry, thinking about State Park Ranger Ron Travers and the encouragement he’d given him the previous summer.

  “If I were you, I’d get your application in right away,” said the clerk. “The filing period ends soon.”

  The telephone rang in the hallway of Mrs. Iverson’s basement at 9:05 on Wednesday evening, December 11, 1968. “Somebody get that,” shouted Gary Lytle, “I’m watching my show.” Henry knew that Gary always watched the Beverly Hillbillies on Wednesday nights, so he broke away from his homework, walked into the hallway, and answered the phone. It was Warden Tom Austin. Austin apologized for calling so late, explaining that he had just come in from the field and wanted to know if Henry would be interested in a ride-along on Saturday.

  “Saturday’s the first day of winter break and I was gonna head home for a couple weeks,” said Henry.

  “I understand. I’m gonna be working ducks down in Willows this Saturday, and I thought you might like to get your feet wet.”

  “That would probably be the case,” said Henry. “I don’t have rubber hip boots.”

  “What size do you wear?”

  “Twelve.”

  “That’s the same size I wear. I’ll loan you a pair of mine if you want to postpone your trip for a day.”

  “It’s a deal,” said Henry. “I’m taking the warden’s written exam in March, so I need all the experience I can get. What time will you be picking me up?”

  “How’s five o’clock sound? You better get used to waking up with the chickens if you’re gonna be a game warden.”

  A strong south wind was whistling through the trees out front when Austin pulled his patrol car into Mrs. Iverson’s driveway. His headlights lit up the covered front porch where Henry was waiting. “How ya doin’?” said Tom, as Henry climbed into the passenger seat. “It’s been a while.”

  “I’ve been doing pretty well,” said Henry. “A lot has happened since I saw you last spring.”

  Austin and Glance headed west on Highway 32. “How’s that workin’ out with the young lady you mentioned last time we worked together?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “What are ya gonna do when you graduate and become a warden? Is she gonna be able to live in Los Angeles or some hellhole like Barstow or Brawley?”

  “We’ve talked about that. I guess we’ll have to make a decision when the time comes. Anne’s getting her teaching credential, so I think she could get a job just about anywhere.”

  Reaching Hamilton City, Austin turned left onto Highway 45 and headed south for twenty-four miles to the riverside village of Princeton. With a glimmer of light in the eastern sky, Austin and Glance followed Norman Road through ten miles of flooded rice fields.

  “Down at the end of this road is the Sacramento National Wildlife Refuge Hunting Area,” said Austin. “That’s where people who can’t afford to belong to a duck club go to hunt ducks and geese. Shoot days are Saturdays, Sundays, and Wednesdays.”

  “How do we fit in?”

  “It’ll be getting light soon, so I’m gonna hide the car behind this shack over here and bring you up to speed on today’s detail.”

  Austin explained that waterfowl nesting grounds in the prairie pothole regions of Canada and the United States had been dry that year. With less habitat, there was less opportunity for ducks to nest and successfully raise their broods. Mallard and canvasback numbers were dangerously low, so the daily bag limit for mallards was set at three and the daily bag limit for canvasbacks was set at two. The overall daily bag limit was five ducks. Reaching into the back seat, Austin grabbed a canvas bag containing a battery-powered, portable radio.

  “This is a heavy damn thing, but it’s all we’ve got,” said Austin. “The dial is set on car-to-car, which is what we’ll be using. Don’t move the dial from this setting or you’ll activate the repeater and everyone from here to Fresno will be listening in on
our conversation.”

  “I won’t,” said Henry.

  “Good. Here’s the on-off switch. This thing uses a lot of juice, so I suggest you leave it off unless you have something to report. My call number is 251. Yours will be Portable One. If you’re gonna call me, push down on the mic, say ‘Two-five-one, Portable One,’ and release the mic. I’ll respond, ‘Two-five-one, go ahead.’ Then you push down on the mic again and state your business.”

  “I understand.”

  “Up the road a few miles we’ll come to an S turn. After that, the refuge hunting area will be on the left. I’m going to drop you off near a willow thicket that grows at the top of a levee. Find yourself a good place to hide, and wait for something to happen. Here’s a pair of binoculars.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “I’ll be a half mile east of you. We’ve been getting reports of hunters throwing ducks and geese to their friends on the other side of the canal, outside the hunting area.”

  “What’s that all about?”

  “That way they don’t have to stop hunting when they reach the legal limit. Hunters are required to present their birds at the check station when they leave the hunting area at the end of the day.”

  “I get it,” said Henry.

  “When you see their friends driving away with the illegal birds, radio me with a description of the vehicle and their direction of travel. They’ll either be heading west, toward Highway 99, or east, toward me. If we work it right, the hunters won’t see me stop the car and we’ll be waiting for them when they show up at the check station later. Shooting time is over at 4:45 p.m., so I’ll pick you up where I dropped you off, at 4:30.”

  “Sounds good,” said Henry.

  “Here’s a backpack that should contain everything you’ll need for the stakeout. My wife added a sandwich and a jug of water.”

  “Please thank her for me,” said Henry.

  Wearing hip boots and a camouflage raincoat, Henry climbed to the top of the levee that bordered Norman Road and found a place to hide. It was a minute or two before the 6:45 legal shoot time, but he could already hear gunfire in the distance. Checking out his surroundings, Henry found a twenty-foot-wide canal to his left that ran parallel to the road. On the opposite side of the canal was another levee. Beyond that levee was the refuge hunting area—a vast expanse of ponds, high grass, and tules.