by Terry Grosz
The two looked at each other as if the bear from the evening before had bitten them in the hind ends too. A quick look at Butch, who was standing by the open passenger door of my patrol car, confirmed that he was enjoying this little drama being played out along the roadside in the middle of nowhere. Again there was no argument, and back the two chaps went to get another deer, which they dragged out and laid alongside the first one. My gut feeling was now gone, but I asked them in a hard voice, “Are there any more?”
They replied meekly, “No.”
“Butch, take my extra flashlight and go take a look.” Butch went and looked around, only to find that their answer had been honest.
I advised the two lads that they were under arrest for the illegal possession of two does, then searched them, handcuffed them, and transported them to the jail in Eureka, just like the two men from the night before. Again, all the evidence was cared for and secured.
Until then, Butch had been a dyed-in-the-wool biologist, or a researcher type. But it was apparent that he had really enjoyed these last two evenings, and he didn’t lose that look in his eyes that told me he was hooked on this sport of hunting your own kind. Soon after that evening we lost touch for a while, and I didn’t know how deep the feeling had gone until he called me about a year later and told me he was now working for the state of Nevada as a game warden in the Elko district. Brother, what a turnaround! He went on to tell me how much he had enjoyed those two evenings and that he had decided that he agreed with my philosophy that it was better to act now through law enforcement than to wait several years for the biologists or researchers to do the wildlife management work. Butch said, “Catching those poachers really reinforced for me the true meaning of your wildlife management philosophy, and that is why I am a game warden today.”
“Butch,” I asked, “did you ever get that gut feeling like I used to?”
“Yes, I have. I follow it up every time, and it’s amazing—about 80 percent of the time there is something wrong and I’m lucky enough to be in the middle of it.” He went on to thank me for that little lesson in life and said, “I now trust my gut feelings, and it has paid off many times, not only in catching somebody but in saving me from danger as well.”
I saw Butch and Mary only twice after that, but both seemed to be enjoying their life in the great state of Nevada. I have gotten that gut feeling many thousands of times since those evenings so long ago. I too have found its accuracy to be unerring not only in giving me advance notice of an upcoming event but in reducing my personal danger as well. For over thirty-two years my gut feeling has put many not-so-nice people behind bars or at work to pay off fines for wildlife violations. Who says God is not on the side of game wardens?
In the end it just goes to show what I know about genetics and game wardens. When God creates game wardens, He gives them a bent gene. It might take a while for that gene to manifest itself, through the heat of battle or even through such a small event as the smell of dust in the air, but if you have the gene, you will come to know it. It also seems that when the November moon is full, another game warden is born somewhere, and many an outlaw pays the price. Come to think of it, it was November when Butch, Mary, Donna, and I played those card games and I got that gut feeling. Hmmm.
Chapter Seven
I Just Wanted a Fish for My Sick Wife
One hot summer afternoon I was patrolling the Klamath River in the old Fish and Game undercover truck in an attempt to apprehend any chaps inclined to illegally snag salmon and sturgeon. For the information of anyone not so inclined, snagging means dragging large, weighted treble hooks over the backs of fish resting in deep pools, setting the hooks, and dragging the prey to your net and freezer. In many parts of the land, such as California, this type of fishing is illegal because its efficiency acts to drastically reduce the populations of some fish species. Also, in many people’s minds snagging is an unfair and unsportsmanlike practice. The country I was in that summer afternoon was full of wild, deep-running rivers, most of them full of salmon and two species of sturgeon and surrounded by populations of lumber workers and Native Americans, many of whom thought that obeying the conservation laws of the land was something they didn’t need to do. Hence my fateful presence on the river that day, which was to change me and my way of doing business with people for the rest of my life.
The cool canyon air felt good flowing over my sunburned left arm as it hung out the window of the Fish and Game truck. I moved along State Highway 96, executing the turns of the twisting mountain road as it followed the beautiful, crystal-clear Klamath River meandering below me. My thoughts were lost in time as I surveyed the steep cliffs, extensive evergreen forests, cliffside waterfalls, ferns, and the river below, with its beautiful salmon riffles and pools interspersed with stretches of outstanding spawning beds, all unfolding before me.
Swinging around one particularly sharp turn, I chanced to see a man far upriver finishing a series of jerking and retrieving motions with his fishing rod, indicating that I had a potential illegal snagger working the fish, most likely salmon. Driving by in such a manner as not to arouse his suspicion, I pulled off the highway and down to the river on the first dirt road leading to the sandbar where I had seen my snagging suspect. Turning off onto another sandy road that paralleled the river, I was heading toward the pool where I thought my suspect was when all of a sudden I realized I had driven right up to where he was fishing, and there I was in plain sight. Damn! Nothing like screwing up a good case, I thought as I pulled off the road and into an open place where he could see me. Since I felt I had lost the edge on this chap, I went through the exaggerated motions of retrieving my fishing gear from the back of the truck so he could see I was just a “fisherman.”
That part of the ruse behind me, I started slowly walking toward him, all the while appearing to examine the river closely as if looking for a good fishing spot in the pool he was fishing. As I continued my charade, out of the corner of my eye I could see the chap closely watching me as if trying to determine whether I was really a fellow fisherman or a game warden. Kneeling at the edge of the pool just thirty or so yards below my suspect, I began to rig up my fishing outfit, all the while ignoring the lad. Finally satisfied that I was a member of the fishing fraternity, he went back to his fishing as if I didn’t exist. It was very apparent that he was snagging, and with a vengeance, I might add. He would hurl a weighted hook clear across the pool, let it settle a few feet down, then jerk the rod violently. Then he would let the hook settle again and repeat the jerking motion until the snagging gear was at his feet. Then the casting and retrieving would begin all over.
Getting together my gear, a two-ounce spoon affair, I began to cast in the large slow-moving pool below where he was fishing. This gave me the opportunity to observe his snagging casts and memorize his method of operation for later testimony. Fishing like a normal fisherman and not getting any bites, I started moving slowly toward his position without getting in his way. The object of my attention had completely forgotten me as any kind of threat and continued to fish to his heart’s content. I kept moving slowly upriver until the two of us were on the same long, quiet section of the fishing hole. Kneeling down on the sandbar a few feet away from my snagger, I prepared my rig for what appeared to be an afternoon’s fishing for salmon by changing my terminal gear, this time to a bright red spoon. My snagger continued to be deeply engrossed in his illegal activity, which allowed me time to examine my prey as well as his illegal gear (in California, violators were charged both for the act of snagging and for the use of illegal fishing or snagging gear).While I was still pretending to be fussing with my equipment, my snagger made a long cast into the river, giving me the opportunity to step over to him, reach out and grab the fishing rod and reel from his surprised hands, and at the same inform him that I was a Fish and Game warden.
This move gave me the evidence I needed to show in court the snagging gear he had used and to identify it as his; it also kept him from throwing the ent
ire fishing outfit into the river, as most snaggers were wont to do in an attempt to beat the “use of illegal gear” charges. However, such attempts rarely worked because when testimony of the officer and the accused conflicted, the word of the officer almost always carried the day. Then the suspect was usually charged with Section 5652 of the Fish and Game Code for littering, which would cost an additional $100.
The man absolutely froze. I reeled in his line with the snagging gear still attached and laid his rig down on the sandbar. Taking out my badge, I formally identified myself and told the very quiet and unmoving chap, “Let’s walk back to your pickup.”
Once at his pickup and out of sight of other fishermen on that section of the river, I asked for his driver’s license because I needed that information to issue him a citation. He quickly produced his driver’s license and fishing license, all the while remaining very quiet. His silence was a little odd but not all that unusual, so I commenced to write him a Fish and Game citation for snagging and use and aid of illegal fishing gear. In those days snagging was a major fishing offense and drew a $250 fine and revocation of fishing rights for a year.
Use of snagging gear was also up there, with a $250 fine, revocation of fishing rights for a year, and confiscation of the illegal fishing gear. Even at the value of today’s dollars, that was a tough penalty.
I looked at my suspect’s vehicle to get the license-plate number for the citation and noticed that he was driving a brand-new Ford three-quarter-ton pickup. When I asked for his occupation, as required on the citation, he responded, “Mill superintendent at the Areata Redwood Lumber Company.”
Now, those guys made about $2,000 per month, or about $1,400 more than I did as a game warden. Big money, to say the least. Finishing the citation, I noticed that the man still hadn’t said much. He was unusually quiet. You could tell by his body language, lack of eye contact, downcast looks, and very soft voice that he was really ashamed of what he had done.
Unable to leave well enough alone, as some game wardens will do, especially rookies, I asked him, “Why were you out there snagging the poor damn salmon? It is all that poor fish can do to get past everyone to get to his spawning ground, and then at the last moment have to run through a set of snag hooks. You make enough money to go out and buy any fish you want. You care to share with me why you went out on that river and joined the ranks of the rest of the damned outlaw snaggers?”
He turned and looked at me with eyes that just oozed hurt. He tried to speak several times, and nothing came out. Finally, when he was able to speak with an emotion-filled voice, his response caught me somewhat flatfooted. He said, “Mister, I was just trying to catch a salmon for my sick wife.”
I said, “Hogwash. Go down and buy her one at Lazio’s in Eureka and leave the damn salmon in the river alone.”
The man gave me a look that was not of this earth. It was soft, hurt, ashamed, yet defiant in its defense of his cause. His eyes literally reached for my heart. As I said, it was a look not of this world but one I’ve seen and come to recognize many times since in my line of work.
He opened up and said, “You don’t understand. I just brought my wife home from the hospital. She is dying of cancer. She hasn’t been able to eat much at all, and the doctors don’t give her much time. She has cancer of the stomach, and I’ve just had to sit and watch my best friend and childhood sweetheart slowly dying in front of me. Do you know what that’s like?
“I just spent every dime I had in paying for every treatment the doctors could think of to make her well. I was unsuccessful, and now I’m so broke it isn’t even funny. I don’t have any more money to my name, not a single dime.” He continued, “By God, today she felt like she could eat, and she was really hungry for a salmon dinner. I was not going to deny her that. I know it’s only several more weeks and she will be gone, and I just had to get her that salmon.”
Trying to step back emotionally from his words, I lamely said, “Getting the fish illegally isn’t going to cut it. Sign the citation here; this is just a promise to appear and not an admission of guilt.” Without any further discussion he signed the citation, took his copy, folded it into his shirt pocket, and quietly walked away. My eyes followed him to his pickup and watched him drive off with the river dust remaining as evidence of the moment I had just experienced. Finally shaking the conversation off my shoulders, I put away my gear and placed my citation book back in the glove box of the undercover truck. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I took one more look at the river and the fishermen. Satisfied that all was well, I stepped into the pickup and started it up.
A few moments later I pulled back up on the highway and continued my search for those along the river breaking the law. Driving down the road now was not as it had been earlier. I just couldn’t get that look he had given me out of my heart and soul. The intensity and reality of those words kept winging through my head until it began to bother the hell out of me. A driving force in me kept saying, “Open up, look, try to understand.” I did understand, I told myself. The man broke the law and would now have to pay the price. If he wanted a fish, he could have gotten one from the Salvation Army or some church group, I thought. Somehow, though, nothing seemed to provide the answer I was seeking.
Without thinking, I picked up the radio mike hidden under the seat of the undercover truck and called the Eureka Fish and Game office. I knew Nancy, our regular dispatcher, would get to the bottom of this and fast. Her husband worked at the hospital as the administrator, and he would have the answer I was looking for. I asked Nancy to call the hospital in Eureka and ascertain whether this fellow’s wife had actually been there. Giving her the name of the chap who had received the citation, I figured the rest would be easy. Resetting the mike, I noticed that the driving force in me had lessened a bit, but it was still a force to be reckoned with. Shortly afterward, my captain called me on the radio and asked if I was near a land line. I told him there was a telephone in the next town, and he said, “When you get there, call me.”
Moments later I had the captain on the telephone. He told me that the fellow’s wife had indeed been in the hospital and had just recently been released with less than thirty days to live. Stomach cancer, Captain Gray said. Thanking the captain, I slowly hung up the phone as the words stomach cancer spun around in my mind.
Slowly getting back into the patrol truck, I sat for a while as the wings of the driving force flew around inside me again. I had done my job, and very professionally, I might add. Somehow that didn’t seem so important now. In addition, as if I needed more added to my quandary, the citation had been issued in a judicial district presided over by one of the world’s toughest judges. The judge was a fifty-eight-year-old grandma type, but what a tiger. She was very supportive of all her officers, and I couldn’t have asked for better judicial backup in a very tough area and time where your fists were often used as much as your citation book. She was at her toughest when lied to or if an offender was a salmon snagger or used illegal snagging gear. Plain and simple, she hammered anyone who fell into those categories. Also, she had a policy designed to protect the unfortunates who came before her bench: she would not discuss any case with the law enforcement officer before the cited person had pleaded in open court and had his or her complete say. Then, and only then, would she talk to the officer about the matter. She flatly refused to listen to us on any matter before court, and I saw many an officer ripped to pieces by this woman when they crossed that self-imposed line of judgment.
I clearly remembered our first meeting when I had moved into the area to help with the enforcement of the Fish and Game laws — wow! At this introductory encounter she told me, among other things, “Don’t ever try to talk to me about any pending matter you might have coming before me. If you do, I will rip your ass clear off. Is that clear, Officer Grosz?”
This directive, even coming from a fifty-eight-year-old woman no bigger than a pint of piss, was clearly understandable, especially when I considered the determination in her v
oice.
Knowing that I needed to talk to her about this matter, I made an appointment and visited her in her chambers. I said, “Your Honor, I need to talk to you about a recently issued citation. I clearly remember what you told me during our first meeting, but this situation is so unique I just know you would want me to discuss it with you prior to any legal action.” I thought that if I put it to her that way I would be home free and clear.
She stopped me quickly by saying, “Terry, you know my policy. I do not want to discuss it.”
“Judge, I have to talk to you about this one.” There was no way I could let her brush me aside like that. I thought, You have to try harder, Terry. I noticed that she was examining me closely. I wasn’t sure if it was for a damn good rear-end chewing or a casket, but she was really looking me over with those gunfighter eyes of hers.
She said, “All right, talk to me, but if I feel you are out of line I will slap your ass in the county jail for six days for contempt of court with all the other boneheads you sent there, do you understand, Mr. Grosz?”
I said, “Yes, ma’am, I do.”
“Commence,” she said, and the blue-steel eyes told me I had better do it right. So I told my story about the fellow, the snagging, and the sick wife. Now came the hard part, or the “six days in jail” part.
